First I take the wrong road at a crossroad, but I’m lucky to meet some soldiers who – I don’t know how, but they do – know where I’m heading for, so they make me a sign to return and take the other road. Wow! There’s a straight stretch here, on a plateau on which I’m quickly heading for the white wall in front of me.

In few minutes I’m at the customs point. Here I find a building, a closed gate and two big dogs that want me. I see also three men far away. They make me a sign to open the gate myself and get in. I get the exit stamp in a small room and farewell. The Tajik border is after an ascent in the Kyzyl-Art pass, at 4,336 m, and I’m a little anxious about it.

Anxiety and all, but I don’t see any snow around. It’s just cold, but sunny. And dry. The customs.

The first barrier is up; I stop Doyle in front of a pay-office, where someone checks my papers and then wish me a very pleasant “welcome to Tajikistan!”. I thank, pull the clutch, pop! The clutch cable is broken. I have two spare ones, but the customs is not exactly the place to start fixing your bike. I push him to the next checking point, then push again, the last checking point, the last barrier up and here I am, entering Tajikistan with my head up, bravely pushing my bike. I’m lucky this customs point is not uphill. I stop after the barrier and Doyle has a new cable in ten minutes.

I’ve left. I don’t know how to say it, but Terra is somewhere behind me, in Kyrgyzstan. I’m on the moon now. If it weren’t for the sporadic stretches of asphalt, this would be the name of this place: Moon. A plateau at 4,000 m, as I’m on the “roof of the world”, surrounded by mountains to every horizon. Alone, a little cold, but bearable. Again I’m stopping more than I’m riding. And I realize one more thing. That it’s pretty hard to breathe around here. From time to time I have the feeling I don’t have enough air and every time I stop, when I put my helmet and gloves back on, I have the feeling I’ve just jumped over the last fence of the one hundred meters steeple chase.

The road turns into asphalt. Wavy, with many holes in it, but asphalt, and that cold I was talking about slowly starts to creep into my bones. All of a sudden, in this middle of nowhere, I see at my left a house with smoke coming out of the chimney. Moreover, a bicycle full of luggage is leaning against it. Great. I think this is a good place for me to get warm and have a chat with someone. I stop in front of the house and the entire family is coming out to welcome me. Alex is on top. Alex is a blonde boy from Holland that woke up in the morning, rode for two kilometers, stopped here and doesn’t manage to leave. But he is all a smile and a story. I’m invited in, I sit down and after a while I manage to understand why Alex doesn’t get to leave. Sweet torpor is coming over me and sleep is sneaking upon. I keep saying I’m leaving, the hosts insist that I shouldn’t, as the meal is being cooked for us. Well, I’m a little hungry, but I don’t like these people have bothered to do all these just for me, for us. A meal is being cooked, right, but an hour passes and still nothing. I say again I’m leaving, this time on a more determined tone, and a plate with meat is brought to me. I don’t know and I can’t figure out what animal this used to be, but it’s not quite the best taste ever.

This is it, I’m running, otherwise the stars will catch me on these mountain paths. Not far from this place I’ve stopped in, starts the ascent to what I think it’s the highest point I reach during my journey – Ak-Baytal pass, 4,655m. Again, no trace of snow. The two Austrians catch me up. They left Sary-Tash before me, but they took the wrong way at that crossroad that fooled me too. No big deal, they say; in Ukraine they returned three hundred and fifty kilometers to take a passport they forgot in a hotel room.

I’m very glad when crossing this pass. How much anxiety for this snow that proved to be only in my dreams after all. There’s very little left until Murgab, today’s final destination. I easily find the homestay Alex recommended me, a nice little house hanging on a mountain. You can see the entire town from there. A lady and a very nice little girl welcome me. I receive a bed in a room and I say I’d like to eat at seven o’clock. I get lost among the houses. There are so many children playing on the streets and they are yelling a very insistent “hello” after me. I believe I’ve heard this word at least one hundred times during these two hours. I got to the bazaar too, but I think it was closing time, as I only got to buy myself two bars of chocolate. They looked as if they were waiting for me here since the idea of going to Mongolia struck me.

I return to the little house. Meanwhile, a full team of doctors set in. There are five of them: a neurologist, a dermatologist and three others that I didn’t understand what are specialized in. Dinner is served. For me, in my room. They say in Murgab the electricity is on every two days: one day there’s light on a half of the town and the other day there’s light in the other half. I got in the dark side today, so I’m having a very romantic dinner at candlelight.

There’s a guy straying somewhere in Central Asia. I heard about him from Alex, who said he’s quite a strange guy, riding a bicycle thirty years old and some luggage that weigh seven kilograms. In order to have the big picture, imagine that Alex is carrying on his bicycle these seven kilograms and forty more. The door to my room opens widely and, full of live, Matthew, from England, is invading my universe. He’s the guy. Let me tell you another thing. In this journey I met special travelers, super-special travelers and damn-me-if-it’s-possible-to-be-more super-special travelers. Well, this Matt of mine, who I’m sharing my room with today, is in a fourth category. If I got it right, he’s twenty-six and hasn’t lived for nothing or in one place so far. He’s seen a big chunk of this world, sometimes on the bicycle, sometimes riding a 125 Honda that he also crossed Romania on. His luggage has seven kilograms, but he’s thinking of throwing away the tent, to gain some space, as he can live without it anyway. He has no rear brake and, as that thing called helmet is a stupid thing anyway, he’s wearing a hat.

The hospitality is pushed to a positive extreme in Tajikistan. These people seem to live to make you happy and feel good. While we’re eating, the nice little girl is coming in every five minutes just to ask if everything is ok or if I need anything else. We finish eating and we get under the blankets and sleeping bags, telling stories at candlelight until we fall asleep.

In the morning we’re taking our breakfast, while Matt is taking pictures of some pages in Lonely Planet guide, as he’s not carrying any guides with him. He’ll stay a while in Murgab, as he likes to leave a town after he devours it. He left Khorog, where I’m heading to, after two weeks. I pack with no hurry, while Matt is making some checking and minor adjustments to his bike and he’s contemplating the huge volume of luggage on Doyle’s back. I manage to leave at some point, leaving Matt behind me, waving his hand together with our host.

There’s something very important I have to do before leaving the town: the gas. If you can imagine, things are worse here than they were in Mongolia. I ask various people and follow their guiding, but I don’t get to any kind of pump. I run into a guy carrying a can and we seem to be driven by the same desire. We get to a gate and we leave after starting a little riot, as no one is opening for us. One hundred meters down the street, the gate of another house is opening. The house has “BENZIN” written on its wall in Cyrillic letters. This is it! I go in the inner courtyard where a gentleman is pulling nine liters, the quantity I need, out of a huge tank that has “water” written over it. We put it inside horse’s stomach with a funnel and I pay. I have no idea what this man has put there; the sure thing is that Doyle is not coughing, so it must be good. I pass another filter with barrier and my visa is checked. This is it, the road is mine.

My Doyle is flying at 4,000 meters as if that man has fed him with embers. The only thing bothering us is a side wind that is taking us on the side of the road from time to time.

I meet three boys from Germany, who are lying on the sides of the road as follows: two on the right and one on the left, playing a guitar. They’re waiting for a car to take them further, but cars are scarce in these places. I tell them I’d love to help them, but I have not enough sits. They comfort me with a smile, telling me they have all the time in the world. Ahead is the main road to Khorog, shorter and mainly asphalted. At the left there’s the roundabout road that people say it’s bad, but much more beautiful, on the Afghanistan border – Wakhan Valley. Marco Polo was here and he wrote a book afterwards, so I reckon Doyle is “in”. Well, I’ve solved the dilemma on riding. Few bicyclists that I meet after few kilometers scare me, telling me it’s fucking hard, but I keep riding. I have another stop, longer, at a checking point where there’s no one and the barrier has a lock on it. The only thing that crosses my mind is to whistle. Loudly. And it works. From some buildings few hundred meters away a soldier comes out running to me. My papers are alright, farewell.

The faintest trace of remorse, if it has ever been there, for choosing this road slowly begins to fade. There’s a landscape that takes your breath away. And it gets even better as I’m riding. At my left, beyond the valley, there are mountains that go beyond the sky. I stop, I leave, I stop, I leave. The exclamations in my head find their way out viva voce. Oh my God, what I got myself into!

The last stretch of the descent, to the little town called Layangar, is a little tricky. Big rocks, gravel, sand, small hills. But it worth the entire the effort once I’m down, on the river valley. There’s a little town there, which is from movies, from the history books or from fairytales. The houses are hanging on the mountain, with narrow streets, people riding on donkeys, all these bathing in a show-like light. And all of them are waving to me and smile. All of them, women, children, old men. Except the donkeys. I ride slowly, as I’m devouring every meter with my eyes. Here where I am it is very, very, very, very beautiful.

I leave the town and another one follows. Smaller than but as special as the one before. This is it; I’m not going any further. Homestay, at the right. I have to stop. I run again into this out of ordinary hospitality. It’s a traditional house for Pamir region, with a guest room, where I’m sleeping in. Food at seven, I initially say, so that I have time for a walk until the sun is setting. But I’m wrong, as meanwhile on this road, the time zone has changed once more. So we’re eating at six. I go out on the street. There’s a show. Or I’m a show. Every one is saluting me, and a simple smile turns any circumspect look into a smile answering mine. The people are working on the field, but I’m interrupting their work. Every one is looking at me and everyone is calling me. I’m one thousand years ago in this place. A family sifting wheat is calling me to join them. I go, we say hello, we talk and we even understand each other a little.

The sun disappears in the mountains and I’m heading for the little house that is hosting me. The dinner is already on the table and the setting is more than I could possible ask for. My host has cooked a delicious dinner and I’m already embarrassed to answer “yes” to the repeated question “is everything alright?”.

This is it. Tajikistan really is from the moon, I wasn’t wrong. I go into the bed waiting for me with many thick blankets. You see, there are some days in this world that you are meant to live, days that are so, I don’t know… different. Days that you feel like crying when you look back. This day, dear Adrian, is one of them.

Kara-Kol, pretty big town, but not big enough for an extra man. At the exit, cops. I see again the image of the pink stick waving (as a promise), I sigh and I pull over. The man comes to me; he has no intention to check papers or fining me. Just Doyle, where do I go to, since when and please give me your e-mail address. He also asks what I do for a living. Photographer. Aaa… so you’re taking me a picture. And he takes a hand-on-the-heap top model pose. I get down and he climbs in.

I ask him about gastinitsa and he tells me I’ve just passed by one. He writes me the name of the place on a piece of paper and I go back. I wander on a bunch of little streets, I ask three times three different people; one of them asks for five dollars to tell me. Ah, I find it, finally. I get off, exhausted, and I’m welcomed by a lady who is making a gesture (with her arms crossed) with a smile on her face: they don’t have rooms. Yes, that means one thing: I have to step on it until Tashkomur, fifty kilometers away, the only dwelling in the area that the guide says it has not one, but two hotels. And when I say I have to step on it, I unfortunately mean it. Dark is the last of the ingredients I’d like to add to the situation. I ride on some serpentines hanging on mountains and there’s a river running in the valley. The road is blocked from place to place by big stones or gravel fallen from the slopes. There are excavators and police, the traffic is stopped. And this is the last thing I need. I keep struggling and when there are two grams of light left in the air… Tashkomur. The town is on the other side of the river and I get there by crossing a bridge. I ask about the hotel and the first person who answers me, and I swear I heard it well, says the hotel I’m looking for is in this town, but fifty kilometers away. I ask – five? No, fifty. He is clearly telling rubbish, but I least get the direction. I go in that direction and I’m eventually saved by a kid riding a bike, who shows me the road up to the gate.

This is it, great. I get in, empty. I hear some voices from upstairs, so I go there. I don’t get to enter the hallway as a big dude three times my volume runs into me, launched, with his right hand stretched towards me. “You speak English?”. Yes. This is a freak, I’m telling you. He grabs my arm, walks me around and that English he asked me about is only five percent of what he’s talking. He asks for my passport, a copy of it, he tells me something about some registration, whatever, I don’t understand a damn thing. What this dude wants, who he is and especially if I can sleep here. We get out and he tells me that Doyle should be brought inside. Ummm, this is tempting, but he doesn’t go in through the doors, as the left side is not opening, it’s nailed. No problem. We go upstairs again. There are two people and a lady in a room up here, busy filling in some registers. I ask my freak how much is a room and he tells me with a smile that it costs twenty dollars, registration included. I don’t want any registration, dude. I only want to sleep. There’s no way we understand each other so I’m preparing to leave, as I’ve already spent half an hour without understanding anything. This is scaring him a little and he explains me he was actually joking, he is not the manager, he’s just the guard. Well, I’ve got that, but it still doesn’t happen anything. A policeman shows up and he wants the passport too. The guard proudly introduces him as the “police sheriff” and tells me that one of those people busy with the registers is the “police boss” in person and tonight, after these dudes finish whatever they’re filling in, we’re taking Doyle to sleep inside the police station courtyard. Really! Then, as we have the entire police of the town on our side, he asks me if I want some girls. He only has to make a phone call and he can bring me three of those. No, thanks. Then he asks me if I want something to eat. I’m boiling. I stop him and I explain him, as clearly as I can and sort of yelling, that I’m tired and dirty, I’ve been riding the whole day and I only want a room to sleep in. Just that. And I’m in a hotel, mind it, but everybody seems to be busy doing something fucking else. Yes, he finally gets it. A lady is called and she takes me to my room. It’s about three Euros. After I change my clothes, I hear a strong bang downstairs and I kinda know what’s going on. I get down and I see both doors banged on the walls and three boys walking around Doyle. That’s it; we’re getting him inside, with a trellis work put over the stairs and four people pushing the beast up. Doyle is sleeping under a ficus today, near the reception desk. I admit; this is not an image you see every day I’m going to my room and I’m carefully locking the door behind me, so that I don’t wake up with the wacko inside, in the mood for who knows what.

In the morning, after packing, I see two of the guys that helped me yesterday with the pushing. They’re chatting with a goat. I stretch the girths on the luggage and when I go to them to ask for help, I see the horned one has already passed away and they both have their hands full of blood. Well, I linger a little, as this is not quite an image I want to see in detail. They come to me later and we get Doyle out of the hotel together. I say thanks and I run away from this strange town.

On the road: it’s hot to very hot. I don’t like it, but I’m glad at the same time, thinking of those 4,600 m in altitude that are waiting for me few hundred kilometers away. On this road I find a new breed of participants to traffic. It is the one that accelerates like crazy when you try to overtake him and, if you manage to get to his window, you see him looking straight ahead very concentrated, with a grin of satisfaction splashed all over his face. Nothing spectacular besides that. The landscape is not the same as it was yesterday. It’s flat, full of heat, holes and radars. Only at about seventy kilometers from Osh I’m getting some shivers, after overtaking three military tabs in a row of seven. When I get in front, I see the entire row is led by a police car with the lights on. And that wouldn’t be too impressive if I didn’t see that all the cars on the opposite lane were stopping outside the road. How cool, I’m in the middle of an official row. I wouldn’t bother to ride this way if it only has moved with more than 50km/h and if all this equipment hasn’t generated this huge amount of smoke. The ones I’ve overtaken are now hurrying me from behind and they are again in front of me, one by one. I’m at the end of the road again. I remember a learning I’ve got from a truck driver – the easiest way to overtake someone who doesn’t let you overtake him is to pull over and have a coffee. This is exactly what I do.

I enter Osh one hour later. I look for the guesthouse Alexandru and Mark are staying in. The info in the guide goes something like this: take the first small street after a row of kiosks, then diagonally the third flight of stairs on the left. Asking for help is useless; no one knows where it is. Later on, when I manage to find it, it’s not hard to tell why. It is precisely the needle in the chariot of hay*. An apartment at the last floor of a block of flats among many other blocks of flats, with no road signs or something similar, where a smart ass stashed three-four beds in every room and now he’s a smart ass with guesthouse. In the evening I take a walk to the bazaar with the guys and a beer afterwards.

I like Osh. I have the feeling it’s the first time I meet the Orient on this road. Crowded, full of noise, everything meaningless. And the bazaar is the best of it. It’s the place for showing that dumb, all over the face smile of mine, that’s what it is.

I went to bed early and I’ve waken up early. I’ve waved the boys goodbye and started an intensive program of mint rubbing. First at the computer in the guesthouse and then during a walk in the town, in the bazaar, to be more precise. I got lost on the small streets and alleys, meandering and full of everything you can imagine. I’ve done this for several hours and then I’ve stopped at a restaurant and gambled the menu. I haven’t exactly got the best food in the world, but the thing lying on my plate was eatable. Then I’ve got to the sleeping place before dark, as they say lingering on the streets after dark in these places is not the best thing to do. I’m in bed, listening to some music and letting myself stolen by the sleep, thinking of the Tajikistan waiting for me in two days. Not white, I hope.

The packing nightmare has been pretty short this morning. I’m ready to go. I bravely face the traffic for about three traffic lights and then I’m out of town. There’s one more thing I should do. I have to change the tires, getting back to those for show, as Tajikistan is not the flattest playground to ride on. I stop at a vulcanization store and the team of fifty men surrounding me is ready to help. They are well-disposed, but I have to watch them intensively. They’re up on the wheel on their feet, they pull it all the ways, and they grab the brake disk. I stop all these sort of yelling. Slightly barbarian work, but well done. Bye!

I leave the oriental Osh behind me and I start again my fooling-the-radars play. Only one of them makes me a sign to stop, but slightly at the last moment and I pretend I don’t see them at the last moment too and I keep riding. I look at them out of the corner of my eye in the rear view mirror. No, I haven’t started any fire, I haven’t turned any destiny upside down. As I’m riding on, the traffic and the civilization slowly start to fade out. There are only few pieces missing, then there are still few pieces, but longer ones, then there are only few pieces of asphalt left and at the end there’s only me, the dusty road and few trucks. I realize that, the longer the time since I left home, the lesser the number of things needed for a feeling of anxiety with flavors of fear settles in. At this very moment for instance, I know for sure that what makes me feel uneasy is this grey in the sky. It’s high time for me to tell you something. Do you know how this path Doyle and I are bravely riding onto, which starts in Osh and goes on until Tajikistan? M41. Well… I know, it doesn’t tell too much to me either. What if I say Pamir Highway? Well? You are thrilled, aren’t you? Well, look at me now. This stretch, from Osh to Khorog, was made by the Russian masters in the 1930’s so that they can take troops, supply and other tricks, me among them, to this far off point of the Soviet empire.

The road is empty, I’m sort of scared, but we keep riding. I chat a little with a French bicyclist and then I move on. The number of trucks starts to increase and they seem not to do anything else but moving the gravel from one place to another. During such a maneuver with sand, they’re blocking the road, pushing some gravel from the slopes. I chat with few kids riding on donkeys, until I decide to ride on the river bed, as I’ve seen the other cars doing. It’s not the brightest idea I had today, as, after seeing a truck almost getting upside down when trying to get back on the road, I get stuck between rocks, without being able to move one centimeter in any way. Nevertheless, the relationship I’ve nursed with the children on donkeys starts to pay off and I’m out in five minutes with their help. Needless to say that meanwhile the traffic has taken its course and I’m the last one now.

The ascension to Taldyk pass begins – 3,615m. The road turns into something full of dust and the trucks make the view even more beautiful. In few minutes I almost see nothing. I still distinguish a group of bicyclists that are hardly struggling. Jamie and Suzie from England, who ride around the world and promote the solar energy. We stop to chat in the dust and we decide to meet at Sary-Tash, the town from across the pass, where all of us are ending this day.

I get on top. There are clouds, so no view at all. If I wasn’t seeing anything through this dust, well, now it’s as if someone has turned off the light. Luckily the descent starts, I get out of the clouds and I see the tiny Sary-Tash – the last place to rest in Kyrgyzstan. I see a road sign with “homestay” and I enter the gate of a yard where three bicyclists are waiting for me. A German couple and Charlie, from England also. Until I unpack and change clothes, Jamie and Suzie show up, followed by two Austrians in a Suzuki Samurai. One of them is a motorcycle dealer and tells me he has all the tools for mending Doyle if some trick happens to him. Thank you, but I’d rather don’t. The party starts all of a sudden. We take some beers and brandy from the store, the Austrians take some vodka out and Jamie finds a collection of hats in a room, very suited for today’s masquerade ball.

I don’t know what time it was when I parked, the sure thing is that we’ve left an army of bottles on the table and I know I fell asleep having in mind the chain of mountains full of snow that I was seeing from the threshold. The mountains I’m heading for, that I hope I’m passing by and that… ummm… good night.

* looking for the needle in the chariot of hay = Romanian saying; it means looking for something (almost) impossible to find.

I keep walking around and I swear I have no idea what to do. I have to leave, that’s a fact. I have to get back to Bishkek, as tomorrow I have to take my visa for Uzbekistan. Do I really have to? Well, I can stay here, but what if it’s snowing every single day? Yes, I’m leaving. Am I? Where the fuck am I leaving to? I mean, I’m leaving, but in this case am I going to get anywhere besides that place much higher than these three thousand meters, where the angels are playing their harps on the clouds? I catch a glimpse of a streak of blue at the horizon and it seems to head for me. Well, it’s going to be sunny. So what? My way back is at the altitude of 3,500 m, meaning there are for sure some kids there singing “Silent Night” and Rudolf is giving his breath away carrying Santa’s sledge. You have my word I have no idea what to do. I look all ways, spin around, enter the yurt and get out. Yeah, I have to leave. How and if I get there, well, that’s something I’m gonna find out trying to. I get dressed, put the luggage on Doyle. I go to pay and I let my host know I’m leaving. Tea? I’m not at all in the mood for tea, but it’s warm and I surely gonna miss it later. She makes me a bowl of semolina with milk, which I’m usually not so very fond of, but I eat that too. I’m on the saddle, I wave, I leave. God help me!

I keep thinking of the meaning of the words the driver I met yesterday around here, guiding a group of Belgians said to me. He said: “if rain, problem”. Was that referring to the river I’ve crossed? I ride some five hundred meters until the yurts disappear behind a hillock, when… mud. I’ve actually realized this is mud long after seeing it. Immediately after the smash!. It actually was more like a pop!. The rear part has slid ninety degrees and I’ve tried in vain to put something back. It’s been much too rapidly. On the right. Doyle is on his back.

I’m appealing a little to your imagination, so that you understand what’s in my mind. I’ve stood up and, while looking at Doyle, I’ve taken off from the Earth and flied to the sky at light speed, I’ve passed the clouds and gone out in the stratosphere, until I’ve seen Terra as big as a football. In some place in Central Asia, lost at three thousand meters high, I see a little red arrow with something written underneath: “you are here”. Great! I look around, from horizon to horizon – no one. I try to lift him. Impossible. He’s fallen downwards and I’m sliding in this mud like on that skating rink in Drumul Taberei. What can be done? Well, I’m going back to get help. I’m not getting to catch my breath that I see a silhouette on top of the hill. I knew I have angels at this altitude too. It’s a lady of age. I make a sign to her to come and help me. She makes a sign to me to come to her. It’s useless for me to come, you come here! No, you come! C’mon, dude, there’s no need to understand the language to see this is not the normal position of a motorcycle. I’m persuasive. She comes slowly, accompanied by another lady and a kid. We grab the beast and put him on his wheels. Thank you. I’m leaving. Two meters, pop. On the left. It’s clear; these ladies are coming with me to Bishkek, though it will take us quite some time to get there at this pace. We lift him again and move it on the grass. I thank again and try again. It’s working on the grass. First gear, easy, one foot down every once in a while. Salsa! This is on Doyle’s schedule today. I try to take the lead, as a partner with initiative, but he’s more determined than me. I’m not very comfortable on the saddle, because of the carrot. There are ten kilometers left until that main road, with gravel on it, so we shouldn’t have any troubles. I cross the river and get to the road. Thank you, Lord.

I head for the mountain pass. I’m ascending slowly; there are traces of snow all around me, then some thinner layer. And so on, until…

I don’t know if this picture worths one thousand words, as I don’t think there are enough words to describe what I felt in front of this view, but if there are at least five hundred, I’m pleased. It’s white all around me: the earth, the sky and Doyle. The fear has slowly faded away and its place has been taken by laughter. If I had someone with me, I’d laugh my brain out, but under these circumstances there’s just something inside that swims to the surface in the shape of a dumb smile. It’s not sliding, as the snow on the road is watery and I realize while I’m advancing that my extended hesitation in the morning has been a good thing. It gave time to some cars, two of them probably, to pass by and leave the tracks I’m following now. After crossing the mountain pass, I stop for an artistic moment. I build a little snowman. I let him there with his smile on his face, as a proof of what I’ve felt, for the ones who will pass later. If they will.

There’s a different season on the other side. It hasn’t been snowing at all. It’s sunny, there are few little clouds and it’s pretty dry.

When my descending is sweeter, I see two bikers. Alexandru and Mark. It’s written that I’m not getting rid of them. The good news is that Miss Katy is now in function and has a crave for riding. We chat for an hour, as we haven’t met since Kazakhstan. Look at the riders we have here. Yes, that’s beer.

We say goodbye to each other, me wishing them good luck with that mud and them wishing me good luck at their turn. Now I really have to ride hard, as I’ve left late and now it’s even later. I get to asphalt and then apply that scheme with hiding behind speed-lovers. It’s useless, as the first that I ‘take’ is stopped by the radar and I’m stopped with him. Without photo this time, five hundred som, briefly. Two hundred. Give me four hundred. Take three. We say goodbye as friends, no receipts and such. After the last halt I make, I catch a Toyota pick-up, which is astonishing, taking into account there is town after town along the past one hundred kilometers. A little too astonishing, as it’s riding with 120 km/h inside towns and villages, which is not my style at all, but let it be. This time only.

I get to Bichkek at dawn. I get the same bed at Sakura Guesthouse and I still have time for a late beer, listening for the stories of the other travelers.

I wake up at eight in the morning. The embassy of Uzbekistan is waiting for me. It opens at ten. While I’m making the inventory of the papers, I notice my letter of invitation has even an expiry date. Today. I don’t know if this is a pleasant coincidence or not. I’d say no, judging after the anxiety I’m feeling. At nine and a half I’m in front of the gate. The first. It’s ten o’clock and a little soldier with a list shows up and calls us. I’ve been the first for nothing, as I’m the sixth out of seven, according to the list. I queue for about an hour and I get in. I keep my fingers crossed while the lady at the pay-office is inspecting my papers. Come at three o’clock for the visa, with seventy-two dollars. Yeah! Yeah, baby, I love Uzbekistan. I have a one hundred bill and I’m thinking I should change it, in order to avoid the slightest potential complications, and return with seventy-two dollars sharp. I make this maneuver, sip a coffee, visit an internet; it’s three o’clock, I’m back. I proudly put the seventy-two dollars on the table and… it’s not good. I don’t understand what’s wrong, they’re old, they’re torn, they’re simply not good. What if I bring one hundred? Is it good? It is. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Ten, ok? Don’t close the embassy. I run as fast as I can and take my one hundred bill back. I have a beauty of visa and a change in old and torn bills. I’m so relieved, that I feel like giving something to drink to everyone I meet on the street. I only give something to drink to myself, back to the headquarters, and then I fall asleep like a baby. Starting tomorrow I’m back on the road with the appropriate papers.

I wake up at seven thirty. Sunny outside, hunger for riding inside, no mood for packing. So I’m leaving at about ten. I get lost a little in the town looking for an ATM and then I find my way. A perfect day for riding. Am I saying perfect? Per-fec-stop! Radar. When I’m about to leave Bishkek. I pull over and while I’m taking the gloves and helmet off, mister policeman makes me a sign to leave. No, wait. Where from, what, how, where to? Aaa, Osh? He enlightens. He tells me I’ll have a beautiful journey. He looks like if he would like us to shake hands but something, probably the uniform, is not allowing him. I set off.

I turn left and I’m out of the traffic. I have the mountains with their snowy peaks in front of me. There’s a barrier before the ascending starts. There’s a tax to pay. I knew this; I read it in the guide. I stop in front of the pay-office and the gentleman is weighing me. Davai, and he’s lifting the barrier. Look, the uniforms seem to be on my side today. Spasiba and I split until he’s not changing his mind. I wish Doyle good luck with a short but determined pat on the croup and c’mon, gallop! There’s no one in front of us. The ears are popping, in turns, left ear, right ear, it’s so fucking cold, one thousand, two thousand, three thousand, in few minutes. The mountain pass is a dreadful tunnel of 2.6 km. Two cars hardly get in side by side, not to mention the trucks. And inside, beside the fact it’s pitch dark, there’s a sort of roaring in crescendo, as if you have a meeting with the mother of the ogres at the end of the tunnel. I find out in this pitch dark that the short phase is going nowhere and the long one is going somewhere in the ceiling. Lucky me I have the projectors, them be praised! They say back in 2001 a car broke down and blocked everything and, until the truck drivers realized they should stop their engines, four men already had died, asphyxiated. Tor-Ashuu is the name of the mountain pass. 3,586 m and a hell of a cold.

Then the descending follows and a wonderful plateau packed with rows of yurts from place to place on the side of the road, selling all sorts of diary products. Again ascending to the mountain pass with beautiful name, Ala-Bel, 3,184 m. The asphalt is smooth, you can’t ride without stopping. Nevertheless, as the sun is starting to set, I start looking for a place to sleep as soon as I get on the shore of the Toktogul Lake. I’m not paying too much attention to the landscape ad I try to find ‘gastinitsa’ on the plates displayed from place to place on the side of the road. It’s not there or I’m not seeing it. It’s still ok, a plus on the list, that it’s not so cold and the mountains don’t have white peaks anymore since I’ve crossed those mountain passes.

Nope, nothing to sleep in. Absolutely nothing. I really won’t mind putting up the tent here, but I still let it as plan B. C’mon, Kyrgystan, give me a bed…

*Pun; in Romanian, the word for “snow” is “ninsoare” and the word for “sun” is “soare”. So in Romanian “snow” has sun in it.

I’m cautious again on the road. I’m not in the mood of hurting my wallet, as it happened yesterday. But it seems the police is off duty today. Maybe because it’s Saturday and they’re drinking a beer like everybody else, with the money they’ve been stashing throughout the week. The road is winding alongside the lake. It’s not the best asphalt, but it’s ok. I stop after ninety kilometers, as I find a settlement that it’s being chopped to the dogs* in Romania.

I say hello to a boy that passes by on his horse and I fool my hunger with one of the three apples I’ve taken from the yard the Lonely Planet writers had been fooling around into. The trick works out, so I move on. I pass Karakol, a town at the Eastern edge of the lake, without a second thought. I can’t believe how easily I’ve passed by the labyrinth of small streets without the GPS and without asking someone for help. And that’s it, I’m on the southern shore of the lake, heading for Bishkek again. I have to be there on Monday, so two more nights in the area. One of them somewhere around here and the other one on the shore of a different lake, Song-Kul.

Well, Tiffany was right. It’s more beautiful on this side. The view to the mountains is more beautiful, the traffic is not so high and the place don’t look very tourist-like. Unless, as it happened on the other side, as the season is over, all the taverns and hotels have big locks at their doors.

During a stop for a photo session, I kneel near the horse to check the water pump. Preventively, as there are less than four thousand kilometers since I changed it. Through that aperture that signals trouble I see some coolant drops showing up. Well, it’s sort of dying. The position I’m in is the best to receive news like that. I’m on my knees and I feel as if I’m on my knees. I’m telling you with the entire honesty I’m capable of – I’m fed up with having problems. I’m under the impression that I receive bad news every single fucking day. Yeah, I know it could be worse and I know that not everything is black but I have no idea what it is, stress, loneliness, dor, all these combined, as marvelous ingredients they are. I have some oil seals from the water pump, but the mere thought of taking the whole thing to pieces, put it back and quickly reaching the heights of Tajikistan is enough to make me sad. That’s it. We go ahead, as ahead our home is.

I stop in a small town, more like a village as a matter of fact, and I sip a cup of coffee. I ask the girl serving if she knows a place to sleep around here. Yes, she does, and she asks the lady who is inside at a table. She tells me to follow her after I finish my coffee. This is what I do, after winning the battle with a drunk dead gentleman who has triumphantly entered the tavern and decided I’m the one who has to have a drink with him. The lady’s house is one hundred meters away. I have a room with three beds, pictures on the wall, carpets on the walls and windows full of gewgaws and perfumes. The entire package at the price of two Euros in local currency.

I “go out”, eat something and I go to the beach, where I’m having a chat with few kids. Some of them take a bath, others are fishing, others are playing let’s-break-our-necks on top of some metallic construction, from where they’re jumping on the sand. The sun is running into the clouds at the horizon, behind the mountains, and I’m running to the bed. I stop a little in the courtyard to have a chat with Doyle. It’s been more like an exchange of cheering ups. C’mon, Doyle, we can do it.

First thing before going to bed has been changing the bed, as there was a pretty big grasshopper hanging on the curtain near the bed I’ve picked first. Ah, what an inspired choice, as in the morning it was lying without breath in the bed I’ve abandoned. I’ve packed in slow motion and I’ve left, after picking up the pants and socks I put in the tree to dry.

I’m looking in vain for a coffee on this road. It’s deserted. The owners left together with last summer’s tourists. I leave the lake behind me and I find, calling the inspiration again, the road I want to ride on. Road signs haven’t still been invented in Kyrgyzstan, except for the places there’s no need for them. And Marcel, with the map and program he’s having, only tells me where I am, not where I should go to.

This road is even emptier that the one I’ve left behind. I stop to eat the last apple in the strategic stock. Again I’m stopped in the middle of nowhere, at a crossing barrier. They’ll take my money, that’s for sure. But no, this time there’s a request I think I don’t understand from the first place. These people want some… salt. They bring a salt cellar. With some leftovers to make themselves understood. I don’t have salt, so farewell.

One last attempt for coffee before entering Kochkor. There are two yurts in a small wood on the side of the road and a family leaves here. They don’t have coffee, but a tea and a shashlyk make me forget about ever wanting coffee. I share my meal with a brown dog, with brown eyes and brown nose and I’m leaving.

I fuel in Kochkor, as chances are scarce to find a pump until Song-Kul Lake, as thin the road until there and back is. From now on I only meet the Chinese trucks coming on the opposite lane. I have Torugart mountain pass in front of me. China is on its other side. I’m not getting there, but I’d like to. Fifty kilometers and then sign to the right, to the lake, fifty more.

Things are getting serious. There’s no asphalt, but a narrow road, but this is not the problem. I’m in that situation when I’m mostly stopping than riding. The road is going up steeper and steeper and I find myself at 3,300 m without even noticing. There are patches of snow around me, silence like in a grave and it’s sunny. I’m riding slowly. I wouldn’t want to miss my footing around here. And it’s so annoying, as this is that kind of landscapes that steal your heart and, believe me, I know what I’m talking about.

I cross a mountain pass and I see the lake in front of me. It’s not as I expected it to be. It’s huge. I find a yurt on the side of the road and I stop. There are three kids, about 16-18 years old. The youngest seems to be sort of drunk. I’m invited in and I eat some homemade bread and tea. The boys tell me to sleep there, but I say no, thanking to them. I’d like to find something on the lake shore. When I go out to take my camera I have the -I don’t know if pleasant – surprise to find the youngest and drunk one on Doyle with the helmet on. He gets down quickly, throws a spasiba to me and mounts on a donkey. I say goodbye to them and we move on, to the lake shore.

There are many yurts here and some of them have CBT written on them. That means ‘Community Based Tourism’, a tourist program involving local people, that is agro tourism then. I stop in front of the first one and a lady welcomes me. Yes, I’ll spend my night here. It’s more than beautiful. I change my clothes and the host comes to me and asks “Tea?”. Yes, please. I enter the other yurt and I sit at a table full of homemade bread and butter, jam and four different kinds of sweets. I enjoy my tea in the company of four ladies and then I go out to take a walk around.

It’s complete madness. The light is like nowhere else. On the lake shore I find a billion of edelweiss again but these are sort of dry, compared to the Mongolian ones. The rain starts and I run for shelter. I enter and I have to go out. It’s that light I know, which announces something: a rainbow. I see it showing up shyly and I almost encourage it viva voce. Nope, it doesn’t want to.

Dinner at six, in the family yurt again. At six o’clock sharp I have two plates in front of me – fish, tomatoes and some stuff with meat. It’s just my host and me at the table and I’m chewing slowly, so that I don’t wake one of the other women, who is sleeping nearby. It’s raining again and I see through the open door that light again that tells me to run and take my camera. But I’ve only begun eating. It wouldn’t be nice to leave the table like that, right? The light is going crazy. I start gulping like crazy and swallowing without chewing. Ready! One more tea? Nooo! I go out, hahaaa, it’s still there. I run for the camera.

I go to the heat of my yurt. A fire made of dry horse shit is burning, spreading some quite pleasant smoke inside. You see, Cerasela, there’s a saying that I wouldn’t want to try to translate: “as good as it gets”. This good has always been relative, as, you know, it depends on a pile of reference systems and all. Well, on the shore of this lake surrounded by mountains, at three thousand meters in the sky, in a yurt heated with shit, with no signal to my phone, with billions of edelweiss around me, with a rainbow I ‘m still feeling on my retina, with my full stomach and my bed made on the floor with many thick blankets, with Doyle parked near me, already sleeping, well, here I feel…

… as damn good as it can possibly ever get.

*Pun; “frunze” is the Romanian word for “leaves”. “To chop leaves to the dogs” is another way of saying “to rub the mint”; they both mean doing absolutely nothing, wasting time artistically.

I’m out on open road, two lanes in each direction, and we’re rolling with our latest discovery – 95 km/h. I have two hundred and fifty kilometers to Bishkek. I have no idea if I should hurry or not, as the distance is not too big, but I have a border to cross. I make one stop until there, for coffee, in a parking lot I’m leaving from with a bus in a mood for playing. I’m in and I leave it behind me after a constant 120 lasting for about two minutes.

I get to the customs point, at the end of a small town. There’s a crossing barrier here and some sort of a contest of who is overtaking whom. It’s being lifted every five minutes and you go further two meters in a total chaos. From across the street, after staring at me for a while, comes to me a boy about sixteen years old, with a strange look, of a man not having the entire mind inside the head. He’s somehow frowning and has a fox-like grin all over his face. He rounds the motorcycle and pulls whatever can be pulled. The fact that the drivers around me try to protect me, yelling at him, doesn’t seem to have any effect whatsoever. The same with my getting mad and pushing his hand away pretty violently every time he’s pulling something. I keep looking at the barrier in front of me and I keep trying to cut the row, as everyone does, but I have no chance in front of the cars and the trucks. Salvation comes from a gentleman that comes near me, tells me to round the row and then lifts the barrier.

A soldier is happily asking me where I’m from and, after I answer, sends me to a pay-office. Everything goes like oiled. The cars stop, slide the passport through the window of a booth, take it back in few seconds and move on. How cool, I think I’m getting unnoticed around here. I merrily slide the hand with the passport through the little window. A minute passes, which is strange. I stash my head through the little hole too. The customs officer with round head, oblique eyes and monitor in front of him is waving the registration paper and very authoritatively says: “problem!”. “Don’t make me laugh. And what kind of problem you want me to have today, militiaman?”. He shows me the date I entered on and tells me today it’s the 16th, so ten days have passed, so problem. I can distinguish on his forehead, although half covered by his cap, five letters, clumsily written but with a font as big as the Kazakhstan: b-r-i-b-e. You know what I’m thinking of right now, don’t you? At the day I lost in Karaghanda, with money spent on cabs, phones, walks to the hotel and back to the police station and to my great oak of nerves fallen by the little stroke named registration, that I made especially to get rid of this asshole playing the wise guy in front of me now. I sincerely smile to him and announce him I have no problem and I really mean it. Meanwhile, passports are flying back and forth near my shoulder. My man is determined. Well, I’m more determined than he is. He won’t see a penny from me today, this is not his lucky day, the planets haven’t formed a line up for him, he hasn’t met his sucker today. I clearly explain to him that the entrance stamp says six, the registration stamp says nine, so if he attended two years of elementary school and hasn’t failed at subtraction, he’ll see the result is three days, without period; moreover, he can read on the back of the paper, in three languages, some guiding that I, unfortunately for him, have followed. No, still problem. It seems that the font on his forehead is now as big as China, the letters are capitals and an exclamation sign has shown up at the end. He tells me he’s calling the police. But pleeease!!! For him, the police is some other customs officer that is hanging around in the customs point. He calls him at the window and I see him explaining something that goes like this: “C’mon, dude, help me do this dude here. Play nasty.” This dude takes the paper, turns to me and says the same thing, vaguely frowning. Yes. Yes, I know. You read on the back too, if you know how to, check the dates and then say it again. He reads, raises his eyebrows a little wondered and turns to the other dude.
- Why playing nasty, dude? Don’t you see it’s alright?
- Yeah, dude, but still, let’s squeeze something out of him, really, it’d be a shame not to.“
He turns to me again, encouraged, and says the same thing again. I reply with the same line. He gives up and turns again to the other dude. “Let him be, dude, he’s Romanian”. This one I got it right. He hands him the papers and leaves. I might be Romanian, but I’m riding a bike, so that means there’s cash running through my veins, so we go on with our waltz. Part B, the waiting. I swear I don’t have any problem. Maybe the only thing is that I know what this dude wants and that I’m right and from time to time I feel like entering this window with the upper part of my body and shove the registration and that monitor in, how should I put it?, his ass. But I calm down. I spend ten minutes with my hands in my pockets, contemplating that beautiful customs point, when, all of a sudden – “Mihail?” Yes. Meeting.
- Sponsor?
- What sponsor?
- WHO sponsor?
- Aaa… me sponsor.
- Aaa… money.
Ha, we’ve managed to come to the honesty part.
- No money.
- Well, go back to the town and take money.
- Nope.
- Go…
- No, really…

The font of the writing on his forehead starts to shrink and the first letters start to fade. He puts his hand on the stamp and smash!. He sticks it on the passport. He hands it to me, but he has the last word, with the forefinger going something like: “I’ve stamped this paper for you, but it’s not nice what you’re doing.” Yeah, I know. But I have an elder brother, you know.

I go to the Kyrgyz customs. I’m thinking of how it happens that, like it was in Ukraine too, I run into some ape-head like this dude here that carelessly pisses over all the beauty and good I’ve been through in his country.

It’s easy with the Kyrgyz. I think it’s the easiest of all the customs points I’ve been through so far. I enter an office, stamp, bye-bye. But I’m pulled over by the police after the first one hundred meters. They’re frowning, but they only want to examine Doyle. I have twenty kilometers left until Bishkek; I ride them in a hurry, as the night is falling over us. I hardly find “Sakura Guesthouse”, a little house owned by some Japanese, very nice and clean, where I get a cheap bed in a room of six. One of them is Peter, from England, riding a R1200GS. He is also on his home, but on a different route. I take a walk to the town, but pretty short, as I have to wake up early in the morning.

I open my eyes at seven in the morning, before the alarm-clock, which was set at quarter past seven. Today I’m going to wrestle with the Uzbekistan embassy, which I have to take a visa from. It’s raining outside and I’m walking over there, with all the papers ready. I find the embassy, but it opens at ten o’clock. Ok, embassy, you’ll see. I’m going to sip a coffee. Time passes by and at ten past ten I’m in front of the gate again. Well, there are ten people now and among them I recognize two Japanese who sleep in the same room with me. Bad news is coming today from the country of the rising sun. I should call before, to be scheduled over a week and receive the visa over one more week. This is not good at all, as I haven’t all this time and this visa takes only one day in Almaty, where I’m coming from. Not that I could have taken the visa from there, as my invitation letter is clearly saying Bishkek. But the invitation might help me get the visa earlier, they say. But I still have to schedule. I return to the guesthouse and my host helps me with the scheduling. I ask her to tell those guys I’ll pay, only to let me come in front, but still nothing – in five days, this is when I have to come. Well, really bad news.

I go out for a walk in this town where there’s no big deal to be seen. My head is swarming with thoughts. Every day I’m losing this way is increasing my luck or rather my ill-luck of freezing in Tajikistan, in those mountain passes at more than four thousand meters, where my way is passing through, and I don’t want this. Yeah, I won’t stay here for five days, this is clear, so I’ll take Doyle’s horns and we’re going to round Ysik-Kul Lake, top attraction of this country. I return to the guesthouse and I realize I’m a baby, after a chat I’m having with the other inmates. All of them are riding on bicycles. There are ten of them. Two from Holland, one from Switzerland, two from Germany, two from Japan, Australia and so on. And they go to all horizons. I go to sleep, as I have no chance. Doyle is in the garage, surrounded by babies too.

I leave at half past nine in the morning. I manage to get out of town from the first try, exactly on the right road. Serpentines, mountains, clear sky, but chilly. The only bad thing is that there’s radar every ten or fifteen kilometers. I keep hiding behind various speed-lovers, so that I ride productively and a couple of them are taking it. This scheme lasts for about one hundred kilometers when, after a curve, mister policeman springs up and is frantically gesturing to me to stop. He comes to me and shows me on the digital screen of his super-hi-tech laser pistol a picture of me beautifully bent on a curve. It says 94 km/h underneath the picture. In an area with a speed limit of 60. What’s your name? Mihai. Dear Mihai, and he smiles to me, this fun of yours will cost you eight hundred som, which is twelve Euros. Pff… don’t you have it cheaper? No. We don’t. I give him one thousand and he gives me change. Meanwhile, he motivates the penalty he gives me by taking a picture of a car running with 74 km/h and says something like “you’ll see how I’ll burn this one too”. I wake up too late and resignedly ask “receipt?”. The police guy looks at me, smiles and on a more than compassionate voice, innocently shrugging his shoulders, he says that no, we don’t have receipt either. Great, I’ve got rid of the money that was making Doyle too heavy.

Five kilometers away – barrier. There’s some guy at a pay-office that makes signs to the cars to pass. I get there and he shows me a huge text on a wall, ending with three digits: 500. C’mon, dude, you’ve found your ox to milk. I don’t have! And I’m taking the last change out of my pocket, about three hundred. It’s not good, two more. You don’t get it, dude, I don’t have, leaving aside the fact that maybe it’s not even necessary, taking into the account the way you’ve let the ones before pass by. Lucky me that a car comes from behind and the man is stretching his arm for the money, so that no row forms behind me. I give him two hundred and he lifts the barrier. No, Bogdan, don’t ask me about the receipt.

I get to Cholpon-Ata, a resort they say it’s swarming in the summer. Maybe so, but it’s quite now. I find a place to sleep at the house of a man who doesn’t seem to understand what I want and makes me pull Doyle near the tree and then behind the tree and finally in the garage. I have some time left for a walk on the lake shore. I see away, over the shine of the water, the mountains that are waiting for me with snow. It’s getting dark. And cold. I’m thinking anxiously of what’s in front of me and how I’m going to do. This cold that I’ve only anticipated starts to give me shivers. In the real meaning, in the literal meaning and in the fucking place I’m in.