Globax Internet Club , Bukhara, 22-05-07
Whiling the time away
We have a few days to kill and the nagging thought that our Sony Cybershot is going to produce big black blobs in the middle of our Central Asian landscape photos gets the better of us and we decide to purchase a new camera. We initially had our heart set on the Olympus E400 but the digital SLR choice in Tehran is either Canon, Canon or Canon. You can however, find the most amazing old SLR cameras, a mint condition Hasselblad in it's original box and a still in the sealed plastic wrapping super-8 movie camera. Prices are cheap and the competition strong, so it pays to bargain. We purchase the Canon 350D kit and although we'll need to upgrade the lens at some stage, it's a really good start and a comfortably compact and lightweight camera to use.

We wander around the city for as long as we can tolerate during the day and spend as much time as possible with the two Frenchies before they fly out for Jaipur, India. Another French cyclist, Didier, has joined the group waiting for Central Asian visa's. We go out for dinner, drink tea and have breakfast at Firouzeh Hotel a few times before waving Simon and Pierre-Yves off. We already miss them but there are plans to meet up again sometime in the future.

Ali rings the embassy on Wednesday, but there's no word from Ashgabat as yet. We get chatting to Kokoro Ito, yet another cyclist: this time going in the opposite direction to us and embarking on a world trip as well. He puts us onto an address for a Shimano wholesaler in the north of Tehran. We first try our luck at the bike shops near the bazaar but they have no decent parts whatsoever. We taxi it out to the wholesalers: Sabah Docharkh also known as Peugeot Cycles (16 Anahita St, Africa Express Way, Tehran 19176) and work out that it will be easier if we bring our bikes with us the following day. The showroom is something to see by the way and serious cycling must be quite popular with those that can afford the luxoury. Niall rings later that evening to meet him at the veggie restaurant and as he could also do with a few spare parts, decides to tag along with us tomorrow.

Nothing comes close to Shimano.
The ride out is reasonably busy in the morning and it's a slow incline the whole way with a couple of steepish hills to tackle. We arrive around 10.30am and remain in the building until well into the afternoon. Our original plan was to get a couple of spare chains and spokes but we walk out not only with them but a new back cassette, crank set and chain for Ali's bike as well. Two spare chains, 15 spokes, a chain fitted to my bike and all Ali's new gear at a total cost of 55 euros. The time spent fitting everything was labour of love. All in all, it is quite a relaxing and entertaining day, drinking tea and watching the assembly line of bikes while ours are being pampered. Going home is a breeze. Downhill all the way and as it's Thursday afternoon the roads are completely dead. I'm feeling a little lack lustre when we get back and hit the hay quite early.

The dire rear
I awake just before midnight with horrendous stomach cramps and it's only then that the inconvenience of shared bathroom facilities truly becomes apparent. I spend the next 36 hours wishing my Mum was here to look after me. I just know she'd cook chocolate blamange and grate granny smith apples and sprinkle brown sugar all over them. Ali finds me lemonade, apples and brings me a few banana milkshakes, which is a great consolation. It's about all I can stomach. My time is broken up into intervals of half an hour sleeping flat on my back and then making a mad dash to the squat loo. Probably the most irritating thing about the whole tedious ritual is having to put on long trousers, long sleeves and a head scarf every time I venture outside my hotel room. Once in the toilet, these are all rolled up and held out bay from the uncontrollable bowel movements. What with feeling awfully damned sick, you can well imagine my exasperation with the Muslim dress code bit at this point in time. In the end, I just slept in my clothes even though it's stinking hot in our room and have my scarf ready in my hand. One positive thing to come out of all the tippy-toed hunching, is my ankle feels a little stronger for it.

Ali takes the off chance that the embassy is open on Saturday and his speculation pays off: our visa has been approved for Türkmenistan and we can go the following day to pick them up. I'm still in bed feeling pretty miserable, when I hear the good news. Ali goes off every now and again to get me something or do some internetting. The next day I manage to drag myself to the embassy. The symptoms have subsided but I have nothing inside of me and am feeling quite weak.

"You can come back tomorrow and pick your passports up" says the man behind the window. My heart sinks; not another day; we just can't. We're planning to catch the train to Mashhad tomorrow and I want out of here. Both Ali and Niall ask if it is possible to finalise everything today. "Come back at three" the official says. Okay that's more like it and I breathe a sigh of relief. I can't get back to my hotel bed quick enough. While I sleep the rest of the day, Ali goes back at three along with Niall and both of them wait till four before getting served. After successfully picking up the passports, they decide to go to the train station to book the tickets for tomorrows journey to Mashhad. But getting train tickets is a whole story unto itself. Put simply, you cannot buy one until the day of departure, unless of course, you want to book through a travel agent and pay a 20% service charge. Ali opts for cycling down the next morning and braving the queues, which takes him the good part of an hour and a half; even though he may skip the line in front of the ticket window because a luggage carrier befriends him at the entrance and he is planning to travel first class.

Quite exhausted from his escapades, he arrives back at the hotel with the most expensive tickets. For the record, there are several grades of first class tickets but you are unable to stipulate which one you want and literally, get what you are given. We receive the 197,000 rial type that includes sleeping arrangements in a 4-birth sleeper, refreshments, dinner, breakfast and there's even a small television for entertainment. That's about the same price as a seat from Arnhem to Amsterdam in off-peak hours. We pack everything on the bikes, wait for Niall to join us and all just hang around the hotel courtyard until five. Niall offers me his course of Ciprofloxacin for my stomach and they begin to work almost immediately, which saves me from what could be a nightmare train journey and if you don't have them in your travel first aid kit, then I highly recommend buying some! At 5.00pm, the three of us weave our way through a typically maniacal Tehran peak hour towards the station.

Our passports are thoroughly controlled by the police and we are given the okay by the station master to take our bikes on board. Not sure what we would have done if he had said "no". Evidently, he has little communication with the actual train staff because it is not okay with them when we arrive on the platform. Today I'm a little frayed around the edges and sick of all the commotion about the bikes. I ask what the problem is to one of the attendants and he answers that we can't put the bikes in this train. I then ask "Why" and he returns a look of horror as if to say: "You can't ask why, just accept that you can't". He doesn't really answer my question and next thing I know he's disappeared altogether. Other officials umm and arhh and debate amongst themselves and we are left waiting in anticipation until a last minute decision to place them next to the restaurant carriage is made. Always the same with public transport and bikes! There's three of us this time, so all the luggage and bikes make it on no problem and safely.

The train, though not the newest model on the market, is really well decked out and there is tea, water, cookies waiting for us, when we enter our cabin. Orange juice follows a prompt departure and we get to know our Iranian travel companion Benjamin. Around 7.30pm, the train stops in the middle of nowhere and it's occupants (apart from us three) disembark and pile into a small mosque for prayer. By 8.00 pm, we are on our way again and a chicken shiskebab dinner is being served. The ride takes approximately 13 hours and we arrive in Mashhad at 7.30am. Doesn't take too long before we find a hotel room for the three of us. Niall will stay one night only and then he's off to make his way slowly to Bajgiran before crossing into Türkmenistan. We are heading to the alternative border-post at Sarakhs, which is only a couple of cycling days away. Besides, we want to visit the Imam Reza shrine before leaving.

EXTRA: The truth about Tehran.
Have no fear
Probably the only reason most visitors stay any longer than a couple of days in this over-polluted and over-congested city is to obtain one or more visas. And most of these travellers seem to be suffering from the visa blues. The symptoms are relieved by taking a bus to Estafan or Shiraz just to get out of what soon becomes a hell-hole. It's a real shame that the bureaucratic agencies don't move as fast as the traffic. You could stay and walk forever around the place, but really who wants too, after a few hours in the warm smog filtered sun you are completely knackered from dodging potholed pavements, open drains, pedestrians, street sellers and traffic. The latter, becoming easier and yourself becoming bolder with every crossing of the street. The trick is this: you just have to dare to step out in front of cars that look like they are going to bowl you over. They don't. They wouldn't dare; partly because they don't want the reams of paperwork associated with knocking down a tourist added to their already hectic lives and to be honest the drivers are pretty apt at handling their vehicles in Tehran. They know the exact width they can squeeze through without a centimetre to spare and the five lanes of traffic on the three laned highway is perfect proof of that. In a couple of taxi rides during peak hour, I took to looking the other way. One consolation though: all the cars seem to have very good brakes; I guess you wouldn't last two seconds on the road with dodgy stopping power.

Commuter chaos
Given the chance, a large percentage of taxi drivers will try and rip you off and most travellers know that this is the case nearly everywhere in the world. You are better off trying your luck along the roadside with the locals than at the train and bus stations. Always take the address written down on a piece of paper and you'll find that most hotels will also write it in Arabic letters for you, which will help with the clarity of your destination. Tehran is ginormous and it's network of freeways doesn't always make for direct routing, therefore it can seem like you are being run around in circles. The bonus of taking taxi's with other locals is that you see how much they are paying and can make an estimated guess of your fare. Some drivers will ask you to give what you think is a fair deal. One old guy did precisely this and when we suggested 30,000 rials (way over normal fare, by the way), he shook his head and said 40,000, which made us all laugh, but seeing as he was an entertaining sort of chap, we paid it anyway. Beware though, because negotiating a price can be very confusing: they work in two currency units the Rial and the Toman: where 10 Rial equals 1 Toman. I think the ambiguity factor is obvious enough, so make it very clear during negotiations which one you are referring to. It's a total fallacy that women and men don't mix in taxis, though given the choice a woman will prefer to sit next to another woman. Segregation is still (mandatory) on the buses: boys at the front, girls at the back (even have to enter at the back!) The modern 3-line and soon to be expanded Metro System has two women only carriages at the front and back. The rest are mixed, though you wouldn't know it. Very few females use these compartments. 1 zone costs 750 rial (about 6 euro cents) and gets you to the outer ring of the CBD. One grumpy station attendant tried to rip us off and it took quite a bit of persistence on Aaldrik's behalf to get the correct change back. Clearly, this sort of behaviour is not just confined to the corner store, so check your change wherever you go. Whatever form of transport you choose, doesn't really matter, you'll basically come away wanting to lock yourself in your room for a few hours of peace and quiet: other hotel guests obliging that is. It's total mayhem and after a couple of days, the hustle and bustle buzz wears off and you are itching to get out.

What Khamenei doesn't see, Allah doesn't know about.
There's a lot going on behind closed doors in Iran. Sex, drugs and lycra shorts do exist and are not that difficult to get your hands on. In fact, while in the bigger cities and towns, you are bound to be offered a quick nip of whiskey in the park or invited to a party where alcohol and opium are in plentiful supply. And who would want to deny anyone a bit of fun every now and again. After all the Iranian folk are human beings too! Just in the context of all those black hoods seems a little double standard to me. Rumours of Iranian women, scantily clad underneath their hijab are the subject of conversation with many western men. I watched the eyes light up of a young Australian male while he relayed the story of young girls ripping off their black cloaks, once in the confines of their own home, to reveal fitted lycra outfits underneath. Another traveller excitedly told me he was flashed during his day's expeditions. When asked what he exactly meant by that, he said he saw the hair of an Iranian girl. And while this is an offense worthy of popping you in jail in Iran, it is hardly the cause for sexual arousal in a male from western, non Muslim standards.

Like the rest of the modern world, everyone has a mobile phone and they are used for exactly the same purposes. So, don't be surprised if you see a man in a subway carriage, scanning through pictures of Clarissa with big tits and then Samantha with even bigger ones or a couple of men huddled over a tiny screen, intently amused by heavy breathing and groaning. Foreign males need to be aware though that sex with and Iranian women is illegal unless you have permission to do so. Disobey and you could end up in the klinker for 8 years or more. You can however, get a temporary marriage for such urges and although this is only hearsay, these matrimonial get-togethers can last just a few days or up to several weeks.

Some women in Tehran do push the boundaries with the dress code and a feisty young student from the university bluntly told us how much she hated the headwear and other dress restrictions and that they do whatever they can to get away with the bear minimum of cover-up. One rule Iranian girls do not take much notice of is the amount of make-up they wear and the windows of the women's only carriage in the metro reflect faces adjusting scarves and preening themselves. Even within the confinement of their dress code, the women are definitely fashion conscious and judging by the amount of garment shops in the bazaars and on the streets, clothes shopping is a favourite past time. All the beautiful strapless beaded ball gowns, tight-fitting tees and mini-skirts: only ever seen behind closed doors. Furthermore, though not quite the tassles and g-strings of an Amsterdam sex-shop, little playboy bunnies on brassieres and fur lined lacey lingerie are also on sale at stalls in most bazaars. The shops are strictly run by males. What seems strange is, while a woman in Iran must not show her hair, neck, arms or legs she has no qualms about asking a complete stranger for the pink lacy number in a 34C cup.

No gusht!
Vegetarianism is a concept literally laughed at by Iranians and they don't think you are at all serious. Veganism is almost incomprehensible and you will have a hard time explaining yourself. Unless you are prepared to self-cater every single meal, you will certainly starve. Because of the many bewildered and confused faces we have got when trying to explain that we don't eat meat throughout our travels, I resort to drawing little pictures of animals in our notebook with a "prohibited" circle around them. It's a more full-proof method than trying to reproduce a sentence or phrase not commonly used in the language anyway. Also a lot more dignified than making farmyard noises in the middle of a restaurant just to get your message across.

The most common restaurant in Iran is not much more than a glorified kebab shop also selling a couple of oil layered, mutton based stews for those not into meat on a skewer. They will try and sell it off as vegetarian food by removing as much meat as possible, but after three failed attempts and repeatedly having to take the dish back to the kitchen, we have given up with even trying. Therefore, the extent of our meal in a place like this a plate of plain rice, a bowl of yoghurt, flat bread and a soft drink. Occasionally, you'll bump into a pizza snack bar in the bigger towns and providing they are not the prepackaged varieties you can get something made without meat. There's a few Indian restaurants scattered around for the mid-range budget. Thankfully, our hotel in Tehran had a rooftop where we could cook our own meals, when we weren't frequenting the falafel shop down the road. Outside of the capital city though, these takeaway joints are not to be seen anywhere. The other place of salvation: sitting in the Coffee Shop and Veggie Restaurant run by the Iranian Artists' Forum, (Baghe Honarmandan, Moosavie Street Taleghani Ave: walking distance from Taleghani Metro Station.) Definite refuge from dry, boring rice.

Drapped in a tablecloth
We couldn't leave Mashhad without a visit to the Imam Reza Shrine, the second most holiest of places of the Islamic world and enquired at the information booth as to how I could get a hijab in order to enter. We wait a few minutes and a young girl arrives with what resembles a tablecloth with three holes cut into it: one larger one for the head and two cuffed in white ribbing for the hands. It was the most embarrassing garment I've ever worn besides the boab tree costume I had for my first and only ballet recital when I was six. For a start, it was white with mauve flowers, similar in pattern to what your grandmother would use for her pinafore and secondly, it wasn't at all comfortable due to it's "idiot proof" design. The least they could have done was make the thing black so it didn't stand out like a sore thumb. It is almost as if they think that a non-Muslim woman wouldn't be able to cope wearing the normal headdress and cloak. So anyway, my advice to female visitors: go to the local bazaar prior to a trip to Imam Reza and purchase yourself a piece of black cloth or lend one from someone who you have befriended. You'll feel much more at home.

Upon entering you are body searched. Cameras and bags are strictly forbidden to be taken into the complex and must be left outside at the gates. Mobile phones on the other hand are not prohibited, hence everyone is (openly) taking photographs or film on their Nokia. The tile work is quite beautiful though a lot of it is still under restoration and according to our guide will be until 2017. You are not allowed into the shrine itself but you get to watch a corporate video complete with American accented voice-over about the place in a noisy visitors hall. (See above for the video) The Markazi Museum is an eclectic collection of ridiculous donated gifts that raised little interest in me and the display casing held together with masking tape is a sad contrast with the golden minarets outside. A large 100 year old painting is proudly displayed that resembles something out of the middle ages art history in the western world. I was surprised when our guide exclaimed how beautiful a rather unsophisticated marble pillar was due mainly to the fact that someone had carved it by hand. "No machinery" he said. I think: "He's never seen a Greek or Roman sculpture before."

New found friends and a new found religion
You'll find that you adopt friends easily and they'll take it upon themselves to just tag along with you where-ever you go. An Iraqi man did just this in Mashhad. It's my birthday and Niall, Ali and I decide we'll try our luck at finding ourselves a dvd for the evening. Our Iraqi acquaintance comes along, leading us all over the place. He hasn't quite got the message right and after walking a few kilometres and a couple of taxi rides later we finally get back to a shop that sells a few selected English movies: all copied onto Princo dvd's and costing $US2 each. We pick out Priceless. It's time for dinner and we search for a place where we can eat. We end up yet again in a kebab shop, with a plate of rice and yoghurt in front of us. To the bewilderment of our Iraqi friend, Niall and Ali sing "Happy Birthday" to me and I blow out the red rose plastic flower arrangement on the plastic covered table.

We venture back to our room and to my utter dismay, our Iraqi friend waltzes straight inside, uses the toilet and then plonks himself down on the bed, right in front of the laptop screen, ready to watch the movie with us. I have to perch on the outside to see the damned thing and even more annoying, stay covered up for almost the entire length of the film before he's had enough of it and finally leaves. He doesn't forget to mention that he'll be back at 9am tomorrow. I plan to be conveniently asleep at that time. Sure enough, the next morning he's there, willing to tag along and as we make our exit, he joins us again. This time, Niall has planned to do other things to us and so he ends up with an Iraqi mate sitting next to him for two hours in an internet cafe. After Niall left, we didn't see anymore of our new found friend. I guess he thought, two's company, three's a crowd.

On the fifth night at our hotel in Tehran, a man had been waiting outside our room for goodness knows how long, until one of us went to the toilet. He asked if he could come in and chat which was fine by us of course. At least for the first two visits but when a knock at the door became an every-evening event, it got a little tedious: especially seeing as we had to do all the work with the conversation. After we refused him a couple of times he didn't come back anymore.

Aaldrik has stopped introducing himself as "Ali" because the next line that follows is: "Are you muslim?" Of course he answers in the negative and then the quest is on to find out what religion we are. They never seem to get any further than Christian or Jew. What a Jew would be doing travelling in Iran beats us, but they always suggest it. We tell them to keep guessing but they don't seem to have the other religions of the world registered in their minds. We won't openly admit that we are atheist and if necessary, we have taken to adopting Buddhism for the forms . It does explain our vegetarianism quite nicely.

From one holy city to the next, via the wild, wild west: Mashhad to Bukhara (10 cycle days; 0 rest days; 844km; 1744m) Mashhad to 25km before Mazdaran: (78km; 187m)
As we wheel our bikes out into the courtyard, the ritual goodbyes and photographs become a little disappointing when the hotel owner starts to beg for money. The general belief is that everyone who comes from the west is overly rich and even though this proprietor owns a hotel and earns himself an exceptionally decent wage for Iranian standards, he still wants more. Just doesn't understand that all we have left in the world is a gradually depleting bank account and what's on our bikes.

Getting out of the city takes quite a while and it reaches 32°C in the shade today. Hot headwinds pick up after lunch time and they slow us down quite a bit. Stopped by police on several occasions: once to film us with their Nokia mobile phone and the other times just to practice their English. The landscape gets dryer and more barren with each kilometre. We pass many mud-housed villages with small stalls standing roadside to purchase water from. All with varying prices. There are no big towns anymore until we hit the border at Sarakhs.

25km before Mazdaran to 7km after Gonbad Lee: (86km; 510m)
The next day's weather and views are similar minus the strong winds. Every now and again there are large white nomadic tents decorating the harsh landscape and like their herds of grazing sheep and goats, validating the sign of life in this region. The road begins to deteriorate markedly at the forked turnoff to Turkmenistan or Afghanistan. There's no doubt in our minds which direction we'll take, even though it means a relatively steep 400m incline in 34°C. heat. After the climb out of Mazdaran, where we stop to get water, soft drinks and bread, there is a welcomed downhill coast. Another stop in Gondad Lee in the late afternoon for more liquid supplies and we decide to settle for the night 7km further up the road. That evening, as I watch a dung beetle expertly roll his treasure finding past the tent, I contemplate the last month in Iran. It is a country of many pros and cons, but the people are so very genuine and friendly on a level that you won't experience anywhere else. It's certainly one country well worth visiting. I do relish the thought of getting this sweaty scarf off my head though and allowing a bit of ventilation under my helmet and around my neck. Being able to sit by my tent at the end of a day's ride and brush the late afternoon's sunshine rays through my hair: a simple freedom I have very much missed during the last 30 days.

Our cycling trip through Iran: Click HERE to view larger map and more details

Türkmenbolderdashi
We leave early and arrive at the border town, Sarakhs, early enough too. Stock up on as much food and water as we can possibly carry. The streets are full of persistent beggars, but shop owners are friendly and trustworthy. From the time of entering the crossing zone, it is exactly two and a half hours later when we finally make it onto Türkmenistani soil. The Iranian side is reasonably relaxed and we go effortlessly, though we have to sit and wait for a while, through the formalities. A ride across a bridge with Iranian soldiers one side and Türkmen Militia the other was also pretty painless, even if Ali does loose his lolly supply stashed in the top of his handlebar bag to a couple of sweet-toothed boys with AK47's.

The fun begins the moment a teenager in full army get-up, including gun, tells us to carry our bikes up a set of stairs and into a long rectangular room. The outside walls are white wooden panelling and the floor is concrete, which one worker gets the honour of sprinkling down with water at random intervals during the day to cool the building. Two small windowed booths are situated on the front left hand side. Directly before us, cutting the room in two and taking up an enormous amount of space is an x-ray machine and walk through metal detector. A small desk complete with official blocks the rest of the pathway to the other side. Here, two long tables line the remaining side walls. At least five administrative staff members sit facing inwards, chatting and waiting patiently to use their circular brass stamp pads dangling on little fob chains. A few doors, kept shut most of the time, lead off to office rooms to the left and straight on.

Apparently, we were given the wrong instructions and another official promptly advises us to take the bikes back outside again. We are then asked to sit outside in the entrance hall before a customs officer, who speaks reasonable English and after the usual "get to know one another" babble, pulls us both individually aside to the first of the windowed booths. He thumbs through the passport several times before filling in an immigration card. He questions my nationality because Ali had told him that I was born in Australia. His debate is that citizenship and nationality are unrelated. I beg to differ and say "I have given you my Dutch passport and therefore, these two credentials are, as far as you should be concerned, Dutch". He doesn't like it but fills in the form anyway. Next, in the long line of proceedings, is the three step walk to the little white booth next door and what we soon learn is the bank. We need to pay US$10 each for entering the country, which we didn't know about and then a further US$2 each for having the man tiresomely fill in the handwritten forms in duplicate; that's four forms in total. He eventually accepts the 20,000 rial from each of us for his charges because we profess to having no other American cash on us besides a $US20 bill. These forms then go back the three steps to the original booth. Stamps are issued on all the bits of paper and we may proceed.

The bikes can now come inside, so we lift them up the steps for the second time and move towards the metal machines, where we are immediately stopped by someone else wanting us to take each piece off the bike and individually pass through the detectors. We object and explain it will take forever to pack and unpack the bikes. They insist, so I decide to play their game and take an amply bureaucratic amount of time untying a plastic bag from my back pannier. They eventually realise they could be waiting indefinitely and give in. We are ushered past the machines and on to the next side. Individual declaration forms are the following issue to deal with. Everything is written in Russian, so they need to fill them in for us, which is a bit spooky in itself. Of course, these are also handwritten and in duplicate and I swear the guy filling in mine had never been to school in his life because he needed everything spelt for him at least three times by the other admin-worker peering over his shoulder and perusing endlessly through my passport at the same time. Both sides need to be signed by the guy filling hte form in and then endorsed by me. Further to this process, they are stamped by one of the administrators sitting at the long table on the left, taken back to the first booth and stamped a second time and then given to the big boss for the third and last approval stamp. This procedure takes a considerable amount of time as you can well imagine as Ali's forms are filled in quicker than mine. So, by the end of it all, I'm quite an expert at who's who in the line of stamping in this outfit. They keep one copy and we the other for our departure in seven days times. Well actually six and a half now, due to all the nonsense inside this officious concrete bubble. The white wooden doors are finally swung open, we clamber down the steps and ride not even thirty meters where we are stopped again to show our passports to the guys at the gate.

Ali changes money here and I rip my scarf and bottom sections of my trousers off. It's a stinker day, 37°C in the shade, not that there is any shade to measure that in. We stop at a petrol station not far from the border and learn quickly that they do not stock drinks, unlike most other countries in the world. Also, we discover that the road to Mary is more like 250 km instead of the 160 km, like we thought. As it is already nearly 2 pm, it means three cycling days instead of the two we had hoped for. We continue on and stop at the next piece of shade created by a stopped truck, in need of a new tyre. The driver is Iranian and welcomes us by getting out a mat for the ground and offering us icy cold water from his refrigerator. It is delicious in comparison with our Sigg bottle boiled liquid.

The whole day is broken up by manditory stops at checkpoints and short pauses at every available bus stop along the way to rehydrate. Townships come and crowd around us, especially the children. It is a totally different world here and a stark divergence from Iran. For a start, there are camels crossing the highway, the native women are clothed in the most beautifully coloured costumes, at control posts prostitutes are on offer, every mouth has a shiney set of gold teeth, there are no signposts, no kilometre readings and the roads appear to have endured varying degrees of volcanic activity. Though there are no craters quite the size of Vesuvius, there are enough unavoidable potholes to contribute to a couple of very sore bums. The sun is still very warm at 5pm. We leave tyre prints behind in the melting asphalt. Around 7pm we stop pedalling and find what we believe to be a nice spot hidden from the road in a vacant field. ( 7km after Gonbad Lee to Turkmenistan km 57: 88km; 81m) Unfortunately, every insect in the vicinity thinks it's a nice spot as well and we end up lighting a small fire along with two mosquito-coils to try and and keep them at bay. All this seems to achieve though is creating a suicide pit for light driven beetles and praying mantis. Our legs and ankles are eaten alive by anything else that flies and bites. In contrast, we tuck into a meze dinner of sweetened butter sauted broad beans and onions and a spicy aubergine, pepper and tomato tarine served with oil-bread bought in Sarakhs earlier that day.

Operation desert storm
Wind picks up in the wee hours of the morning and continues all day and really has a good try at shoving us back the way we came. Slows us down to a frustrating and energy zapping 7km per hour. I can only visualise one hour at a time: myself up front for 15 to 20 minutes, then Ali for 20 to 30 minutes and the rest of each hour is spend sitting on the side of the road recuperating for the following stint. I actually fall asleep on one of these occasions. For 6 or so hours, we plod on like this.

We have started the day with very little water. Even though we entered Turkmenistan with nearly 5 litres each, the heat of yesterday's journey had its toll on our supply. There are no shops and only a few small rural villages from the border until Khaouz Khan. The only water available comes from the numerous fresh, flowing canals tapped from the Amurdarja River. In the middle of a full-on sandstorm, we manage to filter enough for the day and then continue on with our battle against the wind. There are bus shelters at or near every small village and they provide good refuge from the elements. At one pittstop a battered old Mercedes pulls up and two (uniformed) men step out asking for our passports, claiming they are police. We've noticed that nearly every male position warrants a uniform in Turkmenistan and seeing as this is not up to the usual standard of police outfit, I don't trust them at all. At first, we act dumb and when they persist, we start asking them for their identification. This seems to do the trick and they promptly move on.

Golden rule: never give your passport to anyone, except at an official post or hotel. If someone, either official or posing as, asks you on the street in a city or town: show them a copy and say your passport is at your hotel and they can come back with you to look at it if they like. This will get rid of any unauthorised officers.

We finally make it to a side road leading to Mary, a few kilometres before the main road turnoff: huge Türkmenbasi poster complete with flags on the left and just before a petrol station and an arched gateway, Türkmen style, on the right. Road is diabolical but cuts off 15 kilometres or so). We are relishing the thought of the winds finally being in our favour, however they drop to nowhere near the same gusto and it begins to pour down. It's cold and I wonder what curse has been placed upon us. We take shelter at a service station when we make it back to the main road again. Skies clear and we just go as long as our bodies will hold out for. Well, actually mine. I think Ali could have made a bit more ground. Right by the side of the highway there's a forested section of ground and it's our best option for the night. (Turkmenistan km 57 to km 93 before Mary: 88km; 133m)

Oh dear, Mary, Mary Mary!
It rains all night and is a muddy affair the next morning. We had thought that maybe an upgrade on the road was in order, but the Türkmen department responsible for this had other thoughts on that matter. We hit Khaouz Khan mid morning and it's the first sign of real civilisation for two days. The first service station, which you can't miss, also has a hotel and cafe and we stop here for supplies, though further on, the road is lined with plenty of cafes all beckoning you to replenish your water and bread supplies with them. While Ali goes into the cafe to get water, soft drink and bread, I shoot some film of the area. He is later helped out with plastic bags full of drinks and bread by a Russian girl wearing a long beige fitted petty coat revealing all body curvatures and breasts falling out of the top of a bra one size two small for her. She sees me, hurriedly drops the bags and scoots back inside, which I think kind of explains her employment position.

There is nothing much between here and Mary and roughly the same type of journey as the other days with the exception of a more rural setting and unusually overcast skies. We hit Mary late afternoon, (93km; 73m) and are eager to find a hotel and have a shower. The first choice is US$56 for the night, which is way out of our budget and any Türkmen's for that matter. Besides that it's disgustingly dirty. There are two prices blatantly on display in these establishments and we end up settling for the cheapest place in town: US$30 for us and US$3 for a local. There's only a few words for the Sanjar Hotel: grottiest dump on earth run by rip-off merchants who have the audacity to ask you to sign the guest book after check-out.

In comparison, the local pub owner is honest enough and we have our first beer (piwa) since Turkey (9000 manat: 35euro cents for a pint). Local tradition is to buy your take-away beer here as well and it amuses us to watch 1.5 litre PET bottles repeatedly being filled for 27,000 manat. It's a perfect way to unwind after an eye-opening wander around town and supply-shopping in the colourful bazaar. Mary is full of bombastic monuments and golden structures of insignificant function and Türkembashi's iconic poster embellishes any building or factory of public notability. The city streets are lined with colourful flower beds and fountains carefully tended to by hundreds of civil servants and these continue for a good couple of kilometers outside of the town. The main streets are six-laned boulevards utilised by a small proportion of cars and buses in comparison to their traffic potential. Colourful apartment blocks shielded by huge sky dishes line the smaller thoroughfares and everything is a complete sensory overload.

Rural friendliness
Only a few kilometres out of town and I burst my inner tube which ends up wrapping itself around my cassette and I come to a grinding halt. Quick enough repair, but it appears that the Schwalbe tyre has stretched and according to an even quicker reply message from Marten on the Wereldfietser forum: folding it in half has caused the metal thread to snap. Makes sense. New tyre and tube later and we are on our way to Merv. At Bajramaly, we reach the turnoff to this historically important city at its heyday during the pinnacle years of the silk route (11th and 12th centuries). It's a 4km ride to the entrance and once again the local / foreigner prices apply and to be honest you could just cycle past the gate, without anyone being the wiser. You are supposed to pay for using your camera and video as well and the English version of the pamphlet is double the Türkmen price. We go for the local version as it is the map we are interested in more than anything. It is a great cycle route in and around the ruins and a pleasant change from the usual days activities. I could imagine though that some visitors will be disappointed with the once great city of the Ancient World and we are a little bewildered at the eye-sore military base and radio tower we stumble upon in Türkmenistan's only Unesco World Heritage Site.

We decide to cut across inland to Zahmet and not return back to the highway. It's all farming land: hot, flat and dusty with wide irrigation canals and some pretty rough tracks for roads. Everywhere we stop, we are enthousiastically greeted, given loaves of delicious bread and invited in for tea. One jovial farmer and his family of giggling daughters offers us a roof for the night. It would have been such fun to take him up on his proposal but we are restricted intensely by the 7-day transit visa and judging by the landscape so far, we envisage a tough two-day ride through the dessert. So, after a series of photographs of the family, me and a not so amused donkey, we reluctantly press on. Everyone has told us about the large canal and bridge that we need to cross before taking a direct right, though the kilometre distance varies from person to person. Nonetheless, we are heading in the right direction and sure enough, quite a longer distance than anticipated later, we negotiate a rudimentary iron structure over invitingly cool flowing waters.

It is a long journey along even more appalling roads than we've had so far, but the canal activity on our right makes for really pleasant views. We reach Zahmet and the highway cafe, where we can stock up our depleted water supplies. A half hour or so down the road and not quite as far as we had hoped to get, we pull over into some dunes and find a flat enough spot to pitch the tent. (Mary to Zahmet via Merv: 94km; 157m) After getting everything set-up, a man shouts from the highway as he lifts a rather fat, two-metre long snake in the air. We keep our eyes and ears open!

A pub with a hole
Next morning and we have quite a distance to travel through a desert not quite what I had expected. Apart from the numerous small villages along the way, where water could be sourced if necessary, there are also bus stops for shade and rest, not to forget that it's a major truck route due to it being the only bituminised (well in parts) road from Mary to Turkmenabat. So not much chance of dying of thirst in this desert. Üj-Ajy is the only place along the way that epitomizes the true vision of the rolling dune desert. The rest is grass and shrub clumped mounds. Roads are straight but perpetually undulating and we face an infuriating wind the whole day. Therefore, the sight of Repetek (103km; 314m) is a very, very welcome one. The group of Russian gas-oil workers obviously think the same thing about me and I am immediately dragged off to sit at their table and demanded to down a couple of vodkas in full jovial but raucous Russian spirit. Needless to say, I very, slap-on-the-wrist foolishly, have one to many shots and end up regretting the whole incident the next day especially while dry-reaching in the hot early morning desert sun.

We end up spending the night in a room off to the side of the 24 hour restaurant, in which they lay traditional mats and pillows for a comfortable night's sleep. While the hospitality is second to none, the fly population in general and the dug out hole in the ground overflowing with human excretion was a little hard to handle. Dung beetles, on the other hand, were having a field day.

The next morning around 10am, we leave the brunching Repetek staff alone, which is what I wish I had of done the evening before with the last few vodkas and get only a few kilometres down the road before having to stop and throw up the recently ingested water. This pattern repeats itself every 3 kilometres or so for the next 20 kilometres until I finally give in and sleep it off in a bus stop. I manage to keep some food down and we can continue along the uninteresting sand dunes with the occasional herd of grazing camels to liven things up.

By the time we make it to Turkmenabat, I am pretty well recovered and I stock up with water and vegetables (fruit is outrageously expensive and limited), while Ali pulls an enormous crowd outside the bazaar. Getting out of town takes forever and there are further hold-ups at all the checkpoints crossing the Amurdarja River. Some guards just call you over because they have the authority to do so and this gets extremely irritating when you just want to get out of the built-up area and find a nice quiet campsite. This doesn't really eventuate and we opt for an apricot orchard, which is okay by its owner, but comes with a price. (Repetek to Farab: 89km; 146m) We are bugged by one local kid for the entire evening wanting to touch and know about everything we own when he doesn't utter a word of English and we not a whisper of Russian. He finally disappears well after dark and we both fall happily and deservedly asleep.

Banned from Türkmenistan
The locals are busy with cutting down a tree in conveniently close proximity to our tent the following day. We eat, pack, and say goodbye to the numerous onlookers, as well as give our over-curious little friend of the night before a cycling t-shirt as a going away gift. It's a 25km trip to the border, along a river and then down a long stretch of lined-up lorries and keen money changers. We make it to the gate at 9.30am on the dot. After Ali changes some money, being let in is a cinch. The rest of the procedure is NOT!

What we hope will take an hour, turns into a three and a half hour bureaucratic nightmare. Apparently, though the message was not relayed to us by any of the insurmountable Türkmen authorities we have met in the last month, we had to register after 5 days of our 7 day transit visa. Where we could have done this baffles me, because the desert has little in the way of official ports of call. Anyway, it is Sunday and of course the boss is not in today. This results in having to wait for a phone call from him, which after an hour still hasn't come. I sit outside the customs office area and watch swallows and cuckoos dart backwards and forwards over the barbed borderline and think how easy it would be to have a feathered friend whisk me over this ridiculous human boundary. Guarded by teenagers with initiatives as small as the cartridges designed for their machine guns and men with heads bigger than the pile of officious nonsense that exists in this country. Ali is on the inside of the customs area and tries desperately to track down the soldier that initially told us that we had not followed the correct proceedings. He is no where to be found and another youngster bears the brunt of Ali's questioning. Eventually the kid has enough and organises for Ali to go upstairs to speak to the official that is holding up this process. No amount of pleading will quicken up the process and to cut a long and frustratingly tedious story short, we eventually get our passports back with a stamp banning us from entering Türkmenistan for another year. Oh dearie me! In the meantime, Ali has handwritten and signed, in duplicate, two avadavats stating that we were not informed through the correct measures about this extra registration: one is for me and one for him, whereby paradoxically for these sticklers for detail, mine could be signed by him, so long as he forged my signature and didn't use his own.

We may now proceed with getting through customs. We enter the wooden panelled double door, which a couple of brightly clothed women have barricaded with boxed goods of all dimensions and are trying to trolley across into Uzbekistan. Both of the thin doors need to be opened and the women move aside in order for us to pass. Just to hold us up even longer, the customs officers now want to check inside the panniers and I rather sarcastically offer them biscuits as I pull out the bag with biscuits in it, bread when they want to check inside that plastic shopping bag and so on until they get the message that I am only carrying food and cooking equipment on the back. Still, it is not enough for them to stop there and another person wants to check the front pannier. By some strange stroke of luck, I had packed our dirty washing bag in this pannier for a change this morning and as I I open the draw-string, I hold it towards to the curious official, who plays into my trap and sticks his nose right into the bag. Being a hot day and having sat in the sun for almost two and a half hours, it would have reeked frightfully. At least, that is the impression I get, when he retracts his head as quickly as he stuck it in and motions that he doesn't wish to see anymore.

We have been standing in this thin 6 metre corridor, the width of the doorway for at least ten minutes, our bikes lean against the wall on the right and small offices, the same width again, line the left. It's a total disarray of paper work and forms with men and women bureaucrats shaking heads, taking money, talking in overly-loud voices to overly-patient voyagers. We are finally given the go ahead to move a few metres down to the next window, where another stamp will be issued in our passport. This takes a further ten minutes and the machine gunned guard at the end of the corridor, almost able to breathe down Ali's neck, looks inquisitively on as this process takes place. We wheel the bikes maybe 1 metre and though witnessed just seconds before, this same guard now wants to check the stamp in our passports.

Finally, we are outside heading towards the gate about 20 metres away, where we are stopped yet again. Though not at all necessary, a little upstart soldier decides to take off with our passports and return to the booth behind us. Ali yells at him to hurry up, at which he purposefully doesn't. I've had it, drop my bike, storm back to the booth, demand to have our passports immediately and give them both what for; for holding us up, when I have to cycle in this blistering heat, how dare they think they treat me like this, for stopping us from making it to Bukhara in one day and anything else I thought of at the time to blame them for. They promptly give the passports back and apologise and we, at long last, get through the gate.

Our cycling trip through Turkmenistan: Click HERE to view larger map and more details

Let's just say, the next leg of the immigration is easier and friendlier, though still tedious and full of duplicate paperwork. I think the "Welcome to Uzbekistan" and "May I see your passport please?" does it for us. This crossing takes just 30 minutes. It's now well after 1pm and there's no way that we can make it to Bukhara today, like planned. We cycle on for 50kms or so and since their are no other camping possibilities, settle once again for an apricot orchard. (Farab to Sayot: 77km; 108m)

Human zoo
The locals are upon us in a flash and it begins with a small group of young boys, climbing and having fun in the trees near our tent. They all want their photo taken and we play along for a couple of hours or so, quite amused by their childish antics and excitement over the camera. We are pretty beat though, from the days activities and want to wash down and change out of the riding gear, cook dinner and crash for the evening. But even after shooing them away a couple of times, they keep coming back. Each time, with new onlookers from the nearby village. I'm sure the leader of the pack is making money out of it. They don't budge either: just stand right in the tent opening and stare at everything you do. One cheeky little devil even takes to sitting in Ali's seat when he gets up to do something . He is promptly removed. Ali is a little irate and they finally get the message.

Not only are there children in the trees waiting for us to rise the next day, but 3 mini buses have congregated at the edge of the orchard. The sliding door is fully-open and half the occupants stare out at us while the other half have taken roadside seats. A small proportion of the village has gathered no more than ten metres from the tent and are discussing the apricot state of affairs, while keeping one of their eyes glued to us and our morning ritual. Big Brother would go down a treat in this country, for sure!

Naturally, we are forced to leave without completing our toiletries and stop in a desert stretch to clean the teeth etc. Only a short journey into Central Asia's holiest city: Bukhara / Buxoro (49km; 35m) and we are there around lunchtime. After checking the prices in some rather expensive hotels, Ali beats the price from US$25 to 15 / night for a spacious double room at Ramstan Zukhra including a breakfast to die for. (just up from Sasha and Son and right next door to New Moon) Bathroom facilities though clean and with hot water, are a little on the pongy side. A better choice would have been Madina and Ilyos's B&B (18 Mehtar Anbar St. Bukhara 705018), who we met after already settling in. They offer traditional accommodation with breakfast from $5 per person per night.

Bukhara, though very touristy, is quite magical due to its beautifully structured centre. Mosques and buildings of stone and tile are colourfully decorated by the street vendors carpets, ceramics, silverware, puppets and embroidery. Quite stunning and it's a pleasant surprise to see new buildings going up in the same vein as the old ones. Lyabi-Hauz, the mulberry tree lined pool-fountain in the centre is a great refuge from the warm afternoon sun. Food is reasonably priced for western standards but beer is four times the local price. Have heard quite a few reports of upset stomachs from several travellers after eating here though, so beware. Definitely, take the time to go to the bazaar in town (20 minutes walk from the tourist centre) if you need to do some grocery shopping. It's at least a third of the price of the mini-markets in town, who will do their utmost best and will succeed to rip you off.

The first evening in town and Niall rocks up quite late after a monster ride from the border. He looks completely beat and after a bit of catch-up chatter, we all hit the hay. Wander round the town next day and generally chill out. Niall's not feeling too well in the early evening and I come down with the same thing early next day. All this throwing up and diarrhoea is getting a bit monotonous. Only lasts 24 hours and we put it down to an ice cream that we had both enjoyed while Ali settled for something else.Or maybe it is the food at Lyabi-Hauz after all. Niall leaves late today and we stay a further two days before packing up for the three day ride to Samarqand.

Plagued by punctures: Bukhara to Samarqand via Qarshi: (257+km; 1057m)
Due to the lack of secluded camping opportunities, we decide not to take the main highway to Samarqand, but the 50km longer and hopefully more "off the beaten track" A380 and turning off at Qarshi onto the A378. This route proves to certainly take us through desert terrain and you should carry plenty of water with you. Each of the next three days temperatures hang around the mid thirties and there are little in the way of shopping facilities. We have packed enough food except for bread, but have to restock the water supplies at every single drink stand we come across. Cooking and washing included, we use about 6 litres of water each and manage to slurp down at least 3 litres of sweet fizzy liquid as well. That's a lot of fluids.

Landscape is barren and harsh though there are some decent camping spots along the first leg of the journey. We need to accomplish 100km/day to make it to Samarqand in the estimated three days and just as we are reaching this target today, we land in one of the longest industrial gas belts we have seen to date. Smells like someone is farting permanently and is very hideous to look at. When this view is almost out of sight, a small clump of shrubs a few hundred metres from the road also breaks the monotony of completely barren soil. We find a flat spot, happen upon a lost tortoise, who unsuccessfully tries to disguise himself in a dried up box-thorn bush and discover a scorpion's nest far enough away from the tent, not to move, but close enough to keep me peering in that direction all night long. (Bukhara to near Mubarak: 113km; 311m)

We are a mere 100 metres down the road and like yesterday's start, have to stop to repair a flat. Same spot as the last three punctures and the only thing we can put it down to is a spoke that seems a little long for my rim. We pad it with a bit of sandpaper and it holds for the rest of the journey. We have all intentions of replacing it tonight when we find a spot to camp. The winds pick up around lunchtime and after the turnoff at Qarshi we confront them for the rest of our journey, full in the face. It is one long, tiring, unrewarding battle and we cycle at less than 10 kilometres/hour for the last half of the day. To make matters worse, the road is not flat and the 6% inclines are murderous to make in these conditions. It's close to sunset when we climb the fine cement-sandy track just outside of Chardavar (101km; 358m) We have our share of visitors but I'm so busy with sweeping out the not earlier detected double-gees (prickles) from the tent area that they slip my attention and Ali has to go through the usual round of questioning. Even Superman was blown to oblivion today and I can see he really just wants to rest. Eventually we are left alone and get on with the usual chores before tentatively flopping on the mattress, in case we had missed a couple of those damaging prickles, and falling into a deep, deep sleep.

It's an earlier rise than normal this morning; to try and beat the headwinds but unfortunately mother nature is against us today. We struggle a 35 kilometres in four and a half hours before almost being blown backwards. We both look at one and other and know we have been defeated and flag down a series of trucks before finding one that will take us the 50 odd kilometres up the road to Samarqand. When we see the state of the road, we are so grateful to our two truckie friends. Vehicles can only travel between 40 and 50km at the most and some craters require almost complete stops to pass over them. Legally, only three persons are permitted to ride in the cabin, so I can only feel and hear most of the poor road conditions as I'm stashed away out of sight in the sleeping compartment. Takes me back to sneaking into the drive-ins by hiding under a rug on the backseat floor. We make Samarqand by early afternoon and our drivers won't accept anything for their troubles. We can't thank them enough and they pose with our bikes in front of the truck. They are tickled pink by the attention from the locals and the photograph of course, which we will send to them from Tashkent. They pull out and we cycle into town. (Chardavar to Samarqand: cycling 43km; 358m; truck 46km)

It's a foregone conclusion that we are going to stay at Bahodir B&B (Mulokandov 132) as it gets rave reviews from travellers everywhere. Mostly for it's friendly and relaxed atmosphere but also dinner only adds an extra US dollar to the budget, which is a very attractive price for the meal that you get. Vegetarians will either have to find their own food or ignore the fact that the soup stock is animal based. The hotel lives up to it's reputation of hospitable management, hot water, spacious rooms and a super relaxed common area where you can drink as many pots of tea as you like. That all said, the place is long overdue for a decent spring clean and you are likely to be dished up stale bread at breakfast which is included in the roomrate.

The city of Samarqand can be absorbed quite easily in a couple of days and although it's majolica tilework is quite spectacular and the structures superbly impressive, it all appears a little sterile and lacks the magic and querkiness that Bukhara has on offer. The entry prices into the registan and mausoleum are ridiculously expensive, individually equalling that of your overnight accomodation. The bazaar in absolute contrast, is a bubbling exhibition of colour and excitement. Don't settle for the first price and be prepared to spend some time before it drops. We plan to stay 4 nights but Ali once again falls victim to the same stomach problems that have been plaging us since Tehran and we remain an extra day. We leave for Tashkent on June 1.

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