One evening in rural Azerbaijan, I cycled past a gas station at around 5:30pm. I hadn’t eaten in hours and I had no food in my panniers. I was starved, agitated, and in desperate need of a good dinner.

I opened the door to the gas station café and asked for food. “No food here,” the attendant motioned.

“The man sitting here is eating. There is a window full of raw hot dogs, cookies, fruit juices, and vegetables. Surely there must be something,” I reply.

“That’s the last of it. No more food for tonight. Have some potato chips if you’d like. I’m done cooking,” he shot back.

“Look. I cycled 140 kilometers today, and unfortunately, I misplayed this. I should have carried more food with me. I didn’t. This is the only food-serving establishment for 20 kilometers in either direction. If there is something edible in that kitchen, I’m going to need to eat it.”

I walk behind the counter and into the kitchen, motioning for the attendant to follow but indifferent as to whether he actually does. I open the cupboards and inspect their contents. I find eggs, raw hot dogs, a tomato and an onion. I see a stove and a frying pan in the corner.

“Look, this is perfect. Let me just eat this stuff, and you can charge me per item. I’ll even cook it myself. I just need to eat, and I need to eat now.”

It’s not pretty and I don’t do it often, but yes: that is kitchen takeover. A hungry human will go great lengths to fill his belly.

A lamb and “acheke” dinner in Abidjan, Côte D’Ivoire. Kitchen takeover was not employed.

Before you dismiss kitchen takeover as some misguided act of ignorant assholery, allow me to dissect it into smaller parts. Then you can decide if you like what’s being served, or if you’re still keen to fight for a better solution. In this article, I offer a comprehensive analysis of kitchen takeover, highlighting its pros, cons, and its place in travel.

Why and When?

I only ever employed kitchen takeover during my cycle touring days – 6 collective months and ~10,000 collective kilometers of cycling – first from Istanbul, Turkey to Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, and then from Kunming, China to Vientiane, Laos. Cycling, I was often exhausted, delirious, and low on blood sugar. I required a ton of food to keep me going, and food-serving establishments were limited and far apart. In one instance, I covered a 500km stretch of Uzbek desert which had only 3 places at which to buy food and water.

Sometimes, I’d arrive at a café with friendly staff, a picture menu, and appealing dishes. I would eat bountifully and appease my hunger. This happened often.

Other times, the sailing wouldn’t be so smooth. Gripes included: the staff was too lazy to make food; the only thing being served were cubes of fatty lamb meat; the cook was on tea break – a two-hour tea break; the cook didn’t understand that eggs plus onions plus tomatoes is a far better cycle breakfast than huge cubes of fatty lamb meat. The list goes on. In these instances, and especially with low blood sugar and even less patience, I’d fight for an alternative. The “when” and “why” are in fact synonymous: I’d employ kitchen takeover when I both needed to eat, and needed to eat the most agreeable meal possible as dictated by the available ingredients.

What Are the Pros?

The pros are obvious: I get the best possible meal in my stomach. I’m cycling six to eight hours per day, and my body needs fuel to keep going. With the right food, perhaps beef and vegetables instead of deep fried cow intestine, I’ll feel physically much better going forward with my day.

What Are the Cons?

The cons are obvious too. Kitchen takeover is an asshole move. I’m walking into your country, into your restaurant, into your kitchen, and telling you how to do things. I deserve no authority over your property nor menu, yet I’m commanding it anyway. I’m telling you your restaurant is open when you’ve told me it’s closed. “Look at me. Look at me. I’m the captain now.”

Does Kitchen Takeover Have A Place in Travel?

When traveling on a bicycle, or outside the arena of tourist infrastructure, you need to “make things happen for yourself.” You can’t always call a taxi to take you to a Western restaurant. You can’t always find a clean bed to sleep in. Sometimes, without a little determination and creativity, you’ll find yourself going to sleep hungry.

Kitchen takeover has applications beyond food as well. In fact, it’s my broad term for “taking travel matters into your own hands.” It can be applied to situations like loading your bike onto a train: the attendant insists that he put your bike in the cargo car, but you refuse and insist on doing it yourself. The bicycle is your home, and you’re going to make sure that thing is secured and bungee’d the way you want it to be. Another example is dealing with a Chinese post office, taken from Carry on Cycling:

“My first call: the post office where six weeks ago I had applied to have my new passport delivered. At first the staff denied operating a poste restante service at all. Of course, good old-fashioned persistence paid-off and in the end they showed me through to a warehouse around the back. The warehouse couldn’t have been more disorganized. There were mountains of thousands of different sized parcels piled high against the walls, some having evidently collapsed to lie scattered over make-shift corridors. I approached the only person in sight, a man sitting near the entrance behind a computer. I intimated that I’d like to collect my package to which he beckoned me closer to look at the monitor. To my horror, the blue screen of death stared back at me, the insides of the computer no doubt crashed and mangled by a life of dealing with the Kunming postal service.

‘Come back tomorrow’, he stuttered in broken English. Predictably I refused and after several heated minutes he agreed to pass me a sheaf of documents that looked like a list of all parcel arrivals for the last few weeks. Painstakingly, I ran my finger over the entries, stopping excitedly every time I passed a name with English characters. As the number of pages to search became fewer and fewer I became more anxious and finally, having exhausted the list, I started rummaging around the smaller, envelope-sized parcels for any sign of my name. Speaking of a needle in a haystack would be an understatement though given the chaos existing in that place. I couldn’t quite bring myself to give up though. The language barrier gave me the impression they couldn’t quite understand what I was after.

Half an hour of enquiry later with the front desk and a better English speaker had produced a few more lists where again my name was absent. Close to the point of resigning myself to the fact that the new passport simply hadn’t arrived yet and that the ever-present visa hydra had suddenly sprung 50 new heads, a final list was thrust towards me. A name sprung out at me, three rows from the bottom, written in sloppy English scrawl and black ink: ‘W.Johson’. Disregarding the possibility there might indeed be a person named ‘W.Johson’ (as opposed to my name: ‘W.Johnston’), I tore off the packaging and there it lay, fresh off the presses, the dark red cover shining with gold lions and a sparkling new crown. I now have a new passport! Over 40 crisp new pages of joy to spend at will. I can’t wait.”

Kitchen takeover is more than being a dick in a restaurant: it’s persistence and strong will in the face of language barrier, laziness, and the often asinine Rubik’s cube of foreign bureaucracy. With this definition, the generalized alternative then becomes submissive laissez-faire, a timid shoulder-shrug of “welp, that’s travel, I’ll go with the flow and hope for the best!” Perhaps, “kitchen takeover” does have its place after all?

Does Kitchen Takeover Make Us Bad Travelers?

Kitchen takeover is an act of defiance. However, we do it because we feel justified. “No, I won’t leave this office, you should help me find my document.” “No, it’s 1pm on a Wednesday, I don’t believe you when you say this place is closed.” “No, a piece of bread is not a sufficient meal.”

The thing about these “justifications” is that they are inherently ignorant of local customs, and perhaps suggest that we are unwilling to even consider them. Maybe tea time from 12pm to 3pm is common, and not an act of laziness. Maybe mixing eggs with tomatoes is some sort of religious taboo. Maybe helping you navigate a list of names in the post office goes stratospheres beyond the implied duty of a government worker. These statements sound ridiculous, and when you’ve pedaled the previous four hours without food they are well beyond the point of contemplation.

A traveler should try to understand the culture they are exploring. They should be patient, open, and considerate. Kitchen takeover is none of these things. However, without it, I submit that you simply can’t pull off a major trip outside of the context of comprehensive tourist infrastructure. You can’t ride a motorcycle from Kilkenny to Cape Town and back again. You can’t cycle from Portland to Ushuaia. Sometimes, you just need to be assertive to get things done. Sometimes, you need to take over the ship.

So where does this leave us? You tell me. Or perhaps just answer the question: what would I like for breakfast – the lamb or the omelette?

From a lovely cafe in Kuala Lumpur, where I order from the menu with a smile on my face,

Will

Descending from the highest pass of the trip: Tajikistan’s 4,655m Ak-Baital Pass

1. Speak Russian Well

In all countries I crossed except for Turkey, Russian was the lingua franca. All of these countries used to be a part of the Soviet Union, and Russian is spoken by both the older and younger generations. If you have time to spare before your tour, take Russian classes. You’ll have a far easier time ordering food, finding camping space, getting your bike fixed, and making friends. As we know, the best part about traveling is the people we meet, and speaking Russian opens this door wide open. My Russian is survival-level at best: I can say things like where, tent, food, hungry, how much, kilometers, bicycle, water, yes, no, please, thank you, and maybe count to 10. I wish I learned more beforehand.

2. Bring Strong Spares

More or less, there isn’t a single bike shop between Istanbul and Bishkek that stocks top-quality parts (think Schwalbe Marathon tires, titanium screws, etc). Bring your own. I found a few decent shops along the Turkish Black Sea Coast as well as one in Baku, but it’s best not to count on them. For more basic things like gear lines, inner tubes and break shoes, you can buy them on the road. Bikes are worldwide and basic supplies are available. You might have to spend 4 hours in a steaming bazaar trying to find the one guy that sells bike parts, though.

Additionally, I note that if you’re riding with vertical road breaks as opposed to v-breaks, you will not find much in the way of spares. Road bikes have not caught on in Central Asia. A part of my break lever snapped while in Georgia, and I shipped new ones from my shop in Istanbul to Tbilisi in solution. I took them to the supposed best bike shop in town for help, and they had no idea how to do it. I instead grabbed the allen key in frustration and figured it out myself. 

3. Pack For the Cold

In the Georgian, Armenian, Tajik and Kyrgyz mountains, I was cold. Bring a strong sweatshirt, a a waterproof wind-resistant coat, warm socks, some type of pants, a neoprene gator (many uses), and my personal favorite – long underwear! The latter is super effective and doesn’t weigh much. Additionally, I’d recommend you to bring short-finger cycle gloves, long-finger cycle gloves, and a thinner pair of ski gloves. It can get very cold when descending from some of those mountain passes. Lastly, if you find yourself ill-prepared while on your tour, you can always buy items from local bazaars and certainly in big cities.

4. Study Blogs if Traversing Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan

There are many sections of these countries with few places at which to buy food and water. Over the 500km from Aktau to Beyneu in Kazakhstan, there are roughly ~8 places to buy supplies. Over the 500km from Beyneu to Nukus, Uzbekistan, there are 3 places. On the Pamir Highway in Tajikistan, places are limited as well. Before tackling these regions, study blogs. There is plenty of information from those before you about where the food and water is located. This will help you to stay sane, ration your meals and best pack your bike. On my tour, Tim Goes For a Bike Ride was a blog I referenced frequently for such advice.

A whole lot of nothing in the Kazakh desert

5. Sleep in Mosques and Chaihanas

Turkey is packed with mosques. Mosques are a great place at which to sleep. Simply ask to crash in their mud room, in the mosque itself, or set your tent up on their property. You’ll usually be obliged.

In Central Asia, outside of major cities, accommodation is scarce. However, tea houses are not. A Central Asian tea house – also known as a chaihana – is a roadside establishment serving tea in small bowls.  Several lamb-based dishes are served as well. Food is typically consumed atop a square platform elevated two-feet off the ground, with a thin mattress covering each side of this square and a plastic mat in the middle. Locals will consume food while lying on these mattresses. As such, a chaihana will have many. At the end of the day, simply roll up, park your bike, order a tea, and after 15 minutes of pleasantries, ask to sleep on a mattress for the night. You’ll usually be obliged. Sometimes, you’ll be asked for a trivial fee – one or two dollars at most. Personally, I slept in roughly 10 chaihanas. I recommend them highly.

6. Take the North Road in Azerbaijan

When leaving Tbilisi, you can chose either the north road through Azerbaijan to Baku, or the south road. The north road is hilly and indirect. The south road is straight and dead flat. I took the south road, and it was the most interminably boring 5 days of my cycle tour. It was hot, busy, and ugly. I do not recommend it.

Instead, take the north road. It is purported to be gorgeous and green. Apparently it takes you through more interesting towns as well. If I cycle from Tbilisi to Baku again (unlikely), I’ll be taking the north road through Azerbaijan.

7. CouchSurf Baku, or Sleep in the Bike Club’s Office

Baku is immensely expensive. In fact, the Azeri manat is stronger than the US dollar and on par with the euro. In addition, there is but one true hostel in town which commands a nightly fee of ~$17.

Instead, use CouchSurfing or WarmShowers. Hosts are limited though – especially in summertime when cyclists come through – so plan in advance. If both fail, there is a bicycle club in the smack-middle of the Old City which, when I was there in July 2013, was allowing cyclists to sleep for free on the padded floor of their upstairs office. During my week-long stay in this office, at least 5 other cyclists stayed concurrently. Unfortunately, I don’t remember the name nor specific directions as to how to find it; kindly ask around yourself. This is a really strong option well-worth exploring.

8. Turkish Gas Stations Are Your Best Friend

Turkish gas stations are clean and in abundance. They have chocolate, bathrooms, and often free wifi. In addition, they are staffed by Turks, who will offer you tea and genuine interest the moment you arrive. Lastly, gas station owners will generally be thrilled to have you rest on the plush couch in their plush office, or let you camp on their well-manicured lawn. Turkish gas stations really are your best friend.

Accommodating Turks at a Turkish gas station

9. Oral Rehydration Salts

You won’t find much Gatorade in Central Asia. You’ll inevitably cycle in 40C heat. If you can, bring oral rehydration salts. If you can’t, make them yourself. To do so, simply mix 6 teaspoons of sugar and one half-teaspoon of salt for every liter of water. Of course, these ingredients are available everywhere. ORS does wonders for the body.

10. Obtain Your GBAO Permit at the OVIR Office in Dushanbe

If cycling the Pamir Highway, you’ll need to obtain a GBAO permit in advance. The Highway lies in a semi-autonomous region of Tajikistan, and this permit allows you to enter.

Many companies, Stantours for example, will pre-arrange the GBAO permit for you for a fee of ~$80. In reality, the permit costs $4. Unless you are really pressed for time, do not pre-arrange. Instead, obtain the permit yourself in downtown Dushanbe. Simply go to the bank – Amonat Bank, located at 30 Bukhoro Street, N38.57126, E068.7972 – pay the fee of $4, walk down the street to the OVIR (immigration) office, present your receipt, and receive the permit either that afternoon or the following morning. I can’t remember if you have to leave your passport. Regardless, the process is painless and straightforward.

Along the Pamir Highway – well worth the $4

Cycling Central Asia was one of the most incredible things I’ll ever do. Many people ask me to advise them on similar tours and these are the top ten tips I give. If you have more questions, please leave them in comments or send me an email. I’d be happy to help in any way I can.

Stateside in a week,

Will

On May 28th, 2013, the night of the NCAA Men’s Lacrosse National Championship game – my brother’s Duke Blue Devils vs. the Syracuse Orange – I pedaled into Giresun, Turkey.  On a normal night, I’d take dinner and cycle further, in search of cozy and hidden camping refuge outside of town.  However, this night was different: I had some lacrosse to watch.

The vibrant, Black Sea coastal town of Giresun, Turkey

After several failed attempts at securing wifi-included camping space – at a police station, a gas station, and a military facility, namely – I knocked on the door of an elementary school.  A man appeared, and invited me inside.  I explained my plight, with the now-routine help of Google Translate, and was warmly offered a spot on one of the lobby couches, as well as full use of the school’s wifi.  Perfect.

The school principal, who had invited me inside

Unfortunately, the wifi didn’t work.  Next, the man ushered me upstairs to try one of the school’s computers.  Still, nothing.  There had to be another way.  My determination was visible.

Next, our generous host simply invited me to sleep at his house.  The wifi worked there, he stressed.  I quickly accepted, in small part because he seemed trustworthy, and in large part because the game was about to start.  It’s not every day that your brother plays for a National Championship.

Hurriedly, we wheeled my bike around the corner, up a few flights of stairs, and into his modest apartment.  Ten minutes until game time.  He then explained, again with Google Translate, that he did have wifi, but his oldest son was the sole owner of the password, and wasn’t yet home.  If I wanted to stream the game, I’d have to do it from his youngest son’s computer.  “That works,” I motioned.

Five minutes until game time.  I’m sat in front of the computer.  The youngest son, 14 years old, sits down next to me.  He speaks no English, and I speak no Turkish.  He’s never seen a lacrosse game before.  I explain to him the situation, and some of the basic rules.  Duke had a new, eager fan.  One minute until game time – myself and the son both glued to the computer screen.

Lets Go Duke.

Myself and the son – Duke’s newest fan

The game was exciting.  Syracuse started off to a large, early lead, but Duke battled back.  The energy was high, and mine no different.  The mother, father, niece, and her young daughter were in the kitchen, calmly enjoying dinner.  I was in the other room, with the son, screaming at the top of my lungs.  They had no idea what I was saying, nor why I was yelling.  The son was very into it.  We’d jump, holler, and high-five after every goal.

Throughout the game, and in typical Turkish fashion, the mother carted me a multi-course meal.  Tea, meat, vegetables, salad, bread, and deserts.  The food never stops in Turkey.

The mother and her granddaughter

In the end, Duke won.  I was elated.  The family, now thoroughly perplexed, needed an explanation.  I sat them down, opened up Google Translate, and explained.  My brother is #31.  He’s been working for this all his life.  He just won a National Championship.

The family was rather excited, in fact.  They smiled, patted me on the back, and continued being Turkish.  More food that night, a warm shower, and a cozy bed.  And of course, a photography session with their endlessly adorable granddaughter.  Look at her!

Come on…

Breakfast was served the next morning as well.

The oldest son, who returned that evening, with his wife and daughter. Turkish breakfast is the best.

Once more, another unique, magnificent experience served up by the ever-fantastic Turkey.  That place is gold – a cycle tourist’s dream.  Can’t wait to see you again, my dear friend!

Congrats to Jordan,

Will

After a week, it was time to go.  My Uzbek visa was set to expire, and Tajikistan’s Pamir Highway was calling my name.  Back on the road again.

That morning, the air was hot, dry, and perhaps oppressive, but I never seem to mind.  I like pedaling.  I like pedaling fast.  I like blasting music at high volume, singing aloud, pointing playfully at a passing villager, and pedaling to my heart’s content and adrenaline’s expiration.  Weather is rarely a limiting factor.  However, that day was hot, as I sped through yet more Uzbek desert, and at some point, the body just shuts down.  Adrenaline only lasts for so long.

By 5:30pm, having already cycled more than 150 kilometers, I’d had enough.  The sky goes black around 9:00pm – I had plenty more daylight to go – but I just couldn’t pedal anymore.  I needed sleep.  Perhaps it was wrong to push so hard after a week away from the bike.  At that moment, I was exhausted, alone and homeless, on a lonesome Uzbek desert road.  I needed sleep, and I needed help.

The road

To the right, I spotted a small, brown, earth-toned building.  These things are made from straw and mud, I believe.  From a distance, I judged it to be a chaihana – a central Asian teahouse.  Historically, chaihanas had been very good to me: I’d slept in many, and eaten in more.  I turned off the road and toward the building, excited for a place to sit.

I got closer, and realized that this was not a teahouse, but someone’s home.  The owner, a farmer, was sitting at a plastic table, and motioned for me to approach.  He removed a knife, cut and served some green melon, and poured me a glass of water.  “Eat, eat,” he motioned, “then go inside and take a nap.  You look like you need it.”

Gratefully, and with few words, I obliged.  I really did need it.

Inside – my nap took place in the far left corner

Two hours later, as the sun was finally setting, I emerged.  The farmer sat right where I left him, in a plastic blue chair with a knife in his hand, cutting green melon and enjoying the air.

The table, with tea: there’s always tea in Central Asia

“Sleep well?” he gestured.

I had.  Still, I was visibly tired, which the farmer readily noticed.  “Please,” he motioned, “stay the night and rest well.  You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Gracious, and with a polite meekness in my tone, I asked if he had hot water, which I hoped to use to make some Ramen noodles.  When cycling, I always carry two packets as spare.

“Hungry?” he motioned.  “Would you like me to bring you food instead?”

I get these offers frequently, and rarely refuse.  I think it best to simply accept this unrelenting, unfettered kindness, with which the solo traveler is continuously faced, instead of playing “hard to get.”  People want to help you: let them.  Then, with the opportunity to help out others yourself, you do it – you pass the favor forward.  This is best for the world.

Smiling, I nod “yes” to my host, who darts quickly behind the house, through his carefully manicured fields, and into the country hills.

Minutes later, he returns with the biggest plate of plov I’d ever seen.  This thing could have fed a family of four.  It was massive, and a tangible metaphor for his general kindness.

In all its glory…

Exhausted and drained, I set out to topple this mighty, plovian empire, as the farmer returned to his chair.  The night was crisp but not too cold – just like those starry, silent, rooftop nights among the mystic of Bukhara.  Earlier, I needed a bed, and with eerie immediacy, a stranger reached out and gave me this bed.  Earlier, I needed energy, and with eerie convenience, this same stranger provided me with all the water, melon, and plov I could ever ingest.  I was no longer alone on a weary desert road.  Now, as the sun set gently on the day’s adventure and uncertainty, pensively crafting that of tomorrow, I had a roof over my head and a friend at my side.  The moon began to shine softly on the man’s farm.  It was the perfect cycle touring night.

I set out on this journey by myself.  However, as the solo traveler knows well, I’m never alone.  The more you “put yourself out there,” the more the world pushes back.  A friend once stressed the importance of putting good faith in strangers.  For me, cycling Central Asia, with some of the highest mountains and vastest expanses this world can offer, was an experimental manifestation of her words.

I cycled solo for almost 5 months, and rarely was I ever alone.  Even more rarely did I go hungry.

Many thanks to our unknown farmer as well: that was the best plate of plov I’d ever had.

My host and I!

Cycling again,

Will

Wild camping in Georgia, near the Armenian border

While cycle touring, I sleep in a tent.  At day’s end, if near civilization and lacking the motivation to cook for myself, I’ll take dinner in a café, and then look for a place to camp.  At the start of my Istanbul to Bishkek tour, I was not very good at finding camping space.  For whatever reason, I had this romantic yet illogical idea that I’d be able to pitch my tent in cities.  There would be a mosque with a fenced garden, snugly protected from the surrounding madness, full of flowers and flat, green, soft grass, and the wonderfully open and always smiling family of four that lived inside would happily allow me to pitch my tent in this garden, while carting me trays of tea, biscuits, and chicken cutlets all the while.  The fantasy also stipulated that I would encounter such a situation with minimal effort.  Of course, this was rarely the case, and, given that experience is the best teacher, it took me quite a while before I learned my lesson.

However, while city-camping is not the best idea, it didn’t always turn out so bad.  Especially in Turkey.

The above Turkish family let me camp in the yard of their elementary school – and cooked me dinner too!

Two weeks into my tour, I arrived in a town named Charçamba, amidst a sinking golden sun.  I passed a bike shop, and was quickly brought inside.  They love seeing cycle tourists!  The tea and sandwiches followed accordingly.  We exchanged photos, and with the help of charades and Google Translate, I communicated that I was in need of camping space.  Of course, I imagined they would have some sort of gated back patio filled with lush grass, and lined with refrigerators (multiple) of ice-cold beer.  Instead, they sent me off with two teens also in the shop, who would take me to a “great spot to camp.”

The town was gorgeous.  Like most Turkish cities, it pierced the skies with mosque minarets.  Charçamba had an outdoorsy flavor as well, with many cyclists, runners, playgrounds, and parks.  The two teens brought me down to the main park – beautifully manicured green grass, close to a water source, and away from the crowded streets – and told me I could pitch.  Unfortunately, there was a problem: there were hundreds of people also in the park, kicking footballs, running around, and generally occupying the space.  I should have seen this coming.

Charçamba near sunset

Next to the park was a large sports complex, with a fenced garden adjacent.  We approached, asked, and were quickly obliged.  “Sure, you’re welcome to camp here,” motioned the man.  This would be perfect.  Looking back, now as a mildly seasoned wild-camper, I would call this an opportune find.

I began to unroll my tent, when another man came outside.  This one spoke English.

“You don’t have to camp out here,” he raced.  “Instead, I’d love to invite you inside.  I’d like to give you a free room, dinner, beer, wifi, access to the pool, sauna, Turkish bath, and – and – a private masseuse for the evening.  We treat our guests well here in Turkey.  Interested?”

Of course I was.

Hours later, I found myself in the Turkish bath, with my private Turkish masseuse. The room was ornate: lined with marble green water spouts, outfitted with six full-size bath tubs, and saturated with steam.  There were plastic buckets stacked in a corner, which were filled with cold water to complement the hot water from the spout.

The masseuse, however – a 50-year-old grizzly bear of a man – was not quite as lovely.

I was laid down on the bath steps, wearing just boxers.  The man took a massive sponge, soaked with soapy water, and wringed out a large bubbled cloud onto my back.  The massage began.  I was less than comfortable, and giggling the whole time.  It lasted about fifteen minutes, and was not my favorite.  I quickly exited, hopped in the sauna, swam in the pool, used the internet, had some food, and then retired to my room.

In all, a memorable experience.  Thanks as always, Turkey.  And, finally, lesson learned: camping in cities doesn’t always turn out so bad.  Depending on how you’d handle that massage.

Warm salutations at the bakery, the following morning

Bombs away,

Will

That morning, I awoke in my tent just 50 meters across the Georgian/Armenian border.  I had crossed the night before.  Then, it was also raining, hence my decision to camp close, instead of pressing on.  I showed my passport, paid my visa ($8, 21 days, available at all land borders), and took dinner in an adjacent building.  It wasn’t a café, per se, but more of an establishment for border officers to unwind in after work, drink vodka, and tease women.  This is how it appeared to me.  I entered, soaking wet, and asked for food.  The woman kindly made me a plate of bread, poached eggs, cheese, butter, and warm chai tea to sip.  Officers entered shortly after, drinking vodka and teasing the woman.  They offered me shots, yet I declined.  Instead, I swapped my helmet for a hat, and snapped the picture below.

Back to the bus stop.  I had cycled roughly 120km to this bus stop, from my camping spot just across the border.  It was only 65km more to Yerevan – the capital, and the promise of a warm bed.  I wanted to get there, and I had the energy.  But it was pouring rain.

After some time, the rain relented.  I pushed on.  I cycled through a small town, passed a gas station and a small supermarket, and continued into the countryside.  The rain came back quickly.  This time, there was hail too.  While cycling in the rain is no more than a slightly less safe and less dry endeavor, cycling through hail is out of the question.  That shit will take an eye out.

In a rare move, I doubled back – back to the gas station.  I’d take a tea, dry my clothes, and wait.  There wasn’t much else to do.

I entered the supermarket, asking for tea.  “No tea here,” they said.  “Not here, nor next door.”

“There must be tea,” I said.  “Y’all are always drinking tea.  And this is a supermarket.  I’m cold, foreign, alone, and wet: there’s gotta be a cup of tea.”

Minutes later, I was obliged, and placed next door in an open bakery.  There was a wood-fire oven, a small table and chair, and a rack for clothes.  I hung my shirts and gloves next to the whispering fire, put my coat on the seat-back, and took a deep breath.  The women returned with a cup of hot tea and a chocolate brownie, and placed it in front of me.  My crankiness subsided, as I was once more met with the unrelenting kindness I have come to delusionally expect from the strangers of the world.

An hour passed, and the rain poured.  I had ants in my veins, as I believe the Germans say.  I wanted to continue.  I’d poke my head outside, survey the clouds, solicit the meteorological insight of the gas station attendant (with no common language, one must remember), and wander right back to my warm seat in that open bakery.  I repeated this a few times.  The hail and rain both continued.

The clock neared 5:30pm – it was time to make a decision.  I could either find camp in this tiny town, or push brashly on.  I preferred the second, of course.  I stepped back outside, and surveyed the clouds once more.

This time the rain and hail had stopped.  However, it was clear that they had merely moved further ahead, and after a few minutes of cycling, I’d hit them head on.  Draw a square in your brain.  Yes, do it.  Draw a square, and then divide that square into four smaller squares, or quadrants.  You should have a 2×2 square in your head.  Now, plate that square against the horizon – you’re now looking at a 2×2 square as big as the sky.  Still with me?  Let’s keep going.

The top-left, top-right, and bottom-right quadrants of our square were filled with dark stormy clouds.  However, the bottom-left quadrant was clear.  This is the quadrant that loomed right over the road.  This is where I was headed.  The sky gave me a lane, and I took this lane.  I didn’t hesitate much.  I got back on the bike and gunned for the empty space.  I put on my raincoat, my neoprene Turkish-flag face-mask, and started to pedal.

I pedaled for a while, enjoying the open air.  But the while didn’t last.  The rain came back.  Luckily, the hail did not.  I was now several kilometers from town, and doubling back once more would mean the end of the day.  And I really didn’t want to the day to end.

So I pedaled, in the pouring rain.  I like these moments, you know?  I like the light, ironic feeling of battle.  I like the feeling of feeling alive.  I like walking to class as the snow is pounding my face.  I like walking up 100 steps, instead of taking the elevator.  I’m crazy about the notion that comfort is relative.  And I liked blasting my bike through the pouring smashing rain.

The road began to dip, in a series of large highway hills.  I climbed slowly up the ups.  On the downs, I kicked it into a higher gear.  There’s few better things than flying down a hill on a bicycle.  And in the rain, with the right frame of mind, it’s a whole lot better.  I put Linkin Park in my ears.  I pointed a strong, direct, and playful finger into the eyes of passing drivers, gaping at the crazy guy on a bicycle blasting right past.  It must have been nice in a warm SUV.  On a bike, it wasn’t so bad either.  I was dancing, yelling, screaming, and pedaling – pedaling my heart out, really.  In that pouring rain, speeding past an ambling cow and a thoroughly perplexed, wryly smiling local, I felt more alive than ever.

45km from Yerevan, I passed a motel.  It looked lovely, in fact.  There was a crackling grill outside, plastic tables under wilted umbrellas, and the warm smell of the now-whispering rain.  It was about 7:00pm, and I could have pushed to Yerevan.  Instead, I decided to stay the night, dry my clothes, and sleep in a well-earned bed.  I’d reach Yerevan the following afternoon.  I’d done enough cycling for the day.

One grand thing about travel is the feeling of excitement: we see new things, and we can’t help but smile.  You don’t need to travel for this excitement, though.  The feeling is everywhere.  Stick your head out of a train and let your face feel the breeze.  Stand up from the table at the bar, and start dancing on your own.  There’s plenty of ways to feel alive in this life, traveling or not.  Keep things exciting for yourself.  Whatever works, you know?  Maybe even cycle through the pouring smashing rain.

I’m back in Colombia,

Will

First, the cyclist can head north, navigating the Caucasian autonomous regions – Dagestan, Chechnya, Kalmykia, etc., and onwards into Russia – which requires both bureaucratic gymnastics on the traveler’s part, as well as a tedious Russian visa.  Few explore this option.

Second, the cyclist can head south, crossing what travelers rave to be one of the most fascinating destinations on the planet: Iran.  Although this country packs its fair share of desert, and a solid punch of backwards conservatism, it promises incredible architecture, delicious food, and some of the friendliest people on the planet.  Unfortunately, Americans must enroll in a guided tour to obtain a visa; cycling, independently, as an American would be a near-impossible endeavor.  Plus, I have an Israel stamp in my passport.  Iran will have to wait.

The third option for passing the Caspian Sea is to go directly through it.   From Baku, Azerbaijan, a schedule-less ferry takes the errant cyclist across the water to Aktau, Kazakhstan.  It took me 2.5 months and 3,500km of cycling to arrive in Baku from my starting point of Istanbul.  My destination was Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan.  Crossing the Caspian was the midway point of my trip, and the Baku Ferry was my ride.  Logistically, the boat is the link between the Caucasian countries – Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan, etc – and Central Asia.  On the former side, there is civilization, infrastructure, and the faint flavor of Europe, still not too far off.  On the latter, however, there is a whole lot of f*cking of desert.  Therefore, symbolically, the Baku Ferry represents something more: Welcome to Central Asia, baby.

The Kazakh Desert leg – a 500km stretch of sand and camels, starting in Aktau, Kazakhstan, and ending at the Uzbekistan border – is one of the most difficult parts of cycling Central Asia.  There is sand, camels, monotony, and not much more.  The road is garbage, for the better part of the journey.  Places to buy food and water pop up once every ~50 kilometers.  At midday, temperates top 42 degrees Celsius (108 degrees Fahrenheit).  The cyclist must be resilient, and must be prepared.   He/she should probably bring music as well.

The following photos document my journey from Aktau, Kazakhstan to Beyneu, Kazakhstan: 500km of cycling through the Kazakh desert steppe.

Our story begins in Baku, Azerbaijan.  I spent 10 days in Baku, collecting visas for upcoming Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan.  The day after my final visa was ready, there was a ferry leaving for Aktau.  Myself, and two others I met in town – Hugh from Ireland (cycling Ireland to Burma), and Fred from France (cycling France to Thailand) – arrived at the ferry port at 3pm, as instructed.  We waited.  The boat eventually boarded at 5am the following morning, and left for sea around noon.  The picture above shows me waiting on the deck, just after boarding, and getting ready for a quick snooze as the sun is rising.  Baku is in the background.

The crossing itself took 26 hours, and once we arrived in Aktau, just a few kilometers from shore, we waited another 24 hours before we could actually dock.  After 6 additional hours of customs, and registering with the immigration police, we were finally free to go.  Hugh, Fred and I took a late dinner, and set off into the desert.  We’d camp ~20km from town, and get an early start the following morning.  Pictured above is Fred, staring out onto the open road.  As you can see, the pavement is good thus far.

The desert did not pack many stunning visuals.  However, I found the cemeteries rather cool.  This particular cemetery is close enough to civilization – maybe 50km from Aktau – so it makes sense to lay the dead to rest in such a spot.  However, we found many similar cemeteries along the way, which were far, far further from any trace of civilization.  Perhaps, bringing the deceased into the middle of nowhere has a certain spiritual significance as well?  I never quite found out.

Another shot of the open, open road.  This photo was probably taken ~100km from Aktau.  There was not much more than green shrubs, brown shrubs, electric lines, and a vast blue sky.  As you can see, the pavement is still in respectable condition.

A bit further down.  Hugh powers forward.

Of course, there were camels – there’s always camels in the desert.  Most of these camels are tagged, and belong to nomadic herders living among the brush.  We didn’t meet many of these herders, though.  We mostly just met truckers.

One of the major challenges of cycling the Kazakh steppe is obtaining food and water.  As mentioned earlier, one can buy food and water every ~50 kilometers.  Unfortunately, these distances are a bit too great to just “wing it”: the cyclist needs to plan.  While in Baku, Hugh, Fred and I scoured blogs, figuring out just where each food and water stop would be.  In addition, we outfitted our bikes to carry more water than usual.  Generally, I cycle with just two small bottles, capacity 1.8 liters; in the desert, I brought enough bottles to carry 10 liters.

When water/food was available, it was served up in regional establishments known as “chaihana’s,” or tea houses.  Later, I would find these to be an important staple of Central Asian culture.  For the long stretches in between chaihana’s, we had to carry supplies.  Often, my bike would be packed with 5-10 kilo’s of water and food.  We drank responsibly, and cooked ramen on our stoves.

Pictured above is a plate of plov – rice cooked in lamb fat, carrots, onions, and lamb meat – a dish common to the entire sub-continent.  It was one of the more palatable options, and one of maybe three things I knew how to order.  Sadly, it was only available in a select few chaihana’s.

Here is an example of your typical chaihana.  Basically, they were run-down, one-room cement buildings with a kitchen inside.  Sometimes, they sold gas as well.  Truckers were often found parked out front.

As the reader, you may look at this structure with a frown.  However, for us, spotting our next chaihana was a moment of pure elation.  These things were effectively our key to success, and perhaps survival.  Without them, cycling 500km of Kazakh desert steppe would be a far greater challenge (and require a FAR heavier bicycle).

After roughly 240km, the road turned to utter dogshit.  The pavement abated, and we were left with a sandy rocky piste of misery, frustration, and bicycle wear, which lasted for the remaining ~300km to Beyneu.  As loosely shown in the photo, this wasn’t the only road either: since the main drag was in such bad shape, cars and trucks would create their own roads off to the side, and weave back and forth to their heart’s and machine’s content.  Often, Fred and I would choose paths to the left of the road, while Hugh would take his chances on the right.  While the piste wouldn’t be terrible in a car, a bicycle is a different story.  It was a bumpy, bumpy ride.

At the time of writing, there is a ton of work being done on the road.  In fact, this road, piste-section included, serves as the main cross-country artery between Aktau and Almaty – one of the biggest cities in Kazakhstan, and almost 3,200km away.  The road workers were a source of information (in sign language, of course), a friendly face, and perhaps a glass of water.  They were always thrilled to see the cyclists riding on past.

Here, Hugh approaches a huge hill – one undergoing roadwork, certainly – with a toasty, breakfast-serving chaihana waiting for him at the top.

In the desert, there are no hostels, nor hotels, nor campsites.  When the day neared end, we’d turn off the main road, ride a few hundred meters into the open sand, and find a good spot to pitch our tents.  Above, Hugh and Fred survey the ground for some suitable sand, as the sinking orange sun paints the background.

Most cyclists bring tents on their tour.  A few, however, bring hammocks, and Fred was one of these few.  A hammock is mostly great, as it’s light, comfortable, and can be assembled almost anywhere.  However, in the desert, there wasn’t a whole lot to tie your hammock to.  This was often a point of laughter for Hugh and I.  Fred: “The man who brought a hammock to the desert.”

A picture from my tent on the second to last night, just before sunset.  On this night, we slept in a sandy lot just behind a chaihana.  There, we took dinner and beer.  Plov was served!

105 kilometers to Beyneu: to a bazaar, to a bed, and to internet.  Lovely shot of the desert.   Is this what paradise looks like?

After 5.5 long, difficult days, we arrived in Beyneu, Kazakhstan.  There wasn’t much to see.  However, I was able to talk to my family and friends, and buy shampoo and nail-clippers in the market.

From Beyneu, it was ~100km to the Uzbekistan border, and then ~400km more to a city named Nukus – the re-start of civilization.  In those 500km, there were only 3 places to purchase food and water.  However, the road was much better, making it a bit easier.  The scenery didn’t change much, though.  Sand, camels, and monotony, just like before.  

Overall, the Kazakh desert steppe was one of the harder segments of my Central Asia bike tour.  It wasn’t ostensibly “fun.”  It was not a picnic.  Upon arriving in Baku, Hugh actually had no intention to cycle this part: he planned to take the train.  However, after a short conversation outside of the Uzbek embassy while waiting for visas, I convinced him.

“It’s doable, you say?  F*ck – I’m in!,” he rationed.

My mother always told me I was a literal person.  If things weren’t concrete, spelled-out, nor perfectly fit to form, I always had trouble wrapping my head.  So, after four and a half months and 7,600km of cycling, with my destination as Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, I needed some hard evidence of arrival before the celebration could begin.

Several kilometers before, I took a rest in a gas station café.  The sign had said 5km to Bishkek.  I was tired, and needed sugar.  I wanted it to be perfect, you know?  I wanted the wherewithal to dance on my bike.  I didn’t want to sloth my way into the city, the city I’d had my heart on since first pedaling out of Istanbul.  I wanted the moment to be epic – I wanted to be able to tell the story.  After four and a half months of riding my bicycle, I wanted both myself and the city to know I’d really made it.

The second to last pass before reaching Bishkek

I ate my M&M’s – a kind, rare bag of the yellow peanut ones – put back two average samsas to fill hunger’s void, and got back on my bicycle.  Here we go.  This is what I’ve worked for.  This is what I dreamed.  This idea began in Guinea, a whole world away, and the finish line was in my sight.  I haven’t done shit, though.  This is what I always told myself.  Five more kilometers to go.

As the road wore on, the city became clearer.  Buses became more frequent, and young students with books in hand began to pass.  The sub-urban riff-raff of third world capitals began to fade, and I knew I was getting close.  I saw a monument, with Bishkek unceremoniously plastered atop.  “Is that it?  Did I do it?  Do I throw my hands up high?”  I still couldn’t figure it out.

I made a turn down a tree-lined street.  The city was there.  I pulled out my iPhone to search an address.  I asked for directions, and got on my way.  I saw buses, sidewalks, cyber-cafes, and the density of urban life.  I did it – there was no question anymore.  I had made it.  However, my hands still weren’t in the air.  I still wasn’t screaming.  The celebration was less than visible.

Descending into the Suusamyr Valley – about 180km from Bishkek

I dreamt countlessly about what Bishkek would look like.  I imagined the moment I’d arrive, and what song would be playing.  I envisioned pointing at the gaping passerby, screaming alternative rock lyrics at the top of my lungs, unclipping my shoes from my bike, and dancing like a f*cking madman.  I thought it would be one for the ages.  I thought it would come from a movie.  Was the moment imperfect, therefore?  Why was it so different than I thought it would be?

As we know, travel teaches life.  Cycle touring, in my opinion, teaches it more.  One of the most salient lessons from bike is the stressing of simplicity.  Cycle touring makes you realize what’s truly important in life, and what is extra.  I wake up, and eat a healthy breakfast, because I need energy for the day.  I check my bicycle, because I don’t want it to break later on.  I clip in my helmet because safety is above all else.  I make sure I have food, because the body needs fuel.  I drink enough water, get enough sleep, and satisfy my basic human needs.  There is little superfluity.  Cycle touring shows you how paramount the basic stuff really is.

There were plenty of ways to reason that the moment wasn’t perfect.  I reached my destination, and to the pedestrian, it was not obvious.  However, as the bike taught me so very well: simplicity is pure.  There was no reason to think too hard.  There was no reason to look past the basics.

I set out to cycle from Istanbul, Turkey, to Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan.  On September 19th, 2013, I arrived at my destination.  Who f*cking cares if I wasn’t dancing, shouting, nor fist-pumping until my arm was sore?  I made it, and that’s all that matters.  And in that way, the moment was as perfect as it ever could have been.

The first day of my tour – in front of Bülent’s shop in downtown Istanbul

Following the heart,

Will