Australia Part I: Love Down Under




It was time for a bit of departure from cycling. My mind said so, my heart said so and most importantly, my bank account. After South Korea (post to come…sometime) I felt like I needed a break. While I enjoyed my time there, I was starting to feel a bit jaded from travelling.  I had planned to join my friends Marcus and Kirsty in Japan, but I soon realized that I needed to work sooner rather than later. So, I booked a ticket to Melbourne where I spent a lovely few days with my host, Janet. Then, by train and bicycle  I made my way North to Mildura, where I would be planting trees for Outland Resources at six Australian cents per tree. I was planting about 4000-50o0 trees per day to reforest areas of Murray Sunset National Park. After two weeks, we moved to Oberon in New South Wales where we were paid twelve cents and luckily I only had to bend over half as much. This wasn’t my first rodeo – I worked as a planter for six seasons in Canada. It is a grueling job that I both loved and hated. It has challenged me mentally and physically in ways that nothing else ever has and probably nothing else ever will.


Flashback – tree planting near Prince George, BC Canada 2008


To get an idea of what tree planting is all about (in Canada) I recommend my friend and co-worker Tara’s excellent article, who is now a reporter for New York’s Epoch Times newspaper.

I swore to myself that I would never do this job again. But, here I was, back at it Australia and I have absolutely no regrets for making that decision. I lived and worked with an incredible crew of people and it felt good to be back in the game.


Planting the sand rows in Murray Sunset National Park near Mildura


In the zone: Oberon, NSW


My awesome and nutty crew


Oddly enough, it sometimes felt like I was back at home in Canada working in the cold and drizzly weather planting pine trees  Then, I would take my eyes off of the ground for a few seconds, see a kangaroo, gum trees and I would suddenly remember where I was.

Oh yeah, and I worked in one of the few places in Australia where it snows in the winter (Oberon).


Playing in the snow…


…and working in the snow. Thawing out the frozen seedlings around a fire. Photo by Kively Kohv


Nine weeks later I finished my 7th planting season and had a flight booked to Perth where I would begin a new adventure with the amazing Dan, the Self-Propelling Particle. He left England in January 2015 and has since then cycled over 30,000km in Europe and Asia.

Two weeks of sweet lingering turned into a month. We were lucky to be house sitting for our awesome hosts Ruth and Victor in North Beach for a few weeks while they were off on a camping adventure. I first met Victor in Bangkok in March, where he was beginning his cycling adventure in Thailand and Burma.


From left: Victor, Ruth, Dan and me in North Beach, Perth


It would be a while before we would be seeing the ocean again. Perth. Photo by Dan Calverley


After almost four months off I was ready to cycle again. Our plan is to ride all the way to Brisbane for Christmas to meet with my dear friends Marianne and Heidi. There they will begin their 1.5 year journey home to Denmark. Dan and I have an ambitious 7000km to cover and we won’t be taking the most direct route. The plan is to leave Perth and chase the red dirt along the remote Great Central Road through to Uluru (Ayer’s Rock) in Australia’s red centre. From there, we will head towards Alice Springs and then down the Oodnadatta Track to Adelaide. The route from there is currently unknown.  Soon, it will just be the two of us amongst the red earth, snakes, camels, kangaroos, sand and flies…and maybe the odd curious dingo. Of course, throw in the odd road train and grey nomads passing in caravans.

So this is the account of the first section of the ride: Perth to Kalgoorlie. We are still clinging onto the tiny outposts of civilization before they soon disappear in the desert.




Along the Rail Heritage Trail in John Forrest National Park

About 30 km outside of Perth we joined the Railway Heritage trail, where Dan had his first kangaroo sighting.


Along the route we also had a few curious birds: galahs, cockatoos and a particular bold Australian ringneck that hung around our first campsite just outside of Chidlow.


The nosey Australian ringneck that hung around our camp. He practically dive bombed my head.



Stealth camping on a MTB trail near Chidlow

And what about scary snakes and spiders? None yet – well, a dead snake (but a desert death adder nonetheless!)  and then a few bobtail skinks crossing the road with stubby tails and dark blue tongues that they stuck out at us as we passed.



After Chidlow, we briefly made an appearance on the Great Eastern Highway to Baker’s Hill, a small settlement with a bakery very famous for their pies. Small baked pies, usually stuffed with meat and/or vegetables are a widespread Australian tradition. They were absolutely delicious and for a moment I fantasized encountering pie shops like this every 50km all the way to Sydney.


Me stuffing my face. Photo by Dan Calverley


The BEST Australian pies at Baker’s Hill – Photo by Dan Calverley

Avoiding the highway once again, we headed Northeast into the wheat belt, using a mix of paved and dirt roads that we mainly had to ourselves. Expansive green farmers’ fields and patches of wildflowers surrounded us. We are lucky to be travelling in the right season to be catching even the smallest glimpses of these piercingly blue, pink and yellow hues dotting the road sides.



Wildflowers: everlastings


Some of the green was also covered in blankets of canola flowers.


Canola fields – photo by Dan Calverley


Every 40km or so we would pass through small towns, spoiling ourselves with the odd coffee or baked treat. With a screaming tailwind most of the time, traffic-free roads and monotonous, yet pleasant scenery it was an enjoyable ride.


Big skies along the wheat belt


Shady backroads


Night time unfortunately brought in hordes of mosquitoes, which we hadn’t quite expected.

Camping was a bit tricky in this area because of the endless fence lines. One night we pulled into a ramshackle looking farmstead, hoping to find someone to give us permission to camp on their land. The place looked abandoned with only the presence of a lonely cow to give us the impression that someone still had an interest in the place. We decided to pitch camp anyway, hoping that an angry farmer wouldn’t run us off the next day. As we were packing up the next morning, we were visited by a friendly guy who worked for the landowner that didn’t seem to have an issue with us being there.


Farm camping amongst the mosquito hordes

Once the fences disappeared, we could pretty much camp wherever we wanted, undisturbed. This is the beauty of travelling in a country with a low population density.


Sunset view from our camp near the edge of a field


Inspecting the site



Viewpoint from our campsite at Marshall Rocks


The further East we travelled the more amusing the town signs became…


Mukinbudin aka “Muka”

and the more eccentric..


We did end up talking to one guy, but apparently it wasn’t Lenny

Leaving Bullfinch and failing to find Lenny we took a backroad toward the railway line beginning at Koolyanobbing, where we had planned to follow a maintenance track. By this time, we had many little stalkers of our own – mini hordes of bush flies that clung to our backs for the free ride. Luckily, they were only the swarming kind and not the biting kind.

Dan had pointed out earlier the potential issue of accessing the railway line from this side, thinking that we may be blocked in by a fence or gate. I assured him that it would be OK and we would find a way in somewhere. But at that moment it didn’t occur to me that we would arrive on the wrong side of the tracks. Oops. But, no problem Dan concurred, we will find a low point in the fence and carry everything across. Problem solved!


Running the bags and bikes over the railway tracks


Fence? what fence?


Photo by Dan Calverley

Along the road we came across a few signs that said “No access unless authorized by Westnet Rail,” which we obviously ignored. You would think that if they really wanted to keep people out there would be some kind of gate and not just a small sign?

The majority of the track was a decent surface that occasionally deteriorated into rocky and sandy bits. The odd train and truck roared past and we exchanged waves, acting like we had every right to be there. We also spotted kangaroos and a family of emus – seven chicks in total. The emu is the world’s second largest bird and found only in Australia. The young ones from a distance looked to be easily over 1m tall!



Emu – photo from birds


Riding the railway line – photo by Dan Calverley





Photo by Dan Calverley 

Chilly nights brought relief from the flies and we pulled our bikes away from railway and into the bush to camp. When we got into lower vegetation the night sky felt massive – millions of stars encircling us like a dome. The nights carried on in silence until it was suddenly broken by the thunder of a passing locomotive.

On the final day to Kalgoorlie the flies grew in intensity and the road became a rocky mess. The buzzing menaces won this time and we left the track behind, heading south to the highway for the final smooth stretch into town. It didn’t take long for us to be sucked into a pub with a cold pint in hand. It felt good to be back on the road, to reap the rewards of these small luxuries once again.

Kalgoorlie is a gold mining town famous for its Super Pit – an open cut gold mine that is 3.5 kilometres long, 1.5 kilometres wide and 570 metres deep.



Kalgoorlie’s Super Pit (about one half of it)




…and some of the massive bits of machinery used

After a few days rest with our awesome host Bev it is time to leave civilization again. We are heading North to Leonara and then East to the start of the Great Central Road in Laverton. Red earth, emptiness, sand, flies, nothingness – here we come.


Red dirt girl – Photo by Dan Calverley 

Taiwan: In Between Worlds





One of the many quiet backroads in Central Taiwan

The rain came down with such force that it stung my eyes. Daylight was quickly disappearing. I was only able to open them for seconds at a time to reveal of blur of a steep, narrow road carving its way through lush green landscape.

I struggled to stay focused so that I could keep my tires from being swept out from underneath me, which had happened only minutes before. My hands now ached from squeezing the brakes, which now seemed to be in contact with more water than rim. My thoughts drifted to a few hours earlier sitting in an air conditioned  Seven Eleven, eating a tasty $3 microwaved lunch and wasting time on the internet.  Now, on this empty,jungly backroad with no vehicles or a town in sight I felt like I had been transported to another world.

I was in Taiwan, a modern country with many of the Western style comforts I had grown up with. But there, caught in a torrential downpour, life went back to basics. It was getting dark, I was shivering in drenched clothing and there was no shelter in sight. My only priority now was to get down this increasing deep descent and find a dry place for the night. When I was seriously beginning to worry, I spotted some houses in the distance –  the sleepy village of Yongle. Many of the homes were dark with the odd faint light and the movement of shadows. Cold and feeling desperate  I came close to knocking on one of the doors to ask for a dry place to sleep. I decided to push on a bit further and I came across a temple aglow with red light.

There was a housing unit beside and I looked around to find someone to ask permission to stay in the temple. The rain was still falling heavily and I soon gave up looking. I pulled my bike inside.


Temple shelter on a dark and stormy night

I quickly changed into dry clothes and then cooked dinner on my stove, which I inhaled in a few breaths. Surrounded by mythical statues bathed in a sultry red glow I stared out into the stormy night. I suddenly felt intense satisfaction.

Tucked into this small sanctuary it seemed like I was existing on the fringe of a strange wilderness and civilization. I thought of a piece written by one of my favourite travel writers, Kate Harris (  Her interpretation of cycling across the USA reminded me of my experience in Taiwan:

As a cross-country cyclist, I constantly dance between two worlds. On a daily basis I share the road with air-conditioned gas-guzzling monster vehicles. I ride through towns with stores and newspapers and internet access and gourmet restaurants. But while I’m exposed to all these modern frills and ameneties, I’m just a vagabond who sleeps in a tent, doesn’t shower, and spends most of her waking hours pedaling a bike. It’s a weird, hybrid sort of existence, where I’m neither isolated nor immersed in society or the wilderness. Instead I’m a perpetual fencesitter with one leg touching on the cultivated field of civilization and the other leg dangling in wild, overgrown, wonderfully neglected weeds. 


The only peleton I can keep up with…

Cycling culture is thriving in Taiwan. Almost everyday I saw large groups of recreational road cyclists, who joined drivers in encouraging shouts of “Jai-oh! Jai-oh!” (“Keep going!”). Police stations throughout the country also have mini service stations with tools and fresh water available to cyclists.


Rest stops for cyclists seen throughout Taiwan

In Taiwan, I also experienced urban camping at its finest. Schools offered places to wash, wifi was available anywhere – everything I needed in the land of convenience.  Several cycle tourists had told me that it is one of the easiest places to camp. In the two weeks I spent on the island, I pitched my tent in the most varied and bizarre locations of the whole trip. Some of these were…

abandoned houses…






a marketplace…


public parks…


the odd “wild” spot…


along with a few temples, a parking lot…

and the best of all…

a wheelchair accessible washroom (It was really clean!).


I prefer the “ensuite” camping spot

There is a funny story behind that one. That day I completed the biggest ascent of my trip in Taiwan – a very scenic 61km towards Alishan, gaining 2100m in altitude. It was a peaceful, almost euphoric climb and it remains one of the highlights of my trip on the island. The weather was pleasant and cool – a much needed escape from the high humidity I was experiencing at lower altitudes.


On my way up to Alishan


Angry skies


Share the road…

As I neared the top, the overcast skies began to grow darker. Rain started to fall and became heavier and heavier. Soon I could hear the rumbling of thunder and the 50km descent ahead seemed like quite the daunting prospect. I started to scan the sides of the road  for a place to camp. I came across a lonely visitors centre. The main building was shut, but the bathrooms were unlocked. Desperate for shelter, I ran inside. I knew at this point that there was no way I would attempt the descent. I looked around the premises for a sheltered area to pitch my tent – nothing looked promising. I waited inside awkwardly with my gear while a few others came and went in the neighbouring stalls. Eventually it got dark and with no other vehicles stopping I decided to bring everything inside the wheelchair accessible stall and locked myself in there. I even cooked inside with my camp stove. I rolled out my mat and curled inside of my sleeping bag. The rhythmic pounding of the rain and howling wind became a strange lullaby that eventually put me to sleep.

I woke up early the next morning, relieved to have had no visitors in the night. I packed up my things quickly and was just about to head down the mountain, when a man came out of the vistor’s centre. Worried about his reaction when he’d found out where I’d slept I uttered a nervous and enthusiastic nihao!

He responded to me in English “Good morning! I hope you weren’t too cold last night!” Then he invited me in for breakfast.


My party hosts with my “one day boyfriend” on the left

Brushes with the people of Taiwan brought me daily amusement. My second day cycling I had just turned off of the Northern Cross Island highway onto the wonderfully quiet and scenic Route 60. I passed a small shop and stopped to find a large group of fairly drunk people seated around a table outside. After a few exchanges of broken English, bottles of beer were being pushed in my direction. I had to be a bit of stiff and only accept one because it was around 11am and I still had quite few kilometres to cover. Soon a young guy came stumbling out from the back of the shop with a stupidly large grin. He moved in quickly beside me and put an arm around my shoulder. “Hello!!!” he beamed, “where are you from? Today, you be day girlfriend!!” Everyone laughed and then he grabbed my hand to take me around to the back where the real festivities were taking place. I was sat down at an even larger table with twice the amount of alcohol and an enormous spread of food in involving fried rice, noodles and some unknown animal organs stir-fried.

My “one day boyfriend” did most of the talking to loosely translate some of the other friendly and abrupt drunken questioning. Eventually I had to politely excuse myself while the party raged on. Time to head off into the hills. “Goodbye one day girlfriend!” yelled my new chum.

“More like one hour!” I joked.

“One hour!” he yelled back, laughing.  


The road continued to climb with a vengeance. While I tend to overplan – collecting details about the terrain, mileage and scenic points ahead, I did virtually none of this for Taiwan. This just didn’t make it into the schedule on a lazy few weeks off in Northern Thailand. So this time, I had no idea what lay ahead and just how much climbing and descending I would be doing. And it was a lot – almost all day, every day. I was just moving forward, following a GPS track into the unknown.

I was very fortunate to get in contact with Andrew Kerslake, a local cycling expert that seemed to have knowledge of every minor road on that island. He offered to design me a route with the few things I had in mind: scenic, hilly, no traffic. And he definitely delivered. This was the counterclockwise route I would take around Taiwan – beginning in Taoyuan in the Northeast and ending in Taipei. I would avoid the West coast altogether and head into the mountains in the centre, finishing on the East Coast.

For a country with the 6th highest population population density in the world, Taiwan has a surprising number of empty backroads. With most of the population concentrated along the West Coast, the mountainous interior and East coast offer many opportunities for excellent, traffic free riding. As I seem to have a thing for tight contour lines, most of the days on the bike were a sweaty, lush rollercoaster ride. At times the humidity became very uncomfortable, but that was easily remedied by an air conditioned 7/11 or a small afternoon monsoon.



A surprising number of tiny backroads in Taiwan




Also, I have to talk about the food in this country as it was amongst the highlights for me.

Being a huge fan of Chinese cuisine I thoroughly enjoyed what Taiwan had on offer. In the small village of Wuije I had some of the best. I was invited to try some local cuisine by two young school teachers from Fuli who spoke good English. They ordered many dishes for me, refusing to let me pay. We had crispy pork, cabbage, fresh caught fish, sitr fried noodles and a particular type of deer that only the indigenous people in the region were allowed to hunt.


Passing through the Hakka region I was also taken out to lunch by a local man who shared a love for cycling. He took out his phone and showed me a photo of him and his loaded bicycle which he took around the island 40 years ago.

I tried delicious stewed bamboo, seaweed and mushrooms and a type of cold cooked chicken prepared “Hakka style.”


These pleasant encounters with Taiwan’s  locals helped to ease my feeling of struggle with the constant climbing and humidity. Sometimes I would be so overcome with fatigue that the surroundings would blur into one. Instead of allowing my thoughts to drift into the distance, to follow the graceful contours through the hills I would sometimes feel trapped by the humidty, hanging on me like a heavy coat.


Central Taiwan -a lush, relentless rollercoaster ride


Often tiring and sweaty work for these views…

And of course, it also rained. A lot.  I was constantly riding in a combination of rain and sweat soaked clothing which refused to dry even on a day in the hot sun. Of course it didn’t always feel like a struggle. Many of the climbs along the country’s mountainous backroads revealed spectacular scenery and the descents were sublime.


When I reached Fangliao in the South I began to realize that I was running out of time and needed a day’s rest from cycling after 10 days of “rough” camping. I took a train to Taitung city on the East Coast and decided to splurge on a hotel room to dry out my life. Air conditioning did the job in about half an hour. Venturing out into the city, I walked beneath the rows of neon signs in Mandarin, eventually wandering into the night market. Here, I gorged on same tasty treats, with the highlight being  fresh seafood. I enjoyed this small shift to the vibrant, urban Taiwan seen dimly through grey skies.



A wet, dreary day in Taitung

That night I was put in touch with Rodin, a Couchsurfing host in Fuli, a small town along the stunning Route 23 which veered inland away from the coast. This would be the next day’s destination. I rode up in the fog through lush hills cradling small villages. The mist thickened and eventually I found myself riding into a heavy downpour (yet again!). On the way up I passed a busload of tourists that were stopping at a rest area. A large group of curious monkeys lined the road as the visitors ran over to take photos. At one point it was unclear exactly who was the playing the tourist – the people or the monkeys.


Scenery along the East Coast


Going inland on Route 23



People and monkeys playing tourist


Once again, more inclement weather- Route 23

Completely drenched, I met Rodin at the local Seven Eleven after another wet and precarious descent. Rodin took me out to taste a unique Taiwanese delicacy – stinky tofu. The stench, to put it mildly, is a turn off. I could smell the restaurant from a few blocks away and immediately recognized the previously unknown aroma because it made me sick a few days earlier. But, holding my breath, I bit into this crispy, flavour rich dish and immediately warmed up to it. My host, Rodin, was especially pleased to see a Westerner enjoy it. In fact, I liked it so much that ended up eating half of his portion. We also went into Hualien to see a Cantonese singer perform. His songs were mainly love ballads accompanied by piano. Seeing me with my host and his friends he asked where I was from. He spoke a little bit of English. He then asked me if I knew the song “Fresh Right”

“Fl..esh… right?” I repeated. “No I don’t think so.”

Then, when he started to sing, and he sang beautifully, I realized with embarrassment that he was singing “Flashlight.”

Stuck in the dark but you’re my fresh right (flashlight)

You’re getting me, getting me, through the night

‘Cause you’re my flashlight

You’re my flashlight, you’re my flashlight


Riding through the East Rift Valley


On my way to Babylon (somewhere near Hualien)

In less than a week, I would reach Taipei – my end destination completing my circle around Taiwan. Next, I had planned to visit one of Taiwan’s “scenic wonders”, Taroko Gorge.

Not surprisingly, the weather once again decided not to cooperate and rain began to fall as I began the 80km round trip ride from Hualien through the gorge.

The towering walls cradled the heavy mist which made me feel very closed in.


Dramatic scenery in Taroko Gorge



Despite the slightly foul weather, it was a very enjoyable ride.


On the local train to Taipei

I arrived in Taipei via a slow train from Hualien. There, I met up with my awesome host Tzuhsin. She took me to a spot in the city renowned for firefly watching –  Hemeishan (shan in Mandarin means a mountain or hill).  In the darkness, hundreds of tiny specs of light danced in and out of view. It was mesmerizing – I had never seen so many in my life! It was a walk through a fairytale woodland inside of a bustling, modern city.

Taiwan was a great place to ride and in this land of modern conveniences I felt more like a vagabond than anywhere else I have cycled. I especially experienced this that one night camping in the abandoned marketplace. My tent was pitched awkwardly in a corner of this large concrete space, barely obscured in shadow while the city lights flickered all around.  A highway bridge was lit in a gaudy shifting display of colour that danced on my tent.  From the inside it had the appearance of stained glass. Here I was, on the edge of the neon light, caught between worlds. A wilderness shelter in a modern jungle.


Myanmar – The Other Land of Smiles


road worker near Kawkareik, Myanmar


“…that’s how I rate countries – how easy it is to get a smile.”

Chris Hickman, round-the-world cyclist

It is amazing what a single smile can do – that warm, uninhibited, ear-to-ear grin that can be found all over Myanmar. I had experienced a challenging last few months and encounters with the amazing Burmese people was exacted what a needed. The country welcomed me with open arms and helped me to find my way again. While Thailand is also worthy of the title, Myanmar is, without hesitation, a land of smiles.

As a country, Myanmar has gone through serious change in recent years. Until 2010, the country was ruled by a military junta and many areas were off limits to foreigners. That same year, Aung San Suu Kyi, leader of the National League for Democracy was released from house arrest.  Every year, more and more travel restrictions are being lifted and tourists are flocking to the country. The general consensus seems to be that the time to visit Myanmar is now, before it becomes essentially spoiled by tourism.

With the tourism industry still being fairly new in the country, most travellers seem to stick within the “triangle”  of Bagan, Inle Lake and Yangon. With a bicycle, you can ride a mere 5km to get off of the beaten path. But my goal was to really get off of the beaten path. My biggest draw to the country was mountainous, remote and only recently opened to tourists (sort of): Chin State.


Mandalay bicycle


feeling like I do in the heat…


Carving Buddha statues, Mandalay

My ride began in Mandalay, where I would head West into the hills of Chin. I spent a great few days in Mandalay with a wonderful couch surfing host Su Su who took me around the city. The first few days out of the city were flat, moderately busy and of course, quite warm – I was travelling in Myanmar at the hottest time of the year. I was greeted with never-ending smiles, waves and shouts of Min ga la ba! (hello!). At my first lunch stop I came to realize how huge the portions were. I simply said the word ta min (rice) and pointed to some vegetables and out came a table full of different dishes. When I would finish one thing, it would be refilled. All of this cost arounf $1.50.


Lunch for 1!


One of my favourite Burmese dishes – tea leaf salad

The countryside of Myanmar is still very traditional, with ox carts moving up and down the roads and no sign of intrusion from the Western world.



Smart phones, however are in abundance in the country no matter where you set foot. When I would ask to take photos of locals, they  too were keen to use their Samsungs to take photos of me. I enjoyed the reciprocal nature of this. Up until recently, a sim card was only accessible for the very wealthy in Myanmar. An Australian and long time resident of Myanmar in Yangon told me that he paid $6000 for his first sim card. Now, they cost about $2.



The paint on the face is called Thanaka- a paste made from wood bark. It is a traditional make up worn by most women and some men. It also doubles as sun protection.


Nuns on the way to the monastery

In one village I was offered accommodation for the night at a restaurant. It is illegal for locals to host foreigners, but I thought that I would take the chance. About an hour later, the head of the village appeared and informed me that immigration said that I would have to cycle 20km back the way I came to a guesthouse. At first I tried to protest, saying that I was too tired and it would be too dark, but I knew that I had little choice. So I raced back and checked into Pale’s one ramshackle guesthouse.



It had been a few months since I had cycled a proper hill and the ride to Kyaww village was a rude wake up call. About 10km from the village, completely beat and stupefied from the heat, I pulled up to a tiny village in search of a cold drink. Within minutes,  literally half the village came excitedly running over to this tiny shop to check out this stranger on a bicycle.  One very friendly and boisterous woman knew a few of words of English – “Where you come from?” “Very beautiful!” I was feeling quite out of it but got quickly infected by the huge smiles all around and laughter. When there are a lack of words, a good laugh is always a great way to connect. Drinks and snacks were thrusted into my hands and I started to come out of my stupor.


An enthusiastic welcome

When my energy had returned I said goodbye to the enthusiastic villagers and slowly inched up the steep hill towards Kyaww.

I was relieved to finally have reached the village. I was given another warm welcome by some local guys in the military out for a few drinks at my guesthouse restaurant. They were eager to speak to me and practice their English. They said that I was the first foreigner that had ever spoken to. They treated me to some tasty Myanmar dishes and beer.


With my new friends in Kyaww village



Road workers en route to Kyaww


Bird life near Kyaww

I was now getting closer and closer to Chin State and Gangaw was the last major town en route. It was still a bit of a mystery whether or not I was allowed to travel in the area. I had only read a report from one cyclist who had successfully travelled the area in 2014. Until 2013, foreigners required a guide to travel in Chin State. I had read that parts of the area were open, but overall it was still unclear. I decided to take the chance anyway.

I left Gangaw at sunrise the next day, taking a roundabout way out of town to avoid passing the police station in case they questioned my route. When I was clear of the town, I entered another village and hit the start of the dirt track towards Chin State – so far, so good.


The beginning of the dirt road into Chin State


Happy Chin children

The traffic became almost non existent, with the odd motorbike passing, clouding the air with dust. I passed through my first village in Chin State. Buddhist stupas were suddenly  replaced by crosses. The entire state is Christian as a result of missionaries entering the region and spreading the faith. Myanmar as a country is about 80 per cent Buddhist, with a mere 2 per cent practicing Christianity.  I stopped at a small shop and had several cans of my favourite super sweet lychee juice before heading off.


Then, a  girl on a motorbike drove slowly past me “Hello! Are you hungry?”she asked.  I was starving. I followed her to her house where she fed me rice, noodles, fish curry and coffee. She was a pastor at her local church. She tried to speak what English she knew and when she was unsure of a word it was replaced by the greatest laugh. That night, she told me that I could stay in Nabong village, about 20km away with a woman named Nitar that could speak some English.


Village Pastor who invited me into her home for lunch

The road started to climb steadily and the views to the surrounding hills began to open up. The fading light cast a glow on the land, exaggerating its contours.  Finally, I was back in my element. With all of the kind encounters and this new hint of an exciting landscape I was feeling fully energized and back to my old self.


Here come the hills…


The beginning of Nabong village, Chin State




Basket weaving in Nabong village

When I arrived in Nabong I asked for “Nitar.” When I was introduced, it took about 10 minutes of confused looks for me to figure out that I was speaking to the wrong Nitar. Eventually a boy took me to a small shop where he said I could stay the night. The very friendly other Nitar approached me and began to speak English. She had spent two years in India studying the language. I was given a sarong and taken to the back of the shop where I could wash with a bucket. I was fed well and given a place to sleep on the floor.  I eventually fell asleep to the sound Christian sermons in English belting from a CD player. Chin people are very passionate about their faith. I wish I had slept better that night to prepare for the rigours of the next day, which would, in short, kick my ass.


Now, the hills really began to appear. The scenery grew increasingly spectacular as the rough dirt road climbed higher, clinging precariously to the mountainside. Landslides in August of 2015 had caused significant damage to the area and there was a fair amount of road construction as a result. I was often stopped with groups of motorbikes for upwards of 45 minutes while machines repaired the road. The steep grade and the rough surface eventually led to a lot of pushing.

I was starting to truly feel discouraged with my slow pace. When this happens, I  sometimes stop and look towards the mountains to remind myself what I am working for. I pay attention to my breaths, bring out a smile and then it all comes into perspective. It was a spectacular, but very tough ride. Eventually Lohtaw village appeared, cradled by the dramatic green hills.  In my state of fatigue, I knew this was the end of my day – a mere 37km.



Lohtaw village

With a clear lack of flat ground to camp on, I decided to push my luck again to see if I could stay in the village. Because of the police regulations, I never asked outright and would only accept invitations. I went to buy a drink at a tiny shop and the owner put two hands together and made the sleeping gesture. Hoping there were no police around, I accepted. I was fed another massive meal and surrounded by smiling faces all evening. I sat with an older woman for a few moments, watching the sun set over Chin’s dramatic hills through a window. Before bedtime, the family gathered around the TV to watch a music video of a local woman singing Christian songs to the backdrop of the Chin landscape. This became a new type of lullaby that eventually put my tired body to rest.


One of the many churches found in Chin State


It is a common theme on my cycling tour that a tough day is often followed by a better one. While I was getting used to climbing a vertical kilometre, dropping a vertical kilometre and climbing again I had found my rhythm. In Chin State, my plan had been to camp the entire time to avoid attention from the authorities. This proved to be very difficult as finding flat ground seemed close to impossible, unless it was a village.





Since I had been successful for 2 nights staying in towns, I wondered if I would get lucky again.  I passed many run down villages, where aid groups had set up various water pumps and facilities. Chin is the poorest state in Myanmar. Many shy faces peered out to observe this odd foreigner on a bicycle. Some looks were just of pure confusion or shock. Sometimes a slow grin emerged. I eventually rolled into Razua village just as the sun was setting. Arriving at a shop, many excited people ran over saying Min ga la ba!  Immediately I was offered a place to stay behind a shop. Many people came over to help me carry my bags inside. It wasn’t long before I was approached by two men who spoke good English. One of them was the son of the village’s pastor and the other his friend and politician doing inspections of the area. The politician said that I could spend the night with him, but he would have to inform immigration. Shit, I thought. This was probably the end of my ride in Chin State. I left my bike at the shop and put my bags into a van to bring to the pastor’s home. I was given a warm welcome by the pastor and my own room to sleep. The pastor’s son took my passport and went to immigration to inform them of my presence. When he returned, he said everything was fine. I breathed a sigh of relief.

The politician asked me if I would join them for a special dinner. Dog was on the menu. He asked if I would be OK with eating it or if he should prepare something different for me. I am not vegetarian and I didn’t want to inconvenience my kind hosts so I (half-heartedly) agreed. The taste was actually better than expected.

I had some very interesting conversation with the politican and learned about his involvement in the pro-democracy movement in his region. I also learned more about Chin State and the lack of funding from the government. Many people don’t have access to basic health care and because of the remote location there is a lack of transport to get patients to a proper facility. This was a horrible truth that I would witness first hand the following day.

The next morning I was taken out for a tasty breakfast with my hosts. I learned later that sitting at the table next to us were two police officers that wanted to know why a foreigner was in the town. The pastor’s son had offered to drive me (at a cost) to Madupi the next day, 100km away, where there was a guesthouse. After their discussion with the police, this offer now became mandatory – cycling was no longer an option and I would have no choice but to take transport. I was grateful to be in the company of these two very kind men that I believed helped get me out of a tricky situation. Technically you needed a permit to be in this area that I didn’t have.

Before loading the van to go to Madupi, my friends drove me around the town on their motorbikes. We drove and then hiked to a high point where a giant while cross loomed above the village. The views all around were amazing. The pastor’s son pointed to a valley in the distance with a village above. He said that in that area an entirely different language was spoken and in the next valley an entirely different language again. The main Chin language itself is very different from Burmese, using the roman alphabet. We headed backed down the hill and I packed up my bike into the van and we started the trip towards Madupi.

We were stopped many times by construction along the rough, narrow road. After one road block my driver stopped and went towards a crowd of people gathered by the side of the road. He informed me that there was a very sick woman that needed to be transported to Madupi. When we drove in closer I saw that she was on the back of a motorbike, slumped lifelessly onto the driver. Her feet were tied down to prevent her from falling off. We were in a van large enough to transport her,  but due to the lack of ventilation we were unable to take her. We passed her several times along the road, collapsed into someone’s arms, surrounding by a group of people with motorbikes. It was a tragic and eye opening thing to witness. As the politician had explained to me the night before, this was the reality faced by the people of Chin State. With a lack of proper transport and infrastructure for the sick, these people were essentially on their own. It took over 5 hours to cover the 100km to Madupi. The entire time I couldn’t get the image of that poor sick woman out of my head and I felt guilty that we were unable to help her.


At 2500m


Stretching between Madupi and Mindat, the end of my Chin state ride was a rollercoaster of a mountain road – stunning in every sense. With about 100 miles between the two, I knew I would have no choice but to camp, somehow. I didn’t want to be kicked out of a village for a second time.

The road cut through lush cloud forest that morphed into a drier landscape dotted with conifers as I gained elevation. Eventually the road topped out at 2700m.


I passed a few tiny villages where many happy Thanaka painted faces beamed away at me. I was able to camp twice successfully and enjoyed the cooler nights in the tent.


Beginning my ride to Mindat at sunrise

In Mindat I saw English signs again and evidence of tourism. It had been a thrill to ride through such a remote, untouched part of the country. For me, this was the absolute highlight of cycling in Myanmar. Sure, I had pushed the boundaries of the law a little bit – but I was lucky that everything worked out.

From Mindat I had a 2000m descent ahead of me into the sweltering lowlands. Chin State had given me all that I had hoped for and I knew that the road ahead wouldn’t be nearly as thrilling. While the maximum temperature in the hills reached into the high 20s, I would be riding in 35-40 degree heat for the rest of my time in the country.

The heat hung on me like a heavy coat, which made cycling hard work. I would start my rides at 6am, when the temperature had already hit 28 degrees. It would be bearable until about 11am and afterwards became overwhelming. Sugary lychee drinks helped to keep me going. I pushed myself to reached Pauk village, where a local had told me there was a guesthouse. It looked like a decent sized place on my map. When I arrived, I thought that the locals had misunderstood me when I said  “Pauk?” and they nodded. It barely looked like a village, with a few houses along the road. I said the word for “guesthouse” in Burmese and an ethusiastic girl ran to my side and started to walk with me. She took me to a home that didn’t appear to be a guesthouse – rather, just someone’s house. A smiling woman came outside and told me to bring my bike in. When I asked “dal be lout lae” (how much?) She just shook her head – no payment necessary. She was a local teacher with a heart made of pure gold. Her house was largely empty – it had once been a shop, but she had lost everything in a fire. Despite having so little, she refused to accept any type of payment. I was honoured, but slightly skeptical, expecting immigration to show up at any time and kick me out. Instead, the girl that brought me there took me by the hand and we walked over to a family home. There, I was seated at a table on the floor and food, sweets and tea were shoved in my direction. One of the women there got a boy to take down my passport details in a book. This didn’t seem very official, but it didn’t bother me one bit. Next I was taken to the girl’s house where I was able to wash and had my face painted with Thanaka.


Then she took me back to the teacher’s home where I would stay the night. Using a translation app on their phones, the ladies asked me if I wanted to go to a “fun fair” in the town. They each took a hand and I was paraded around the town like a celebrity. We even passed by a row of police that didn’t seem too bothered by the fact that a foreigner was there. First we went to the fair, then the monastery, the local school and then to some friends’ houses. At every location a table was laid out in front of me and loaded up with food – curries, rice, chocolate, candy, fruits – it was overwhelming. Everybody was very excited to have me in their village. That night there was a concert on at the fun fair and I was invited. It was one of the most bizarre performances I have seen in a while – in a “so bad it’s good” type of way. Really, it was like something out of a David Lynch film. Three men heavily made up wearing ridiculous gaudy costumes performed a slow,  uncoordinated dance while singing out of tune. In the background were flashy lights and a row of women in fancy sarongs slowly waving fans back in forth. Some locals were getting rowdy towards the front and a bunch of police descended on them to break up the mayhem. Everytime I saw an officer I avoided eye contact in case they questioned my presence there. When my host saw me yawning, she suggested that we go back to her house. I didn’t object. As entertaining as the show was, I had reached my saturation point for the absurd.

My evening in Pauk was one of the most memorable village stays I have ever had.

My next destination was Bagan, the most famous site in all of Myanmar. I was looking forward to meeting a cyclist friend Dan, the Self Propelling Particle from the UK, whom I had met last August in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan.

Bagan was an ancient kingdom that existed between the 9th and 13th centuries. At its height around 10,000 Buddhist temples were constructed on the plains. Now over 2000 remain. Despite the very touristy nature of the town, it is definitely a place worth seeing. The most impressive part is the sheer scale of the place. In reality, however,  the majority of the day was spent hanging out in air conditioned room, only emerging to watch the sunrise and sunsets over the temples.



Michael, Swiss cyclist


Dan messing around


Sometimes I feel guilty being so lazy, but Dan and our new Swiss cyclist friend Michael were of the same mindset.

On the way out of Bagan I cycled the first 40km with Michael, who was on his way into Chin State.  I was thrilled to run into Ania and Szymon, a Polish couple I had met cycling on the Pamir highway! The cycling touring world is really a small one.


Stopping for a massive lunch with Michael. We simply say “rice, vegetable” and this is what usually comes out…


The shady parts of Route 2

From Bagan, my daily encounters with the wonderful people of Myanmar made up for the hot and dull cycling. Many smiles, along with “minga la ba!” “where are you go?” were the bulk of my daily conversations.  I stopped often for cold drinks and to recover in the shade. I was sometimes given a fly swatter/make shift fan to cool myself off. Sometimes, the locals would even offer to do the fanning for me! Luckily, all along the roads were clay pots filled with cold drinking water, which was a great relief on a hot day.



These clay pots that line the road are filled with cold drinking water for the public

There was a great deal of burning for agricultural purposes taking place, saturating the sky in a thick haze. Most of Route 2 was tree lined, but some exposed sections were hellishly hot. With such a dry, charred landscape burning it had an apocalyptic feel.


A landscape reminiscent of a wasteland…

Time was starting to run out on my visa and I would have no choice but to skip some sections by bus. With temperatures exceeding 40C and the traffic getting increasingly heavy I didn’t hesitate.

In Yangon I reunited with Philip and Victor –  two other cyclists whom I had met in Bangkok. I was also happy to meet Yoli, a solo female cyclist from Spain – only the 6th I had ever met!


Hanging out with cycling friends at Bike World in Yangon


street eats

Street eats in Yangon. Photo credit: Philip Malone

I made a trip with Philip to Aung San Suu Kyi’s house where she had been under arrest for many years. Unfortunately, no bit of persuasion could get us inside, so we took photos by the entrance.


Outside of Aung San Suu Kyi’s house: The logo for National League for Democracy. Photo credit: Philip Malone


In Yangon I also visited one of the ‘must see’ sights – the 99m tall Shwedagon Pagoda. It is made with 27 metric tons of gold leaf and adorned with thousands of diamonds. I was very impressed.

After, I  decided to skip another busy section of road to the border with Thailand at Mae Sot. On the way, I was able to ride a nice, traffic – free road: the old highway from Kawkareik.



A traffic free, hilly and hazy ride from Kawkareik


Reflecting on my ride in the country, I realize that the biggest draw to this place is the interactions with the local people. While the stunning Chin State provided me with first rate adventure cycling, the remainder of my route offered little in terms of scenery.

I will always believe that good humans are everywhere, but there really seems to be an overabundance in Myanmar. Seeing so many smiles on a daily basis is like therapy for the soul. It was something that I really needed and to this amazing country I will be forever grateful.

What’s next?: Currently I am in Chiang Mai, Thailand and will fly to Taipei to spend three weeks cycling around Taiwan.

On Solitude


Mongolia. A land so vast, empty and silent. Where earth joins sky in a endless horizon. Where the only sound to disturb my thoughts is the rhythm of my breathing against the crunching of my tires through forged tracks of sand. These wavering lines stretch endlessly in front of me, swerving in unknown directions towards an indefinite goal lost in the steppe.

It is a cold morning in May and I am loading the last of my panniers onto the bike before continuing towards the salt lake of Khyargas Nuur. The early morning sun starts to reveal itself, creating a play of shadows and colour across the landscape. It will be three days before I see any real human settlement. My main company are a large heard of goats and sheep strewn across the steppe. The odd time I encounter local men in traditional robes on horseback or motorbikes, who stop for a brief chat that is mainly carried out through hand gestures. Riding a bicycle through Mongolia can be a lonely existence. But this feeling of loneliness is not detrimental to my state of mind. Instead, I feel a powerful and spiritual connection to the land. With so much silence and so much space, it allows for a pure, uncluttered mind.

I am often asked why I have made the decision to cycle solo. When you are solo, I believe that travel becomes more challenging, more raw, more real. Without someone by your side to provide a sense of familiarity you are forced to give yourself 100% to the the unknown. In this way, I believe that deeper connections are made with the local people, even without a common language. But one of the biggest myths of female solo travel is that is simply isn’t safe.

In many places of the world, a solo female is often seen as vulnerable and this way more people want to be there to shelter and protect you. In Mongolia I was often invited into yurts because the locals feared that my tent and my clothing wouldn’t be warm enough. In Pakistan I was taken into a family home as a stranger and within minutes I became a “daughter.” And in Tajikistan I was fed and given endless cups of tea to comfort on a cold night. For me, safety was never a large concern with my decision to travel alone. On the road, I have encountered a much more powerful demon – loneliness. Not the elevated kind that I experienced in Mongolia. Sometimes you meet people on the road that you develop strong connections with. These encounters are fleeting, leaving you satisfied or creating a longing that you hadn’t felt before. It is then that I start to feel real, unwanted loneliness.

I can remember one beautiful, crisp day riding the rough sandy road of the Wakhan Valley in Tajikistan. I was tracing the outline of the Pyanj river and on the other side was Afghanistan and the towering, spectacular Hindu Kush. For me, this was adventure cycling at its best – it had everything that I wanted to experience. But my mind was as far away from the present as it could possibly be. I had met someone months ago, when I had least expected it. When I was reminded of the beauty and warmth of companionship, I suddenly struggled to be alone. It really started to hit me in Tajikistan – and I loved and hated him for it.

That night, in a low state of mind, I started to search for a homestay or a place to pitch my tent. I pushed my bike down a small dirt track and saw a woman standing outside a square block Tajik style home. I approached her, making the gesture for “tent”. With a warm smile, she beckoned me into her home and pointed to a room where I could stay. After unloading my stuff she took me into the main living room and sat me down on a mat in front of a table. She then took off her jacket, put it over my shoulders and propped up some pillows behind my back. Next came bread, butter and a pot of steaming hot green tea. Even though we couldn’t communicate through words, there was something deeper. This woman brought me more comfort than she will probably ever know.

While I didn’t speak Russian, she continued to talk to me as if I were fluent. For most of the night, she didn’t leave my side and I was warm and fed. Soon I met her husband and little boys. They put on some traditional Tajik music and started to casually dance. This was a family that had so little and was willing to give so much to a total stranger. Without a common language, it is difficult to make deep connections with someone, which leaves you longing for familiarity. But that night, in that little home in the Wakhan Valley, I was reminded of the beauty of travelling on my own. I temporarily felt like a part of that family as I gave as much of myself as I could to this new and strange world. At that moment, I no longer felt alone.

Loneliness is a being that lives inside all of us, suppressed by the noise around, waiting to be woken in the silence. When you give into this silence, immersed in your own thoughts, you really begin to discover your true self. For me, meditation is riding my bicycle along a deserted road through the mountains, through only space with not a soul in sight. I am happy, at peace. But then more serious thoughts begin to emerge – how long can I continue this life on my own? Will I ever meet another to share it with? These are questions that have no immediate answer. So I ride on, and let these thoughts temporarily escape from my mind, throwing themselves into wind that pushes my wheels forward.

Greek Highs and Lows

The sight of the Acropolis of Athens can re-ignite the wanderlust in even the most jaded of travellers. The ancient citadel dates back to the 5th Century BC and was Pericles that coordinated the construction. Perched high above the city, it exudes a powerful presence that has carried through the ages.  The sheer size of the columns of the Parthenon and the remarkable detail are a wonder to behold. Unfortunately much of it is now covered in scaffolding for restoration purposes.


My favourite was the temple of Athena Nike – a beautiful and ornate building to honour the Greek Goddess.


The Temple of Athena Nike




View of Athens from the Acropolis 

While in Athens, I also visited the Archaeological Museum which had some incredible sculptures. My favourite was a depiction of the Goddess Aphrodite trying to ward off some annoying advances from Pan. A late night bar scene in Greek mythology.

After I finished being a tourist in Athens, the next destination was the island of Crete, where I had planned to cycle for a few weeks.


The classic Greek salad

I arrived in Athens by air from Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan to escape the winter. It was a strange feeling entering such a developed society when I had spent so much time riding the wild lands of Mongolia, the Himalaya and Central Asia. While I enjoyed the beauty of Greece, the delicious yogurt and fresh produce I somehow felt disconnected a lot of my time in the country. While the people were friendly, they lacked the openness and outgoing nature of those in the countries I had previously cycled. While I was invited daily into yurts in Mongolia, had countless offers of chai in China and Central Asia and was given enthusiastic waves and smiles I was seldom acknowledged as I rolled through the villages of Crete. I am not trying to paint a negative image of the people of Greece – it was just different. 

I was in a new world and it wasn’t something that I adapted to easily. I experienced periods of loneliness on Crete that I hadn’t felt before. My moods rose and fell with the hills that seemed to cover every inch of that island.

After nine hours, I rolled off the ferry from Piraeus and into the town of Xania, famous for it’s old Venetian style harbour.

The one advantage of cycling Crete in November is the complete lack of tourists. Areas that would normally be bursting with crowds, suddenly turned into ghost towns. One of the highlights of Xania was trying some bougatsa, a delicious phyllo pastry stuffed with soft cheese and coated in icing sugar. It was divine.


The incredibly delicious bougatsa!

Leaving Xania, I headed inland for the mountains. I had met some travellers in Xania that told me about the Balos Lagoon on the very Northwest of the Island accessed via a dirt road. I arrived late in the day and hiked down to the lookout point. It was a gorgeous sight with its shifting palette of dark blue and turquoise.


As the sun started to set, I descended the bumpy dirt road in search of somewhere to camp. I would soon to discover how easy it was to wild camp on the island. My campsite that night was one of my favourites on the island. I dragged my bike off of the dirt road and pitched my tent beneath a tiny church near the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean.



Curious neighbours

While I am not a beach person, I wanted to check out the remote Elafonissi on the Southwest of the Island, famous for its pinkish sand and stunning scenery. I basically crossed a small mountain range to get there before once again descending to the coast. Tiny churches are a common sight on Crete acting as shelter or convenient lunch stops.




Elanfonissi was deserted with only a few camper vans parked near the beach. Though I didn’t particularly notice the pinkish colour, the sand was pure and compact, covered in footprints and wavering trails. With no one in sight on the beach, these seemed like the marks of ghosts. With its remote feel and colourful surroundings this place held an aura of magic.

Climbing away from the coast once again into the heavy, humid air I headed toward the mountain village of Omalos. I passed through many small villages and it felt like almost every inch that I was riding was uphill. The villages felt deserted, with only a few restaurants open to tourists.

The main life in the towns were locals sitting outside at cafes drinking coffee, staring out into an eternal afternoon. Little old ladies dressed in black from head to toe crept out from pure white doorways. I even saw a few old men riding donkeys into town. Sometimes it felt like a step back in time. But the silence and lack of acknowledgment between myself and the locals sometimes made for a lonely ride. It was just me and the hills that consumed my empty thoughts. As I gained elevation towards Omalos the air turned from heavy and humid to cool and crisp.


I passed towering windmills and coniferous forest that reminded me a bit of home in Canada. Omalos is situated on a plateau and is the jump off point for a hike through the famous Samaria Gorge. At 18km it is one of the longest in Europe. Unfortunately the trail was closed for the season, but I cycled to the trailhead to get a glimpse.


And afterwards found an interesting campsite…


I decided to get my hiking fix in the Imbros Gorge, near to the beach town of Hora Sfakion. It is about half the length of the Samaria Gorge at 8km long.

My route descended along small, quiet roads lined with orange groves. I helped myself generously along the way. Little discoveries like this are heaven for a cyclist on a hot day.

Then, once again, unsurprisingly I was going uphill. Relentlessly. This is life cycling around Crete. I crossed over the White Mountains, where the weather had started to turn foul.



It’s not a flat island…

After spending the night in touristy Hora Sfakion, I took a bus to the trailhead of the Imbros Gorge. Like everywhere else on the island in the low season, the trail was deserted. I enjoyed a silent walk through the gorge with its vertical walls soaring up to 300m high. The Gorge is a mere 2m at its narrowest point. My only company were a couple of curious goats that stared down at me from the walls above.

After leaving Imbros, my enthusiasm on the road started to wither. The constant climbing felt like a monotonous, unwelcome challenge and one village seemed to blend into another. There was one day when I hit a particularly low point. It was hard to conceive of being in such a state of mind at the time. I found a beautiful, isolated little beach at the base of stunning cliffs in the background.



Sometimes, this needs to happen…


It was really such a peaceful setting, but the pangs of loneliness that I felt were blocking any sense of appreciation for the place. Was I simply feeling jaded and needed a break? or was I suddenly struggling with being alone and in need of companionship? It was hard to find the real answer. Then, that night, comfort appeared when I most needed it. I heard “meow meow” outside of my tent and I zipped open my door. In crawled my little orange friend. He made himself comfortable in my sleeping bag and stayed there the entire night. I simply called him “tent kitty.”


Me and tent kitty – a new and welcome friend


Tent kitty became so attached that it was even a struggle to get him out of the tent the next morning. I waved goodbye to my attention-seeking little cat – the best friend that I made on Crete.


Now it was time to cross the mountains again, back towards the North coast of the Island to the most populous city, Heraklion, where I would take a ferry back to Piraeus.


A brief stint of off roading


Perfect cumulus clouds near Hora Sfakion


Once again, heading North into the hills

On my second last day of cycling I barely escaped a rain storm with ferociously high winds. I sought shelter it a small church near the side of the road. These tiny, whitewashed places of worship covered the island and provided a good option for camping.


Shelter for the night



As you can see, it gets fairly windy here!

When I got to Heraklion, I was relieved. Crete is truly a beautiful island, but I was mentally and physically burnt out and ready for a rest.

When I got back to Athens, I prepared myself for the next stage of my trip – a bit of a non-cycling interlude. I headed to the tiny island of Paros to trying WWOOFing for the first time. WWOOF (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms) gives travelers the chance to really experience local life. In exchange for room and board you can work on an organic farm doing a variety of tasks. A couple I had met cycling on a tandem from England had worked at this particular place on Paros and raved about their experience. With their connection I decided to try it for myself. Before I left for Paros I stayed with a few Warm Showers hosts – Charlotte, a journalist from France (for the 2nd visit) and Steve, a chef from the UK that is planning on starting his own bicycle touring company in Greece.

I accompanied Steve for a Monday night ride around Athens which usually draws about 80 cyclists. The turn out was less this time because it was too “cold” (about 11 degrees).  I looked around at the sea of light weight and fancy road bikes surrounding me. My bike was a transport truck amongst race cars. It was great to be able to ride an unloaded bike at a fast past pace with a large group. It was something I hadn’t done in a long time and made me miss the long distance club rides I used to do at home in Canada.

The next day I hopped a ferry for the four hour journey to Paros, where I would meet my WWOOFing hosts.


Sunset on Paros

I soon turned up at the stunning of house of Jim, originally from the UK and Irini from Greece, The place was surrounded by wonderful gardens with a view down to the ocean over the hills. I took on a variety of tasks from fixing a compost to digging holes for planting trees and what I became best at – destroying thorn bush.


Hard at work on Paros

It was a great experience to work in such a tranquil and beautiful setting and to get a glimpse into the lives of locals along with their 5 cats and 3 dogs.


Mississippi welcoming me to Paros

I was also in the company of other WWOOFers and was even given the chance to hang with fellow Canadians Jill and Matt, from the remote community of Powell River, British Columbia. It was good to hear a Canadian accent again and tell Canadian jokes and make reference to very Canadian things (like using the word ‘toque’ which is a warm winter hat, like a beanie). On our days off, we visited the beautiful mountain village of Léfkes and walked the 1000-year-old Byzantine trail and a few kilometres later ended up in the traditional village of Pródromos.


Flowers on the Byzantine trail


Jill and Matt walking the Byzantine Trail

For me this was the quintessential Greek village. Completely awash in blinding white it was a maze of narrow cobblestone alleys. Colourful, exotic flowers spilled over window sills and were an inviting contrast to the sea of white.



A few days later, I returned to Athens once again to prepare for the next stage of my cycling journey.

In Greece, the most tame of the countries I had visited, I experienced more highs and lows than anywhere else on the trip so far. While a cycle tour is often regarded as a feat of physical endurance, it is important not to underestimate the mental struggles that can accompany it. Greece is a beautiful country, but for me, cycling wise it lacked the adventurous element that has drawn me to the more wild places of Asia. After Greece, my plan was to ride the African continent from Cairo to Cape Town, But security concerns in Egypt left me hesistant. I also hit a bump in the road, encountering sickness and unexpected heartbreak. At this point, it didn’t feel right for me to go, so I have changed my plans. I will ride Cairo to Capetown one day, but in my heart, now doesn’t feel like the right time.

So what is the plan? I am currently in my hometown of Toronto, Canada where I am spending a month to get mentally and physically back on track. Then I am making my way to Myanmar where I will cycle towards Thailand and then possibly a flight to Taiwan. After exploring the island I will reunite with the world’s great tandem couple Marcus and Kirsty in Korea before heading to Japan. Following that, a break in Australia to work and ride. And after? Who knows, but the Andes are calling to me…

Home at the End of the World: Murghab to Osh (the end of Asia)

I had forgotten what it was like to cycle fast, to not hear the constant rattling of my bike beneath me. The 100km from Alichur to Murghab was effortless thanks to an intense tailwind wind that sent me flying with an icy chill at my back. The Pamir plateau has lost its colour and dry brown hills and plains dominated the landscape. After a small climb, I was racing downhill for about 35km to Murghab. On the way, I passed one small house with a Kyrgyz yurt – a year round homestay. I enjoyed the final 5km to Murghab – the piercing blue river snaked in many directions across a cream -coloured plain dotted with ruins of old homes. I loved the smooth contours of the surrounding mountains defined by the shifting shadows.


Approaching Murghab

I came to another police checkpoint below the town. I waited a few minutes, nobody came out and I slowly started to ride past. Then, a man jumped out and told me to stop. Inside I got the usual line of questioning, kids, husband etc. and they asked why I hadn’t stopped right away. I could tell they were trying to fish for bribe. I played the stupid tourist just repeatedly saying that I didn’t speak Russian. Eventually they got bored of my company and let me go.



Even though Murghab was decently larger than Alichur, it felt equally desolate. I headed for the Erali Guesthouse that was recommended by my cycling friends Marianne and Heidi. As I pushed my bike up the steep hill, huffing and puffing, a very tiny older woman came out to try and help. This was the lovely “Mama Erali” one of the owners of the guesthouse. By the door there was a girl that looked around my age.

“Are you Phoebe?” I asked.

“Yeah, how did you know?”


Phoebe, Malaysian solo cyclist

I had heard about a solo Malaysian cyclist named Phoebe that left Dushanbe a few days before I did, taking the same route. Since us solo women cyclists are such a rare breed it was nice to finally meet another. I have only met five in total. Then, Phoebe informed that there was one other German cyclist named Anne staying at the Guesthouse. This was a rare and special meeting – the only guests at Erali that night were three solo women cyclists. Phoebe left Finland 15 months ago to cycle to Singapore  and Anne started her journey in Kyrgyzstan to head West along the silk routes of Central Asia .


Anne from Germany

I really enjoyed their company and the chance to have some girly conversation.

I was exhausted when I arrived in Murghab and I have planned to do next to nothing in the next two days. I did get a chance to check out the town’s very strange bazaar, with shipping containers used for shops. On offer was loads of candy, cheap clothing and some of the saddest looking produce I’ve seen.


Inside Murghab’s strange bazaar


Anne and Phoebe both left after my first night in Murghab, but the next few nights brought more interesting visitors. First, I met a friendly vegan Swiss cyclist (apologize if you are reading this because I forgot your name!) and the following night a man from Seattle, Washington that was living his childhood dream of exploring the Pamirs for a week by car.

I encountered disaster on my planned final night in Murghab after eating a meal that made me sprint outside into the frigid night and throw up all over the steps. Cycling was off for the next day. I was warned about food poisoning in Tajikistan and I had managed to evade it until now. I really though that five weeks in India would have sufficiently toughened up my stomach.

With my extra day off I ended up meeting an energetic and hilarious Slovenian couple -Renata and Matjaž that were driving across Tajikstan in their own 4WD from home, headed towards Uzbekistan. They had done countless road trips together in some of the most remote areas of Asia and Africa.


Renata and Matjaž posing with the sweet Mama Erali

By now, my bout of stomach sickness seemed to have passed and I was ready to hit the road again.

I was headed towards the highest point of my Pamir ride, the 4655m Ak Baital pass. With the temperatures dropping rapidly I feared that I would hit snow at that altitude. The daytime temperatures remained quite pleasant for cycling, but the nights had grown too cold for camping. At this point I would try to avoid it if possible.


A sure sign that winter is coming

The road started to gently ascend from Murghab, taking me past rivers that were now coated in ice. I passed an army vehicle with a couple of men standing around. “Chai! chai!” they said, and I decided to stop. I guess “chai” could take on many meanings, because I was handed not a cup of tea, but a stiff drink of vodka. Why not? I figured – it could add some amusement to the climb. By the 3rd cup though, I had to decline, if I wanted to not end up in a ditch 100m down the road.

They also shared some bread and salami with me before quickly seeking shelter in the vehicle out of the cold. I asked them how far it was to the pass and they said 20km. 20km – “nothing!” I thought.


Angry skies on the climb up to the Ak Baital pass


For the first time since Dushanbe, about three weeks ago, I had a headwind. I was over confident that I could reach the pass in the same day without a huge amount of effort. Fatigue started to set in. Dark clouds swirled ahead and I worried about being caught in bad weather on the pass.  I was told that the stretch from Murghab was quite remote and the chances of being able to hitch a ride if necessary were very slim. About 5km from the top, the road become rougher and steeper. While I had wanted to camp on the other side, my numb fingers and toes started to persuade me otherwise. I passed a sign with Ak Baital 4655 written in cyrillic. It was an odd place to put the sign because it was still a few steep kilometres to the top!

After the sign there was a small house. I was absolutely freezing and decided to take my chances to see if the locals could provide me with shelter for the night. At first I asked about pitching my tent beside their house and to my relief, they invited me inside.

The residents were a husband and wife with three small boys. It really felt like a home at the end of the world. To live in such isolation, in a harsh landscape at 4400m takes a level of resilience that few of us could ever understand.


My kind hosts that gave me food and shelter at 4400m

The wood stove inside turned the tiny abode into a sauna. I was happy to feel warm and protected from the harsh weather outside. I shared what I could with the family – some onions and bread that I had bought in Murghab. We had chai and dinner together, while they little boys chased one another around the room and would occasionally stop to stare at the strange foreigner. Later on, we watched a cheesy Russian action movie where the language barrier was broken for me by acts of physical comedy. In these moments we would laugh together. I was completely exhausted and fell asleep early under the heavy blankets that they laid out for me. I was awoken by the father’s morning prayers when the sun started to rise. Out the window I could see a light dusting of snow on the ground.


The home at the end of the world



Final climb to the Ak Baital pass

I thanked the family and started the final climb to the pass. The road was quite steep in parts, sometimes forcing me to push the bike for short stretches. The mountains were lightly dusted in snow highlighting the hues of pink and orange. Soon, I got to highest point that I would reach in the Pamirs. Then it was time for some tripod and self-timer action.

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On top of the Ak Baital pass, 4655m


Making it seem like I was more energetic than I was…


On the descent from the Ak Baital. I was almost too cold to stop and take this photo.

_DSF4339 _DSF4342I piled on every layer I had, feeling liked a puffed Marshmallow. Despite wearing enormous and thick lobster style mitts, my hands still froze. I was treated to about 15km of brain-numbing washboard at the bottom before hitting smooth tarmac that carried me all the way to the stunning lake Karakul. Karakul is a popular place name in Central Asia. Karakul Lake simply means “black lake.” I don’t fully understand why this particular lake was given such a name because of its brilliant blue colour.


Karakul Lake

A sliver of bright blue appeared in the horizon and I could see that I was approaching Karakul.

Its shimmering shore reached closer and closer to the road and behind it was a backdrop of dramatic snow-capped peaks. I have been blessed to have seen many wonderful high altitude lakes on this trip and this was one of the most beautiful. If it wasn’t so cold it would have made for some wonderful camping.

I entered the tiny village of Karakul built right next to the lake.


Homes in the village of Karakul

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I followed the first sign for “homestay” down a small dirt path. I waited around for the owners to arrive, but I was told eventually that they were away in Osh and I was taken to another homestay “Aigerim.” I was greeted by a friendly woman who could speak a little bit of English. I put my bike in their garage and carried my bags into the main guest area with cushions around a table and wood stove burning. I was feeling very tired and ended up passing out with blankets around me beside the table.

Later, my hosts came in and I heard in my groggy state that another tourist had arrived. In walked Gordon, a motorcyclist from the UK. He was surprised to see me when I suddenly woke up, still half asleep and said hello. We started chatting and didn’t really stop for the next few hours. To say Gordon was passionate about motorcycles was an understatement. He has built a career out of it – writing for various publications about his trips on vintage motorbikes and acting as a representative for brands such as India’s Royal Enfield (originally from the UK). On this trip he was riding to Vietnam on a 1941 Matchless. With the current temperatures, the motorbike required a fair bit of daily maintenance just to keep it on the road.


Gordon on his 1941 Matchless

My plans to leave the next day were once again thwarted by some suspect buttered potatoes. It was devastating when I was served the exact same thing for dinner the following night, which I avoided at all costs.

The next day I would leave Tajikistan via the 4280m Kizil Art Pass.


Evening view of the mountains from Karakul

The sight that greeted me the next morning was concerning. The mountains in the distance were completely covered in snow, the sky thick with grey cloud.


A beautiful but clear warning sign of the difficulties to come

For a moment, I thought twice about leaving, but didn’t fancy spending another night in Karakul or eating more buttered potatoes. I started the climb towards the Uy Bulak pass at 4232m. Since I was already close to 4000m at Karakul, I didn’t expect it would be too much effort and it was less than 60k to the border. I had heard about a teahouse on the other side of the Kizil Art Pass where cyclists could seek shelter if they needed it. I knew that I had to reach this house to avoid a frigid night of camping at a high altitude.

The closer I got to the pass, the more the skies darkened and suddenly I saw light flurries of snow. This is when I thought about turning back. I knew that I had a very remote stretch ahead and if I got stuck in bad weather I may not see another vehicle to hitch a ride with. I decided to keep moving forward and take the risk. Once I got over the pass, the wind picked up and the snow got heavier and heavier. Wearing all of my layers, I still became numb with cold. Tapping into basic survival knowledge, I knew that the only way to attempt to stay warm was to keep moving.

The landscape was very exposed and there was no where to seek shelter. By now the visibility had greatly reduced as the strong winds whipped snow in every direction. I pedalled on at a crawl, feeling myself curl into a little frozen cocoon. Then, through squinted eyes I saw a jeep drive beside me and pull over in front. When I thought I wouldn’t see a vehicle all day, it was a surreal moment.



The vehicle had a roof rack for the bike and an empty front seat. In the back was an old woman and a very young girl. The driver rushed to help me with my bags and put my bike on the roof. For a bit of money, the guy would take me to Sary Tash, the first town across the border in Kyrgyzstan. By now the road was completely snow covered and the wind was trying to push the vehicle sideways. The snow got deeper climbing up the pass. Luckily I never had to leave the vehicle the entire ride – the driver took care of the border formalities while I tried to get warm again. Once over the Kizil Art Pass, we descended into a winter wonderland with the 4WD van sliding all over the road. I could see an approaching truck doing the same.


Not ideal cycling weather – even the 4WD vehicles were struggling.

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The house that I had originally planned to make it to that day.

When we arrived in Sary Tash I requested that the driver take me to the pink hotel across from the gas station that I had heard about. When I arrived, I saw Gordon again, the motorcyclists I had met in Karakul. I was certainly the last person he had expected to see!

I only had two days left to Osh and a 2200m drop in elevation to look forward to. Sary Tash was still cold when I left, the heavy cloud obscuring the mountain views to the south. Before I could begin descending to Osh, I had a double headed pass to cross out of Sary Tash that peaked at 3600m. I climbed the snow-covered pass at a decent pace as luckily the road was clear. I was rewarded with a stunning view at the top.


Starting the freezing descent from 3500m

The descent was frigid, and I had to stop fairly often to warm my hands and run around to get the blood flowing to my feet. I found a restaurant in a small village close to the bottom of the pass and spent the next hour in a restaurant trying to warm up. After that, the road just kept going down and down and down. I descended from a frozen landscape to fall colours and sunny skies. I went from five layers of clothing to a long-sleeved shirt. I was elated and just couldn’t stop smiling. I passed some incredible coloured mountains that looked like they were straight out of a painting.

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I passed a couple from the UK just beginning their Pamir ride in the opposite direction. I warned them of the snowy conditions ahead.

I camped by the river that night, something I hadn’t done in a while now because of the freezing weather.


My last campsite before Osh


Now, only one big climb to go before Osh. I was sweating heading up the final pass that was just over 2500m. On the way up I met a solo cyclist from the UK. He had a unique approach to his trips. While many round-the-world cyclists would make their route in one extended trip, this guy would pedal his line in short chunks. He had started from UK some years ago, would ride eastward for a few weeks and then start exactly where he had left off the following year.


Kyrgyz homes in the hills on the way up the pass

I eventually reached the top, where I was greeted by a group of excited locals that wanted their photo taken with me. Fun moments feeling like a minor celebrity.


Five minutes of fame in Kyrgyzstan

The 60km downhill to Osh wasn’t as swift as I had wanted, due to a powerful sidewind. But the closer I got, the faster the ride became. It was crazy to now be below 900m above sea level when two days ago I was freezing over 3000m.

I found the Tes Guesthouse and pitched my tent in the garden. There I found Phoebe, that had her own struggles in the snow on the Kyrgyz side. A day later I met Jochen, a German cyclist that I met on the Northern route in Tajikistan just before Khorog. He had been on the road for about 3 years and has covered around 60,000km. Jochen was headed to China and Phoebe would attempt the snowy backroads to BIshkek. My original plan was to ride all the way to Bishkek, but then I got word from my Vespa travelling friend Emma that she had been robbed in Bishkek and was stuck there longer than planned. She was flying back to the UK in five days to get a new passport. I was tired, wanting to see my friend again and not into dealing with more snowbound passes. So I took a shared taxi to Bishkek. Osh was the end of the line for my 2015 Asia tour.

I spent my last few weeks in Kyrgyzstan relaxing and recovering in Bishkek. I felt so incredibly lucky to experience what I have on this journey across Asia’s silk routes. On May 7th I started my ride crossing Mongolia’s sandtracks. revelling in the country’s vastness and isolation. Then, I crossed the barren, scorching desert of Xinjiang, China. From here I chased the mountains into the paradise of Pakistan’s Karakoram Highway, the sublime and surreal Indian Himalaya and the Pamirs of Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan. All the way, I followed Marco Polo’s ghost. The beauty of landscapes was equalled with its incredible people. Throughout the journey, I have been continually humbled by the amount of kindness I have been shown by total strangers.

And now, what’s next? Leaving Marco Polo’s trails I will fly to Greece, for a two week ride around Crete. Next I will do some WWOOFing for the first time on the island of Paros. In mid-January I will begin the next chapter of my journey in Africa with a flight to Cairo, Egypt to begin the ride south to Capetown, South Africa.

photo montage

Sand, Smiles and Solitude: A Journey Through the Wakhan Valley


Leaving Khorog

I was very happy to hear that my friends Marianne and Heidi had decided to join me for a day of riding before returning to Khorog to start their journey back home to Denmark. We were entering the fabled Wakhan Valley,  where I would trace the border of Afghanistan that lay on the other side on the Panj river. We pedalled along the weaving road, with dramatic brown cliffs rising on either side of us.


Marianne and Heidi entering the Wakhan Corridor

The children were even more enthusiastic in this area – they repeated “hello! hello! what is your name?” with more fervour than usual, while laughing and chasing the bikes.


“hello! hello!”

Early in the day we ran into a lovely Polish couple Marta and David that Marianne and Heidi had cycled with earlier. They had a unique set up with Dawid carrying most of the load at 65kg.


Cyclist hang out: From left, Dawid, Marianne, Heidi and Marta


I complain about my heavy load at 35kg…this guy had 65!

Marianne, Heidi and I stopped for lunch just by the river’s edge below the road eating sweet buns with spreadable cheese. A group  of school children stopped above to wave and stare at us. One little girl had a bag with her and motioned for us to come up. I went towards her and she handed me a large bag of apples with a smile. I happily took it, not knowing exactly how we would carry 10 apples with us. Further down the road we whizzed past a house and suddenly I heard “chai!” The girls did not hear the man so I called out to them “hey guys! chai! chai!” We were in no massive rush, so we decided to take up the offer of hospitality. We were led through a small gate to a sitting area near the back of the house. There sat an older woman with a very young child in her arms and a couple of men. We sat on the cushions surrounding a table and were given amazingly fresh bread, tea and tasty soup with mutton, potato and chives.


Relaxing and enjoying hospitality in the Wakhan. In Danish it is “hygge”


Our generous hosts seeing us off

As usual we did our best to communicate through gestures and the few words in Russian that we knew. “Harasho!” was one that was used often, meaning “very good!” We were given yet another bunch of apples to take with us. We didn’t have the heart to say no, so now we probably had about 20 between the three of us! This was just the start of the incredible Wakhan hospitality.


At the police checkpoint. Marianne made this little boy very happy by blowing up a balloon for him.

We continued to enjoy the ride, eventually coming up to a police checkpoint. Luckily this was quicker than rest and I wasn’t pestered with questions about my missing husband and children.

We had only planned to ride about 50km that day and we soon started to look for a place to camp. We thought it might be a good idea to ask permission to camp in front of a house.  Marianne approached a woman working in her yard to ask. We were welcome. Later, the man of the house brought us out some fresh nan (bread), a big thermos of tea and another bag of apples! Humbled by their generosity, we graciously accepted. The stars were mind-blowing that night. It was great to sit outside with my friends to appreciate the beauty together. Sometimes life’s greatest moments are best shared.


Goodbye to my Danish sisters. A sad morning.

We had a tearful goodbye the next morning as Marianne and Heidi had to return to Khorog, where they would catch a jeep  to Dushanbe and fly home to Denmark. It was unfortunate that Central Asian bureaucratic nonsense had stopped us from riding the Pamirs together. Still, I was grateful that we were able to meet one another for a few very enjoyable days.

It is always strange to suddenly be alone again after being in such good company. I don’t experience loneliness until I am occasionally reminded of the joys of being with friends and sharing the experience. My mood lifted as the narrow corridor along the river started to open up. The views revealed snow capped mountains- Afghanistan’s Hindu Kush reflected in glistening blue waters. Populars lining the road showcased their brilliant fall colours.


Brilliant fall colour in the Wakhan


Afghanistan’s Hindu Kush

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I had a tailwind and the air was cool and crisp – the perfect temperature. This was blissful cycling. Even though the riding was wonderful, I could really feel the fatigue setting in at the end of the day. The constant “hello! hello!” from the kids had also started to get on my nerves. I camped at a lovely homestay in Ishkashim and had a massive meal of plov, a typical Central Asian dish. This was rice cooked in fat with carrot and onion, topped by a few chunks of mutton. By now I was also drinking copious of the local green tea and it was some of the tastiest I’ve had.

I was told by other cyclists to stock up on supplies in Ishkashim as food would become more limited further down the road. As my Snickers supply was running dangerously low, I figured this would be wise.

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The ride only got more and more beautiful. Sometimes I would stop just to try and process what I was seeing, locking it into my memory. I was given many enthusiastic waves, including the Muslim greeting of “Asalemu Laykum!” and asked “akuda?” (“where are you from?”) In the small village of Darshai I was approached by a girl that spoke good English. She invited me in for chai and asked if I was looking for somewhere to stay the night. It was still fairly early in the day, but I got tempted in by the cozy home and decided to stop for the night. I enjoyed talking to the girl who had gone to University in Khorog to learn English. Then, I met her wonderful sister that had an adorable little boy named Yusuf. Even without a common language, the two of us really connected. When I met people like her, I wished that we could communicate on a deeper level.  She had an infectious smile and I loved her friendly and outgoing personality. She was my age, 29.  She ended up giving me a pretty beaded bracelet that I still wear to remind me of our meeting. In my travels, I have met so many wonderful people, but there are a certain few that stand out the most in my memory and she is one of them.

From here, the decent roads started to become a distant memory. Enormous potholes, washboard and rock became more common. It was exhausting on the roller coaster road. I was steadily climbing in elevation and the landscape drier and more barren.



Entering a Wakhan Village



Typical Tajik home in Zong

I had planned to stopped in Zong at a small homestay but the owners seemed pretty disinterested in my request to stay. I decided to ride the next few kilometres towards Langar, before I saw another “homestay” sign. I turned down a rocky side street and went to the first home that I saw, asking about a homestay. The woman pointed down the road, but offered that I stay with her instead. I was in a strange mood that night. I was feeling melancholy for a reason that I couldn’t really understand. Maybe it was a combination of fatigue and the lack of a common language that was suddenly making feel distant, lonely. As usual, I was shown such kindness by a total stranger and this brought me comfort. She took me into the main room covered in elaborate carpet on the walls and floor that was customary of a Tajik home. She sat me down,brought me tea and then some pillows to prop up behind my back. Later she wrapped a jacket around me to make sure that I wasn’t cold. Next came bread and the amazing homemade butter that I couldn’t get enough of. When she asked me if I spoke Russian I replied “choot choot” (very little). Despite this she spoke to me in Russian throughout the night, assuming I could understand. Even though I would give her a confused look, she would smile and continue to talk. Later I met her kind husband, who put on some Pamiri music for me to listen to. For fun he showed me some of the dance moves.  It was the same that I had seen at a birthday party in Khorog.  My strange mood was starting to lift all thanks to the company of my new Tajik family for the night.

When I reached Langar I had hoped to buy a few supplies to last the next few days. To my disappointment I only found one tiny shop after asking around for its location. The dusty shelves were barren, only stocking cookies, candy, sugary juice and noodles. I didn’t know how I would make it through without my beloved Snickers.


On the sandy climb out of Langar

On the climb out of Langar, I was in dire need of a sugar boost. The road climbed in steep switchbacks out of the village, turning into a rocky sandpit. An enthusiastic boy from the village found me and offered to help me push. He helped me heave the bike for about 100m. In the end he reached his hand out. I can imagine he tried to turn his services into a full time job for passing touring cyclists. I handed him a 3 somoni note (about 50 cents) and he was very happy. Then he gave me a handful of dried tamarinds and waved goodbye, jogging down the road.

I attempt to cycle up the steep road, but the sand became too deep and I was back to pushing. It was a hard, slow climb. I felt like I was now getting into true isolation.

The only vehicle I saw all day was a Romanian motorcyclist, who was just as surprised to see me.


Romanian round-the-world motorcyclist I met on the lonely road out of Langar

It was nice to have a real conversation in English again! He told me that scenery ahead was quite something, which gave me motivation to keep pedalling in my state of exhaustion. I was climbing above 3000m now. I wasn’t having problems with altitude sickness because I was still acclimatized from my ride in the India Himalaya. Still, the lack of oxygen and the steep rough roads were completely draining my energy. The route was superbly remote. And the views – jaw-dropping.

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I camped just below the road beside a river at 3600m. The cold was starting to set in at night. I was climbing high onto the Pamir plateau, leaving the warmth of the Wakhan Valley. Even though the weather was superbly clear, fall was disappearing fast and winter was sneaking its way in.

The next day was very tough. The roads were quite sandy and I lacked the energy to move forward. The land was beige coloured and barren – a sort of rugged moonscape.


A small sign of life


Sand track to nowhere


I could count on one hand the number of vehicles that I saw all day – a few jeeps and military trucks. I had plans to do an adventurous detour via Zorkul Lake from Khargush military base. This route would take four days longer to get to Murghab on more rough road. In my current state, I was unsure if I had the energy to tackle the route, even though it sounded spectacular. I camped about 10 kilometres below the military base after being fed up with riding washboard. One look at a steep hill ahead and I was finished for the day. I was at low point in the trip – all of my energy had vanished. I had hoped the next day would be better.


Before everything froze over in the night…

It was a frigid morning – my bottles were half frozen. Winter’s icy breath had coated my tent and the ground in frost. My morning routine was taking considerably longer, while I tried to keep the blood flowing to my numb hands and feet. My energy level was at an all-time low and I feel like I barely made it to the military base, 8km away. When I arrived I was greeted by the bored soldiers and handed them a pack of cigarettes as a nice gesture (to avoid a monetary bribe). I then decided not to take the longer route Zorkul route as I didn’t have the energy for it and it would be tight anyway with the time left on my visa. I turned left instead of the planned right towards the Khargush pass at 4344m.

Now I really felt like I had made a lunar landing.


A sidetrip to the moon – climbing the Khargush pass


The pass was surprisingly gentle and I was happy to finally be able to descend after two days of non-stop climbing. From Langar I had ascended about 1600m.

Later in the day I saw some cyclists approaching me. It was a sight that suddenly got me very excited, because I had so little human contact in the last few days. It was a Polish couple headed the other way. We talked for quite a while. They told me that there was a Malaysian solo cyclist, Phoebe just ahead of me. I had originally heard about Phoebe in Dushanbe, who had stayed with Véro before I did. I was hoping to catch up to her. After 3 tough days, I was excited to hit the smooth tarmac of the Pamir highway.


Last stretch of rough road before the Pamir Highway

When I did, I felt like I had suddenly switched from cycling to flying. Sweet, smooth bliss. As much as I love off road cycling, my body was tired and enjoyment had turned into a chore. I covered the 24km from the junction to Alichur in just over an hour, when this kind of distance had been taking me three hours in the last few days. The landscape was vast with smooth mountains and striking salt lakes.


Sublime scenery along the Pamir Highway

I arrived in Alichur just as the sun was setting. I saw Marco Polo homestay painted in large letters across a small house and immediately headed towards it. Alichur was a very desolate town. A tiny, windswept community perched on the roof of the world.



Marco Polo was a wonderful place to stay the night, run by a friendly Kyrgyz family. It was coziness personified. I lost count of the cups of green tea I drank, sitting close to the blazing wood stove. I was given a huge meal that I consumed far too quickly. The home stay had a guestbook and I read the entries of various other cyclists I had met on the road in different parts of the world. The cycle touring world is a small one. I was also told that I was the first Canadian to stay there. That night, I had everything I could possibly need: a good meal, a bottomless pot of hot tea and a warm place to sleep. Sometimes a tough time on the road is worth it in the end – to appreciate the simplest of joys that are often taken for granted.