Blog de Kaz IV

06/07/08

The decision was made, as all important decisions should be, in the banya.

On this occasion, there was something about the circumstances that made me feel in reality I had little choice. I stood, naked as the day I was born, two tattoed kazakhs (equally starkers) sat on an uncomfortably close ledge in the dimly lit broom cupboard as as a man I knew only as Liono flayed me like a schoolboy with a handful of birch branches. "You must take the 2nd option" he said in rapturous excitement at the speed and certainly of his decision-making, "there is no doubt, the 2nd option is the only way you're leaving this town." From somewhere between my knees I mumbled agreement before Lino really got into his stride and as the temperature became unbearable we retired for a beer.

The options that we had been discussing in the lead-up to this sweaty climax were the choice of route I should take forward. I had made it as far as Kandigash (a chernobylesque steppe wasteland rather than the confectionary themed sex shop that the name suggests). My host - Astran (translated by himself as Liono) - had proposed I abandon my published route south towards the silk road. Instead we had been discussing heading north towards the capital, Astana, and then cutting back south across the steppe to Almaty. I had wanted to see the worldwide novelty of a brand new city (celebrating its 10th birthday) Astana and I also liked the idea of heading to Vinokourov's heartland (according to Liono) and Dostoyevsky's prison camp in Karaganda. By the time the plan, and my bottom, had gone before the golden toothed wisemen of the banya I had a feling there was only one outcome. I was to take the High Road.

Perhaps the most pursuasive argument in favour of the route north was however put to me the night before. I had arrved in Shubarqudyq and stumbled upoan a birthday party. I cornered the birthday boy and produced my map. Two shots of vodka were poured and options laid out. My host was also in favour of the high road. With all my clothes on and emboldened by the white spirit I protested "your way is so much further". "My way has more kilometres" he replied, "but your way has more wolves". It was elegantly put. We toasted the steppe, and my host was packed off to bed. It was, after all, his 15th birthday.

So - more culture, fewer wolves, the final reason for heading north I came from experience. Though my language skills are perhaps not perfect, I have been introduced to a remarkable nuance of Russian on this trip so far. In this rich language, it is incredible the range of surfaces that the word road (daroga) can cover. Though continually described as a "daroga", my three wheels and I have been sent down asphalt, dirt track, river bed, swamp, sand pit....you name it. It is not that I mind so much, it's just that the possible confusion this might cause shows the language to be lacking in clarity. Imagine you had ordered a sand pit for your toddler in the front garden and the next thing you know Paddy and Murphy arrive to daroga your drive. It just wouldn't do.

And so since it is universally agreed that the high road is made of a surface that we would all recognise as a road we decided that this would be the right way for the Tour de Kaz to turn. We'll gloss over the small matter of an extra 1000km for the time being.

I am now therefore closer to Russia than at anytime since I crossed the border. I have foregone the silk route (this trip was always more about lycra than silk) and after 10 days hard pedalling in which I've covered 1500km across the full spectrum of roads I am beginning to look south again.

After an incredible display in all conditions I have decided that CAK deserves a more complimentary name. She is now "the Duchess" which is also appropriate since it sounds a bit like the Russian word for luck (oodachy) and I intend to continue to ride my luck in the manner to which I have become accustomed.

Though we have come a long way, the Duchess, Bob and I have had some low points in the past week. I have been pushing too many kilometres, and when the eagles and villagers evaporated to be replaced by the macro-agriculture and endless asphalt of this bread-basket region, I have to say there have been times I have questioned the endeavour. In our war with the brutal steppe, honours at this stage are even.

A word at this point on bonking. No need for the olds to look away from the screen or for the kids to be sent to their rooms, a bonk is a technical cycling term to describe the point at which you run out of sugar in the bloodstream and your brain decides it was much happier doing the sudoku on the tube. Lacking the necessary sustinence your mind wanders and halucination begins. The clouds become eagles, the eagles become teradactyls and the bloke passing you in the car becomes Bob Hoskins and shortly thereafter you find yourself in the nearest bush.

Though I have mostly managed to stay upright, there have been a couple of moments where things have got very wobbly indeed. For that reason a hairy, sweaty man in lycra chewing his way forlornly through a packet of Lucozade tablets has not been an uncommon sight if you were to venture out in these parts at around 7pm recently. Not getting enough food has been a far more important danger than lack of water and it is one I'm getting better at controling thanks to a little help from my frineds.

For whenever it looked like we may not make our next destination it has been the incredible kindness and generosity of the Kazakhs that has pulled us through. Whether it be improptu vodka sessions out of the back of lada with the steppe's Del Boy and Rodney, or the simple offer of a floor for the night, the people here have one way or another kept us on the road.

One particular example was a Kazakh man who could not speak any Russian but came over to me on a petrol station forecourt to try and give me some encouragement. Unable to successfully express himself with words, he looked into his bag and pulled out an enormous sausage that he happened to have on him. He immediately thrust it into my confused hands and motioned that I should eat to get me to the next town. The thought of me trying to hand out a sausage to random motorists at the Battersea Park Shell garage has kept me smiling ever since. Add to list of gifts I've received chocolate, pear lemonade, random dried up salty cow's milk stuff and you get the idea.

And so mind and body have been rejuvinated by today's rest in Kostenay, I push on tomorrow for the capital. I hope that updates (and photos) will be a bit more regular from here so keep an eye on this space.