It was with this thought in mind that I sat uneasily in the aviakasse (ticket office) of the small airport at Osh.

The problem was this: we were in Osh, but our passports were in the Kazakh embassy in Bishkek, leaving us with only a stamped photocopy each as proof of identity. Had this been Belfast or anywhere in the west, such a flimsy excuse, true though it was, would never have been accepted. In fact, we’d have been laughed out of the airport. After all, anyone with a printer and a copy of Photoshop can rustle up a few fake passport images in about five minutes flat.

Of course, if you’re flying from an airport where it still seems to be the 1970s, the rules are a little different. After 30 seconds of looking at our papers and conferring with a policeman who had luckily been seated in the very same office, it was agreed that we would be allowed to fly.

Despite the apparent nod of approval, we were still feeling a bit of trepidation, and it was only after our papers were accepted a second time at the security check-in that we finally relaxed.

Our airplane was an old Russian one, an Antonov-24. After the flight, I looked on Wikipedia, and discovered that they stopped manufacturing this particular model in 1978. Hmm, it’s always comforting to fly on an airplane which is older than you are. The NATO codename for this particular aircraft was “Coke,” rather appropriate given the gallons of the stuff drunk by us so far on the trip.

Katie, I’m sure, was glad not to have been informed of this fact prior to the flight. She would have been slightly happier had I discovered this particular nugget of information AFTER our return flight to Osh.

Flying from a tiny airfield meant that we had no waiting time to obtain take-off clearance. The flight was relatively smooth, except for a few pockets of turbulence, and this was only to be expected in such a small aircraft. Our pilot had evidently once been in the air force, such was the steepness with which he banked the airplane into each turn. Perfectly safe, but perhaps a little unnerving for those used to more gentle turning.

The plane itself was sturdy but showing its vintage. The seats had a permanent degree of recline, even in the fully upright position. The once-white plastic of the overhead air vents was cracking and yellowed with age. The one above my head had actually been repaired with blue insulation tape.

Halfway through the flight, as we soared over the mountains of central Kyrgyzstan, the vents began to ice over a little from collected condensation. Glancing around, I noted that no one was screaming or running up and down the aisle [which would have been a rather short sprint, I suppose], and decided that this must be a fairly normal occurrence. I also decided that my definition of normal must have become rather hazy since embarking on this trip.

Our flight path took us over sections of the route we’d traveled by bike. It was very cool being able to pick out towns or mountain passes that we’d crossed only days before, and look down at the snowcapped peaks we’d previously craned our necks to look up at.

Landing at Manas airport, we were greeted by the sight of half a dozen lumbering refueling tankers belonging to the US Air Force, all lined up on the parking apron. The Americans pay the Kyrgyz government quite handsomely (about $200 million a year) for the privilege of stationing jets there as part of the war in Afhganstan. This newfound bling-bling went some way towards explaining the contrast in standards between the shiny new international airport facilities at Manas and the more antiquated offerings at Osh. Thank you, American taxpayers.

[Since writing this article, the BB team has successfully flown back to Osh with the same airline, ice-free this time]

Flights: 2250-2500 KGS one way
Taxis: Osh → Osh airport: 200 KGS, Manas airport → Bishkek: 400 KGS

As you know since then we have cycled through Kyrgyzstan and into Uzbekistan through some of the most amazing scenery and ancient cities that Central Asia has to offer.

Unfortunately the timing of entering Uzbekistan meant that we were in the country at the worst time in summer with temperatures soaring well over 40 degrees Celsius.

After cycling to the city of Bukhara through the hottest weather yet a “team meeting” was called and we discussed what we want from this section of our trip.

Despite the popular notion that the 3 of us are either masochistic or slightly insane a decision was made to use other means transport for the 600km of desert before the city of Nukus. Yes, we could cycle this by getting up at 4am every morning, sleeping during the afternoon and cycling at night, but it seemed illogical to waste our limited travel time and finances on more desert after doing just that in China.

From Nukus/Qongorit we took the train to Aktau as there are little to no roads or villages through and yes, it’s more extremely hot and boring desert.

Presently that puts us in Aktau, Kazakhstan where we are currently waiting for a ferry to Baku, Azerbaijan. From here we will be heading northwest to Georgia. There is currently talk of dropping down into Armenia for a few days before going back into Georgia to cross the border of Turkey. We plan to head through central turkey to the Mediterranean Sea and the city of Izmir.

For a visual view of since entering Central Asia check out this map.

As for Europe…stay tuned

So far I have met a couple from Spain that have been cycling around South-East Asia and are now on the same route to Europe as us.

A British motorcyclist named Jim whom I had the pleasure of hanging out with while he too applied for a Kazak visa. He was fortunate to get his in today and has temporarily escaped the vortex for a few days around one of the lakes here.

One of my favorite quotes from chats with Jim was

“The sharpest minds are quickly dulled here in Bishkek”

Leon, a British lad, who as it turns out was also a teacher in South Korea. He started cycling last October through various countries in South-East Asia but had been sucked in to the vortex for the last month trying to get the visas he needed. He too is now heading a route similar to us through the elusive Stans.

Leon holding up a pair of underwear weathered by his cycling

Peter, an older German cycle tourist had many interesting stories to tell and also had a plethora of information that has helped make our lives in Kyrgyzstan much easier. He was also a Chef in New Zealand on Great Barrier Island. As it turns out he is also heading along the same route as us with a detour to Tajikistan first.

There was a young French couple here on the first few days. They were planning on buying a donkey, yes that’s right, a donkey. They plan on walking all around Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan before heading on to Iran and Turkey.

The Sakura Guesthouse is definitely a place for visa refugees and worth staying at but be careful not to get sucked into the vortex. At least today (July 7th) Tom, Katie and I were able to submit our visas for Kazakhstan entry visa #2 moving closer and closer to that home cooked meal in Ireland.

Having said that, I’ve been pleasantly surprised with the level of name recognition generated by my fair and native land when mentioned here in the ‘Stans. Many of the people I talk to are, at the very least, familiar with its existence; definitely more so than the locals were in China. Well, they occasionally think I’m saying Iran, but I’ve learned to say Ir-lan-di-ya slowly enough for the message to get through. And the reaction is generally a positive one, which warms the heart a little.

However, some of the general knowledge could use a little polishing. Waiting at the Kazakh-Kyrgyz border, I was asked my nationality by some passing customs officers.
“Ireland. Ah, yes. Glasgow.”
Not quite, but right group of islands.
The next one was similarly enthusiastic but just as inaccurate.
“Da. Da.. Ireland – Rangers, Celtic. Very good”
Hmm, I was detecting a theme: football – popular; geography – not so much.

Being Irish can be an advantage, though sometimes in unexpected ways. On the way back to the guesthouse in Bishkek one lunchtime, Katie and I were followed from the corner shop by a fairly dodgy-looking gent. Katie said, a little too loudly, that she didn’t like the look of him.

“I AM FROM BISHKEK” he announced a few seconds later, rather more forcefully than the statement merited.
I was a little unsure where his line of debate was going, and expected at the very least a few comments on how tourists should keep their opinions to themselves.
“Where you from? Amerikanski?”
“Eh, no,” I ventured, hoping for the love of God that he had neither heard nor understood her comment.“Irlandia.”
“Irlandia? Ah, IrLANdia!” he beamed. “Da, da. Terror-isme,” he continued, pointing imaginary guns at my face and making bang-bang gestures with them.

The knowledge that I was from a country with a sufficiently dodgy pedigree seemed to satisfy him, and he sauntered off happily. I guess maybe there is no such thing as bad publicity after all.

Sakura had a lot in common with the song Hotel California [/ You can check in any time you like / But you can never leave/] in that many of the residents of our humble abode had been stuck there for quite some time. Several were present for both of our periods of stay. Nearly everyone, it seemed, was having visa issues of some sort or other.

Jim, an English motorcyclist/veteran guest, described Bishkek as the bureaucratic purgatory of Central Asia. When we met him, he’d been hanging around the city for almost two weeks, shuttling back and forth between various consulates, trying to obtain several of the mythical pieces of paper we like to call Tourist Visas. These were harder to find than hens’ teeth, and less seen than the Dead Sea Scrolls.

Still, he took it all in good humour. At lunch one day, we were commenting on the delicious smells of lunch wafting from the little kitchen area.
“Hmmph,” he snorted. “The only things I smell are the faint haze of cigarette smoke – Embassy, appropriately enough – and the stale odour of despair.”

We were rather fortunate in the company we kept. During our first visit, Sakura had taken on the appearance of a refugee camp for wayward cyclists; such were the numbers in residence. There were seven bikes in the garage at one point, belonging to a German, two Spaniards, one Englishman, one Japanese, and two of us (poor Katie still being stuck 20km across the border at the time). Some were going west; others east. It made for unmissable opportunity to gain valuable travel tips about the road ahead. Who needs the Lonely Planet when you can have first-hand, up-to-the-minute info straight from the horse’s mouth?

While walking back from an unsuccessful visit to the Kazakhstan consulate in Bishkek my curiosity got the better of me.

Kvas sold on the side of the street in Bishkek

It is called Kvas and turns out it is vodka mixed with some sort of fruit juice. Vodka? on the side of highways and streets at anytime of the day.

The more attention I paid to these small drink stands scattered everywhere around the city, the more I noticed people wandering up, sculling a drink and wandering away. It didn’t matter what time of day it was.

The Stans are truly a drunks paradise.

Of course, you’re all dying to see photos of the ‘Stans, and you’d never let us live it down if we skipped an entire region just to save the awful torture of sitting on our collective arses in a succession of nice hostels while embassies and consulates push paper from one side of a desk to the other.

These forced breaks have been very beneficial – allowing each of us a decent chance to rest, recuperate and refuel. This may be more of a good thing than I’d care to admit. Jared ‘tactfully’ compared my post- food poisoning, post-China ribcage to that of a concentration camp escapee. He even beat me up a hill once last week.

In Almaty and Bishkek I’ve been wolfing down as much hearty food as possible to replenish my diminishing reserves. Mr Mitchell, by the way, is doing rather well with his personal weight-loss plan, dropping 8-10kg during our Chinese expedition. Katie, despite eating less than either of us, still frets that she might put on weight during this trip. It must be a girl thing: 7 or 8 hours on the bike is apparently counteracted by the very thought of food, which in itself creates “virtual calories” that weigh upon the mind of the female cyclist.

Anyhow, back to the point of the story. We’re looking forward to the day when we rock up to the Georgian border and get the first of many on-the-spot visas. After that glorious day, the trip will become a case of no more waiting, which may make us a little bit thinner, but also a lot happier .