Kyrgystan is great. It has been described as the Switzerland of Central Asia. People assume it is due to the mountains, the lakes and the mix of languages and cultures from neigboring contries. However I believe it maybe due to the fact that Kyrgyz cheese, like the Swiss, does not have holes.

With Richard Emms I have been fortunate enough to have to get a few shared Taxi’s and a bus or two in my time in Kyrgystan. I can safely say that I now feel safer on the bike, as it appears that Kyrgese people have developed the ability to see round corners.

Numerous times I sat, trying to subdue a very girly squeal as our driver would calmly overtake on blind corners. We even had one man, a Kyrgyz eco warrior if you will, who would turn his engine off and coast when going down hill. Occationaly still trying to over takin around corners.

I miss my bike.

Richard Emms and I decided we should try to absourb some Kyrgyz culture, which is not just a uphemism for vodka and noodles. That said, both are very tasty forms of culture.

One of our first stops was to head to a Banya in central Bishkek. Being British we like our baths. I like my baths with lots of bubbles and perhaps a rubber duck.

Kyrgyz men like their baths with other men who wear nothing but felt hats, in a variety of rooms of varying temperatures. Some rooms conatained cold pools, but not big enough for more than a few strokes, a couple of hot rooms and some form of torture chamber, where people beat each other with birch branches. A note for any prospective banya-er, do not touch another mans birch branch, he may get quite cross.

*insert quip about ‘members’ only clubs*

In an effort to man up, Richard Emms and I decided to take a trip to Jedi Orguz sanatorium. We went voluntarily and were not, contary to popular belief, admited.

Jedi Orguz has been visited by manly men such as Ury Gagarin, following his space trip and Boris Yeltsin, not sure why he went.

Again I was reminded that I am a soft pampered Brition. I like my pools scum free and if possible my radon confined to a basement (an Austrian influence perhaps?). However we felt it was an authentic CCP experience so we jumped at the chance slowly emersed ourselfs, whilst worrying about the side effects.

After ten minutes a lady comes in and gets you to leave the room. Whether you have your cloths on or not. We then went to the shower/decontamination chamber  to wash the radioactive, smell egg water off, which completed our ‘treatment’.

The problem with stoping is that every time I stop, and this time I have stopped for a long time I find that I forget what things are. I believe that they move around whenever I am not looking. Again I blame the panniers for hiding things. Only this time I now have even more panniers, due to my old ones breaking requring me to buy some more.

I also have the problem that currently my things are spread over three different places in Kyrgystan…

I then presented my e-ticket to the checkin desk. Which was a desk, compleate with a pad of paper and little more. After a very confused conversation I was presented with a blank ticket with a seat number writen in biro and ushered towards the bar / waiting room.

I spent the time rest of my wait feeling an odd sense of dejavu as I watched a rather large man consume an ungoddly ammount of beer, snooze then stumble off to the toilet only to emerge covered in the contence of his stomach.

Fortunatly I was on an isle seat for the flight to Moscow.

Arriving in Moscow airport with a blank ticket and no transit visa (not required if you stay in the same airport and your stopover is less than 24 hours) was a slightly worrying for me. Again I have worries of being locked up and tortured. Luckly the transit area is used to the workings of Osh airport and S7 airlines (‘Making easyjet look like luxury since 1992′) and I was eased through into the departures lounge without being made to look at topless fishing pictures of Mr Putin and confessing to made up crimes.

As I relaxed on the floor of Moscow airport, near an overpriced cafe, resting my head on my bag. I reflected on how the past few months have changed my views on the world and how they might have altered me as an individual. I should have been revising and reading up on current developments in the NHS for job interviews, but I was feeling drowsy from spraying myself with many free noxious chemicals available from the shops in the airport.

I could see from the looks I was receiving from the other air passengers, sipping their coffees (that cost far too much, even by Moscow standards), that they detected there was something different about me. I hoped it was that they knew that they were looking at an adventurer who had dragged himself to Asia all the way from western Europe. However I fear all they saw was a trampy, hairy, semi-young man, who ought to know better than to sleep on the floor of a very civilised airport. Or that I was probably drunk as I smelt as if I’d drunk a good portion of the duty free perfume.

Later as I sat on the toilet in the airplane, trying to remember whether you put paper in the toilet or the bin, I realised that it might take a bit of adjusting when I arrived back in the UK. I was also concerned that the ‘Chanel’ perfume I had liberally applied in the shops as a form of  human dry cleaning, may have given me some form of amnesia.

Upon arival in the UK initially I was shocked at being able to strike up conversations with almost anyone. I was more than a little disapointed when the boarder guard let me in with no questions. I had at least hoped for a bit of questioning about why I had so may visas for ‘the stans’, as for the first time in months I would be able to respond without using my picture book (and thus feel a little more like an adult).

Unfortunatly I was too in shock and awe to speak to Sir Clive Woodward, who had the misfortune of standing next to me in a que. I was still smelling of 48 hours of travel / ‘Femme’ Channel perfume, so I did not feel on top form.

Fortunatly my family did not seem to mind too much, nor did they drive with the windows down, which was nice, however I suspect they all had colds.

Several days later over a lazy breakfast with the Syrett I was curtly spoken too by a (most likely overworked) waitress and I promptly responded in a very Russian/Central Asian manner. The look I received from her and my good lady made me realise that this was not the done thing on British high-streets. I feel it may take me a while to come down once I am back for good.

My parents, being very sensitive to the pressures of adjustment  that people go through when they return from long journeys, went to the extraordinary lengths to make me feel at home by buying me Shreddies and installing a squat toilet. They also posess the wonderful ability of not being sensitive to the smelly cycling kit I brought home)

However after a few nice chats some good meals, a whirlwind tour of Edinburgh and a lot of rain I was back at the airport and getting ready to continue. Again.

During one of our ‘adventures’, I call it this, much to Danny’s annoyance, as it sounds more exciting than looking for a bike shop. Danny & myself stumbled upon the build-up to what appeared to be a large football match. It turned out to be the local derby (Dynamo Samarkand Vs FC Nasaf). We bought tickets and decided to return to the hostel to drop off our things.

When we returned we found, in true football fashion (you would never get this at a good game of rugby), the riot police pushing people around. It turned out that the officals had been letting anyone in, meaning hundreds of people who had bought tickets (including ourselfs) shut out of the ground. As we had spend most of the past few weeks having “at Kuda”!! shouted at us, we played the race card and waved our tickets at the Policeman with the most gold stars on his arm and said tourist a lot.

Eventually we were alowed in, accompanied by a local student pretending to be our ‘guide’, so he could get into the game. We were amazed to see many empy seats.  Unsuprisingly around 1/3 of the ground was empty.

After the game we were shown off to our ‘guides’ friends. We went for a meal, in a night club. We ordered food and then went for a dance. Now I may be showing my old age, but I feel that eating and dancing should be kept to separate times and venues or the venue should accept the consequenses.

I enjoyed cutting some moves and I feel that Danny & myself have throughly dismissed any notion that British people can dance (despite the best efforts of morris dancers nationwide) and have undermined the ‘British class and style’ propoganda campaigns of Will and Kate, and Posh and Becks.

After working up a sweat, we returned to our table and tried to find our food amongst the table decorations (which you do not ask for but are charged for). Whilst being disorientated by the strobe lights and lazers, we attempted to eat, at least it masked my terrible table manners & the music masked my attempted joke about Tartar sauce to a Tatar.

After leaving Samarkand heading towards a boarder crossing that we thought would be closed (but you have to try if it is only 50km out of the way),  Danny’s bike proved just how lazy it had become by making it’s rear wheel brake, meaning it would have the easy ride to Dushanbe where it could be repared properly. I hope it learned its lesson when it had to endure being handled by a man who Danny nicknamed ‘the thumb’ (a link to Danny’s description soon). The thumb was a tabbacco chewing, gold teeth wearing “at kuda” shouting idiot. He was so dense he could not understand why we were annoyed at him when he drove a screw driver through Danny’s tyre, popping it. He got very annoyed when we took the wheel away from him.

I will miss the feeling of spending the best part of one hundred grand in a day, as in Uzbekistan the largest note (1000 Som) is equal to 25p.

In Dushanbe;

If I say I participated in a Hash Run to most people, they would assume this is my new way of funding the ride (Narcotics trafficing being a popular passtime in this area of the world). Where as in fact it is quite possibly the greatest idea on earth. A drinking club with a running problem. Highlights of the evening, included seeing Danny (and an American) having to drink out of his smelly running shoes.

Many people would call the Tajik Police corupt, however I believe that Tajikistan has developed the most effient form of hypothecation in the world. The government does not pay the Police force a wage, so they line the main roads and pull over cars and directly collect a ‘tax’ to pay for their wage.

I am fully behind this, as the driving standards are almost at Azeri levels, so any money extracted from the driver would be a just fine in most contries. However I assume that if you drive a good car (and are therefore powerful) you are exempt from this ‘tax’.

During our stay we decided it would be prudent to rent a flat after the hostel put a ‘donations for coffee’ tin in the kitchen, which was a direct result of over use of the real coffee available.

When I was offerd the chance to go to a Bushcashi I jumped at the chance. Unfortunatly all I saw was a game where hundereds of horse riding men try to drag off a goat, in what is part Rugby ruck / Polo / Lord of the Rings.

I assume this is in practice for getting a wife, or stoping her getting away.

We forfilled the role of ‘Tourists’ and took far too many pictures, getting in the way and almost getting trampled a few times. However there was not a Japenese man in sight.

After a week of deliberation, or procrastination (I am still not sure which), I set off on the road to Saray Tash, taking the road through Garm. Owing to landslides, avalanches and terrible road conditions this was the only opption available to me at the time, however until I was let into Kyrgystan I was unsure if the boarder was open to foreigners.

The road to Saraytash (Kyrgystan);

An eventful road saw water shortages (owing to a contaminated river), little bread, an attempt at converting me to Islam, amazing vistas of mountains, deep gorges, interesting campsites, lorry drivers stranded for two months, almost being crushed by an avalanche, lots of staring and the consumption of ungodly ammounts of porridge.

Supprisingly it turns out, that trying to cross a boarder that is closed to foriegners is not advisable, but is possible. I played the stupid, tired tourist very convincingly, which came very naturaly and I got away with it.

However on departing from Tajikistan I was given a loaf of bread and serenaded by one of the guards. “goodbye my lover, goodbye my friend”…

…”but if Kyrgystan does not let you in do not come back”

When having been left for several hours in no mans land by the Kygryz boarder guards, my overactive imagination assured me that I would end up like Tom Hanks, either in the airport, in Castaway or shot at by Germans.

Things to rememberwhen crossing boarders (illegally it turns out): 1) Even if the UN say the boarder is open, as the goverment has signed an agreement, it does not mean the boarder guards have been told. 2) If a man in a tracksuit asks you for your passport and gets angry when you refuse – he is probably the head boarder guard. 3) The man in the combat type clothing who searchs your bags and ‘confiscates’ your pen knife is not, he is just some local. 4) The man with the most gold stars on his arm is the local god. 4) Boarder officials will become confused if, when threatening you with being put on a plane and deported to Britain you look happy and say “yes please”.

Saddly I did not get a lift to the aiport and an early flight home. So I carried on riding.

Many people reading this will be familier with ‘Morrisons’ supermarket bags. In Kyrgystan they are viewed as a quality brand and you can buy them by the roll. When I tell people that they are British, I often get an impressed look and then I am asked how much they cost in Britain.

 I have now left the bike in a hay shed (with the farmers permission) and am waiting in Osh.

See some of you soon and I shall keep you posted.

Many years ago I saw the film Borat and between the laughs at the outlandish behaviour of Sasha Barron Cohen’s charecter, I felt an embarrassment that in the west we know so little about such a large, diverse and historically rich area of the world.

I felt the play on peoples lack of knowledge and stereotypes of the Central Asian region was a very witty, subtle, way of getting us to look at our spheres of interest within the world.

However I now realise that is infact as much a commentary on contemporary Central Asian life.

Many men really do love prostetutes, the best are in Turkmenistan (acording to Iranian lorry drivers [and the 'Kazak' national Anthem]), although many work with the Police to extract a ‘fine’ from you.

Kidnapping brides does go on in Kyrgistan, it is worringly on the increase owing to finacial problems.

Jewish people are really not liked and there is lots of misinformation surrounding them.

Everyone hates Uzbekistan.

Women really are not treated well, throwing thngs at them is a popular pass time for boys. When invited into people houses I have never met any of the wives, even though she does all the cooking.

The driving is terrible it is of Azeri standards, the wrong side of the road is a fine place to drive. I have been offered congac by taxi drivers at 9 in the morning, I am glad I do not take taxis.

The moustache – stalin is still a fashion icon.

I wish to be fair as there is more to the region than portrayed in the film and there are many things that are not correct. Such as the absence of black leather jackets, gold teeth and Borat’s mankini would not be such a bright colour.

Owing to slow internet speeds I have been unable to upload photos to this site, but do see the Cycling towards the sun’s Facebook page. Click the Facebook link   at the bottom of each page, to see the cycling towards the sun’s recent pictures – You do not need to be a member of Facebook to see the page.

We make the potholed Journey to Samarkand.

I had the fortune of meeting a fellow British cyclist, in Baku, who was going the same direction as me. We joined forces, as I hoped he would have a better sense of direction than me and he hoped my bike could carry more food than his without breaking.

Danny, who enjoys swimming with Bambi, has alternative feelings about ‘The Queen’ and has the European fetish for black lycra leggins. He had the misfortune of getting his photo for his trip published in the ‘Formby Times’ above the heading ‘Man charged over child porn’, which he claims is an entirely seperate story. Over cups of chai it transpired that his training was a little more serious than mine (which consisted of jumping over my bike and eating cake). Some notable ‘training sessions’ included cycling from Leeds to Bristol in one day (3am-11pm) and from Liverpool to Denmark in nine days.

It was good to have some support for the adventure of the embassies, a confusing and expensive roundabout of forms and trips to the main office of the Bank of Azerbaijan. Danny and myself are now on first name terms with some of the cashiers.

I would hazard that deforestation could be halted it the Greenpeace donated computers to all former soviet countries, as I believe that I got through at least 7.25 tonnes of documents over the course of a week. In duplicate.

I also believe that these forms are then used to warm said embassies, as they all had a very pleasant room temperature and were suspiciously empty of paperwork or filing cabinets.

We set about trying to aquire the boat ticket as the same time. It was no less stressful than the embassies. Eventualy we found a freighter that left from the Azpeterol port on the east edge of Baku. The key to finding a boat in Baku, is to head down grimy dirt tracks by the industrial shipping areas and go through uninviting doors in the hope you stumble upon an unmarked ticket office. “Call again tomorrow”, “Maybe after March 1st”. “Go away” were all reponces to our enquiries. It is important to remember that Azeri’s view doing their job as doing you a favour, so do not be suprised if you encounter procrastination and reluctance in equal ammounts as they do so.

After only a 24 hour journey on the boat, we were treated to a glorious morning view of the Kazak coast. The smug feeling that I had acquired about being ahead of schedule evaporated when I saw that vodka, with Fanta, was being consumed with breakfast.

The main highlight of each day on the boat was the thrice daily serving of food , a good time to mingle with the Turkish truck drivers, get schooled in Tavla (Backgammon) and to see the gold toothed captain in  his stained ‘wifebeater’ vest. Captain Jack Aubrey would turn in his grave.

Ninety eight hours waiting within 2km of Kazak port later, we were able to dock and get off boat.

After being allowed to dock and the mayhem of getting into a new former soviet country, the paperwork, confusion and the suspicion of all involved (mainly due to Danny and myself owning two amazon Kindles and a thermos flask), we started to see the differences of being in Central Asia.

The most notable difference as far as I could tell was the different colour of their fur Шапка which the officials wore and that now tea was drunk out of a small bowl instead of a tulip shaped glass. The gold teeth and terrible driving remained a reasuring reminder that we had not gone too far.

We accepted a lift off some Kyrgs men from the boat, to Baynau, as the strech of road from the coast had nothing on it, apart from snow potholes and vodka filled drivers and owing to time constraints imposed by me, we decided it was a leg that we could do without.

After stopping and filling a carrier bag with cans of caffeinated energy drinks we set off on the 14 hour over night drive to Baynau.

After a night of no sleep driving from the coast we arived in Baynau, waved goodbye to our drivers, who seemed intent on driving nonstop to Bishkek and checked into a ‘hotel’, amazed at the the small amount of sleep that Central asians require. We were releaved that we could get many hours of glorious sleep (being weak europeans) and avoid spending much time outside in Baynau (the winner of the ’Worse than Wigan’ award 2012).

However when you share a room with central asian people it is imperative that you remember that your average Cenral Asian does not sleep in the European manner. In fact the average Kazak does not feel refreshed unless he/she has talked and cackled all night long, the louder the more refreshed they feel. If you can get away with it you may be able to turn the light off, but do not try to shut to door as this barrier to outside noise and screaming of other kazaks in the ‘hotel’ will leave them grouchy. It is a little known fact that the term ‘hotel’ dates back from the dawn of the silk road and translates as ‘dark noise hole’.

We entered the Kyzylkum desert into a head wind an on terrible roads. Fortunatly for us the road was still under construction and closed to vehicles, but not bikes, so we had our own bike lane for many kilometres and many miles of quite desert to pitch our tent in the evening.

Owing to the lack of cyclists or indeed tourists of any kind on the road, we were often viewed with great interest. I feel we were viewed my many Uzbek men as a pair of traveling European beauties, with our long hair, bright coloured cloths and mono brows, we must have looked quite the catch.

‘Real’ men, would lean out of cars, dressed in black (“a powerful colour”) leather jackets and shout at us “At kuda, At Kuda”, or aproach us in the street and jiggle their hands in a mastabatory motion from their chest, which suposedly means “What? or Why?”. 

The famous American Poet Philosiphers, Destiny’s Child commented on on the Uzbek style of advance “A scrub is a man that can’t get no love from me, hanging out the passengers side of his best friends ride, trying to holla at me“

On the desert road we met with some great generousity, we had a man reverse 100 metres just to say ‘Privyet’ and to give us a couple of apples as we ate lunch and  one hospitable buisnessman offered us the privledge of sleeping on his floor for no less than $100 (USD) .

After thanking him for his genourous offer we went twenty five metres down the road for some chai (as I dread to think what he would have charged).We were offered a space on a floor of a sort of old workmans hut. I spent the first hour in there worrying that my sleepyness was not caused by the day of cycling into a headwind, but was infact due to the homemade gas burner blazing (in a yellow kind of way) in the corner. Maybe we would end up in a delicious pastry and be served to bus passengers the next day. After much deliberation I consoled myself that owing to the large number of holes in the walls would keep me quite safe and the fact that one of the staff members had come in to lie down. Again through out the night other staff members would come in to chat, look at us or play mobile ringtones (a popular pass time in central asia), so our sleep was a little disturbed.

Chevrolets are also renowned as a ‘real’ mans car. Central Asian men, in their quest to be real men, have bought into the Chevy dream. In the form of the Chevrolet (Daewoo) matiz. Not only are they a Chevrolet, but they are also small enough to swerve between potholes, of which there are many.

In Bukhara, which makes Bath look devoide of tourists. I was reminded of the appeal of hip hop, everywhere I looked I saw older hip hop fans from all over the world.  I enjoyed seeing the evolution of ‘bling’ from the old skool Mercedes benz badges to the ‘Nikkon’ and ‘Cannon’ bling, hangning around their necks today. I decided to try to only take pictures of the historic buildings if there was a Matiz in the shot, a challenge that was too easy to complete.

Between Bukhara and Samarkand we rode through a more populated area, so had more interactions with locals. It also coincided with Danny’s bike, which is the lazyest bike I have encountered, having thrice daily hissy fits. Whilst we fixed the proble the bike could lay on its side and relax. This provided much entertainment for the locals, who I believe viewed this as some form of traveling theatre. The first act included Danny’s interperative stamping dance and display of Saxon English, accompanied by my sighing routine. After an interval of cake, we would give a bicycle repare demostration, I would bow and pass around my helmet. I never got a som.

On ariving in Samarkand we rode over to the registran in the centre of Samarkand and revelled in victory photos, before being shouted at by a German tour group as we were ruining their, presumably prize winning photos.

The boarder crossing from Georgia was more like an airport than a land boarder crossing. Complete with x-ray machines and long ques. Fortunately the staff were devoid of a sense of humour and did not want me to x-ray the bike. Which would have been hilarious for everyone watching.

I feel that the boarder staff had not seen many British passports, much to the annoyance of the long que that formed behind me during the ten or so minutes that it took for the staff to satisfy themselves that it was not in fact, a very bad fake Turkish passport.

I quickly discovered that Georgians like shouting. I got shouted at for helping myself to a map at a tourist info point, as the guy behind the desk would not respond to my requests for one (or even return my greeting). I then got shouted at by the someone who asked me where I was going. He either really dislikes Japan, or thought I was having fun at his expense. I then got shouted at by an orange seller, as I did not want to buy a 2kg sack of oranges at 2am.

To get away from the shouting, crazy driving and Georgian women, (who, if the film Goldeneye is to be believed, like to strangle people) I decided to hide behind some gravel at the side of the road and sleep until morning.

I rode into Batumi and checked into a hostel, insulted a Canadian (“Where in America are you from”? … “I’m from Canada”) and started the important job of finding breakfast.

Fortunatly Josh (the Canadian), was not too insulted and after a breakfast of cheap cereal accompanied me to obtain the first of many exciting visas that I will need for central asia.

My body decided that me waiting in Batumi was too comfortable and I was becoming soft, so enduced a fantastic six day bout of diarrhoea. Being British I am proud of many of our national traits and will defend them stongly. Like many Brits I get funny when there is anything to do with toilets and people I do not know.

Unfortunately for me the toilets joined directly onto the hostel communal area  (through two glass doors), or to the smoking area, a popular hang out for cool local artists.

However I rose to the challenge and developed methods for hiding embarrasing sounds… turning on the washing machine, turn on the taps, scrunch plastic bags… humm ‘World in Union’…

Despite this debilitating illness I still managed to explore the local area around Batum Highlights included the Gonio fortress, Nobel technical museum and the toilets in the sky view bar in the Radisson.

However owing to the weakening effects of this bout, I ended up catching the train to Tbilisi so I would get there in time to see Mummy and Daddy Jones.

On the train I felt large ammounts of guilt at not riding throug the snowy mountainous landscape flying past the window. I also felt the urge to use the toilet, which happens to be locked every time the train got near a station, where it would invariably wait for over an hour. This tactic means that no Georgian trains are ever late, but it takes the best part of 11 hours to travel 380km.

My guilt also evaporated as I tried to push the bike from the train station to the hostel eventually I was helped by  Josh the Canadian and Chris the Australian, as it would have taken me almost as long as the train to get there.

During the visit of Mummy and Daddy Jones, we did many cultural things such as eat cheese filled pastries and visit The Stalin museum. very pro Stalin and situated in his home town of Gori. There is one room about the bad things Stalin did, it is hidden under the stairs and you may have to ask to see it.

After my parents departed I headed onto Azerbijian, a land full of surprises and contrasts. It surprised me that a country could contain worse drivers than Turkey and there is a huge contrast between Baku (Baki on road signs), Ganja (the second city) and the rest of the country.

Even within the city the differences was massive. To enable people to cross the roads in central Baku, the government has built a large selection of impressive underpasses. In the Suberbs, there are what I would call ‘inverted sleeping policemen’, large crude holes scattered along the roads, which cause the traffic to slow to get over or around them.

I have seen a lot of begging but I must give credit to the entrepreneurial spirit of the Azeri people. I have been hosted in the countries first indoor rock climbing centre ‘Green Rock’, I have been in some amazing little shops selling anything you can print ‘Eurovision’ on (my hope of a traditional Eurovision rug has not been found). I also came across a novel Police business scheme where a Policeman takes your passport and then tries to sell it back to you for $50.

I hoped I would get a few idle days to explore and do some touristy things, however after a week of manic running around I have finally got all of my Central Asian Visas and a ticket on a boat to Kazakhstan for later today. Which is a weight off my mind and from my wallet.

In other bits of news -

If you wish to know what my days are like, here is a good way that you can experience them at home;

http://biketouringnews.com/touring-guide/a-beginners-guide-to-bike-touring/

Below is the video of me, and 200+ people, ‘proposing’ from 188 countries. (I’m at 4.49 & 11.36)

The proposal

At least as it is on the table I will not stand in it.

I had heard many good thıngs about the NYE celebratıons ın Taksım square apparently there is ‘nothing like it’. I took the Syrett-creature there, almost straıght from the plane. Even by 10pm the atmoshphere was excıtıng, many people had gathered expectantly. The Syrett-creature and myself got serenaded by a man with a snake charmers flute and another wıth a drum. İt was great to spend NYE in such a different way, surrounded by many people drinking and some eating exotic combinations of grilled meat, salad and bread.

The true magic happened when midnight came and nothıng happended. Some people cheered, some let off flares, many got out theır I-phones and fılmed the momentous event. But most just looked around slıghtly confused and wandered off. There is nothing quite like an İstanbul NYE.

After spendıng months of dreamıng of the easy and luxury of bus travel, I was excıted to have the excuse to use some buses for a couple of weeks to do some sıghtseeıng. To be carrıed whılst I slept to new and excıtıng places, how effortless, in my mind it would be perfect. I spent all but the fırst fıve mınutes on the bus dreamıng (and talkıng about) the wonders of travel by bicycle. I am still amazed at the Syrett’s restraint, as she did not throw me off the bus.

İt seems that the current thought behınd Turkısh bus desıgn ıs that passengers need seven chanels of bad entertainment on an ındıvıdual TV, ınteractıve sodoku and free wıfı,  the company often provıdes unlımıted drınks. However there are no toilets on the buses.

For that you must wait for the pre-arranged stops. Here the buses are thoughtfully washed down in subzero temperatures, leaving a great slick coating of ice on the floor to speed half asleep passengers towards the toilet. Many passengers seemed so relieved to be off the bus they prostrated themselves and kissed the ground shortly after exiting the bus. Some did this more than once.

We got to experience the different styles of living that people have and being in such close proximity to so many people gave us great insight. On our first journey we had a man sat behind us who I would say was half owl and liked to have nocturnal conversations with his other night-time friends. As a result by the early hours of the morning I thınk my Turkısh was gettıng quıte good* and I belıeve he was sayıng somethıng along the lınes of ‘Hello… Yes I am feelıng quıte antısocıal… yes all tryıng to sleep… do not worry… now let me demonstate my large and ırrıtatng array of laughıng styles……’

*or I made up the conversation in my head. I forget which.

Over the course of our holiday the Syrett-creature and myself got to stay in a cave, not see Camel wrestlıng (camels don’t like the rain), eat the best and worst kebabs in Turkey (Bursa & Izmir respectivly), witness the joy of Turkısh x-Factor, visit many amazing mosques, struggle to get a note out of a Nay, attend a Nay and Ebru seminar, silenced a bar room by mentioning Princes Diana and failed to get to a hammam. I would estimate we also ate double our weights in Borek. All in all a fantastic time.

To ease her departure, so I would not make a scene at the airport the Syrett-creature brought me exciting goodies including bovril and my green belay jacket to help speed me through the middle of Turkey.

I had decided to follow the advice of Scotland’s greatest living scientist, Dr Jillian Mckeith, her theory that green things contain chlorophyl. Therefore by wearing this jacket will increase the amount of oxygen that will get into my blood stream. It did not seem to have any effect on my oxygen levels, but it keeps me warm even when the jacket is wet.

After hopping on a bus to get me out of Istanbul I was suprrısed by how cold and hılly Turkey turned out to be. I would say that Turkey ıs aproxımatly 2/3 uphıll. The downhılls seem to be covered ın ıce, whıch my bike, possibly inspired by the micheal Jacskson tribute dancers of the Turkish X factor, seemed to view as an excuse to ‘get his groove on’. This slowwed the process of desending quite dramaticaly.

I developed a new hobby of collecting icicles, which although they make fine decorations on the bike, have the tendency to cause problems when braking or pedaling. Both key activities when cycling, as a result of the road conditions (both the gradient and surface) I acheived my lowest daily mileage of the trip, 30km, I also thumbed a lift over a pass in a 4×4 as I completley bonked as I had run out of food.

I found that again the cold made people more sympathetic towards me. I got given copious amounts of tea, housed by Police, who were worried that I would freeze to death on their patch and I was hosted by the mayor Nikksar, in a three star hotel. The staff did not seem phased by a grubby cyclist being brought in by the police.

The Police throughout Turkey assisted me a lot, at best they will go out of their way to help you, at worst you will get a traditional form of Turkish massage. Where you spread your arms and legs and a man in combat body armour, holding an AK-47, roughly pats you down.

One evening I got offered the opportunity to go hunting with a local ‘hunter’, great I thought, I can see some stealthy skilled professionals in their natural environment. With images in my mind of the opening sceans from enemy at the gates, I set off into the -20 night air.

Our first stop was a specialist hunting shop that seemed to sell lots of liquids in bottles, ciggarets and crisps.

The hunting was conducted ‘French style’, that is drunk, whilst chain-smoking and sat inside a car. Not quite what I had in mind, but a cultural experience none the less.

I headed for the coast, warmer weather and flatter smoother roads. I got hosted by friends of Gengis (who I cycled with earlier on in the trip), got to see his university campus and members of his cycling club, which was really nice. Unfortunatly I could not stay for long as it was time to race to Georgia for Visas and to see my parents.

The Oil wrestling competition in Edirne is the longest contınuous running  sporting event in the world (annualy sınce 1362). It is possıbly the only sport ın the world where puttıng your hands down your opponents trousers ıs part of the game. I must add that I was more than a lıttle dısappoınted to dıscover that the wrestlers are male.

The day I left Edırne I ınadvertently set my record for bıggest daıly mılage. As a result of heavy raın (floodıng potentıal campıng spots), wıld dogs and the extent of Istanbuls satellıte towns mergıng ınto one another (whıch start about 80km away from Istanbul). It also mıght have somethıng to do wıth the fact that every tıme I stopped for water ın petrol statıons I was gıven a cup of Turkısh coffee or strong çay. I ended up campıng on a beach, whıch was great. However I dıd wake several tımes to make sure I had not been carrıed out to sea. As my bed tıme readıng of Patrıck O’Brıan had ınstılled ın me the dangers of a lee shore and mermaıds are also a constant fear of mıne.

I decided to ignore advıce I had receıved about not rıdıng ınto Istanbul, ıt proved a lıttle stressful, but there ıs a fıne cycle path that runs along the coast and the hard sholdıers of the maın roads are very large. That saıd the drıvers are crazy so I was not surprısed to see vehıcles on both. As a conclusıon to thıs rıde I would also like to see horns removed from all Turkısh vehicles. If I am being honest I would also lıke to see the removal of all drivers from vehicles as well.

Less than 100m from my host front door I was knocked off my bıke by a motorıst comıng out of a sıde juntıon. I was okay, however the front forks and wheel got a little bent.

Now ıt ıs key to remember that a ‘vıctım’ can lose all hıs moral hıgh ground and sympathy from bıstanders, by unloadıng a days worth of pent up stress, from rıdıng ınto Istanbul, through the wındscreen of the car that has hıt hım.

Eventualy after being removed from the road İ was helped to my host front door by another passıng cyclıst.

İstanbul. It ıs a world cıty, great architecture, a mıxture of cultures, a rıch hıstory and wıth ıt comes that vıbrancy that ıs attached to the great cıtıes; Parıs, New York, Buenos Aıres… But I belıeve that you can tell that Istanbul ıs a true world cıty by the fact that everyone, except the tourısts and students, seem mıserable.

I fınd that the greater the cıty the fewer returned smıles you wıll get. In small vıllages and towns ıt ıs easy to fall ınto a conversatıon, but as the populatıon and the ´culture´ grows there ıs a strong negatıve correlatıon ın the return rate of smıles and plesentarıes.

One day I trıed to see how many recıprıcal smıles I could get. I walked around wıth my bıggest warmest smıle, greetıng everyone that caught my eye from harrasıng stall holders, to people I passed ın the street. Istanbul scored two posıtıve responses. That ıs two more than Parıs, but sıgnıfıcantly less than New York, whıch suggests that Istanbul ıs truly among the elıte.

By coıncıdence a day later I upped my game and made myself stand out. I found that carryıng half* a broken bıke elıcıted a greater response, but stıll no great smıles. Thıs was a result of the hunt to fınd a shop that was wıllıng and able to repaıre the bıke, whıch proved more challengıng than planned. I was eıther offered new forks for the bıke, told no and ın one case I was sımply shown to the door.

Eventualy I found a shop that saıd they could fıx ıt, however when the owner exclaımed ‘ah I see you have a Rohloff gears’ I dıd not know whether to be relıeved (as he clearly knew a thıng about tourıng bıkes) or worrıed at how much he was goıng to charge me.

He fıxed ıt and charged me 30 pounds. I can not say ıf he dıd a good job, but I wıll fınd out eventually.

One of the pleasures of shoppıng ın Istanbul ıs that all of the dıffernt types of shops are grouped together, so you only need to go to one small area to fınd what you are after. One of the areas I named ‘the man zone’ where every shop was eıther a gun, knıfe, huntıng or smokıng specıalıst (I ıgnored the button shop).

I celebrated Chrıstmas twıce thıs year, once ın the German way, on Chrıstmas eve wıth a group of Erazmus students that were kınd enough to have me for the evenıng. However my true Chrıstmas dınner came ın the form of a Şış Kebap on the banks of the Bosphorus. If Australians can have a BBQ on the beach then my Turkey Chistmas dinner is also valıd… I thınk I have hıt a new low.

* My bıke has S&S couplıng, meanıng that ıs can be splıt ın half for convenıence, such as gettıng ıt onto planes traıns and buses. Usualy meanıng you do not have to pay any extra charge, unless you are ın Austrıa where they wıll charge you twıce.

Austria to Istanbul. from Nathan Jones on Vimeo.