Ulaan Bataar, the dregs!

A game of two half's it can be said for most of the world, and Mongolia in no exception. On my first morning here I felt chilled and relaxed, waking early and snapping some nice photos. As I strolled back towards the hovel where I slept, a guy beckoned me from the other cafe. He invited me in to eat and as I tried to explain I was eating at the other establishment he rudely awakened his sister, who spoke reasonable English. So we sat and got chatting, whilst her mother served us milk tea, an insipid watery concoction that had not the slightest hint of tea in the taste. It was palatable though, certainly not unpleasant, and as I finished each cup it was refilled instantly. Having explained I had no money on me, she said the needed none for the tea. Then came a bowl of food, tiny dumplings filled with meat, floating in more milk tea; traditional Mongol breakfast apparently. At the first bite I was unsure, on the second it tickled the palate, and by the time I stuffed the third one in my mouth I approved whole-heartedly. The meat was lamb, or sheep she called it, but it wasn’t tough like I’d consider mutton to be. Tasty though the meat was, the dumpling was purely unflavored boiled dumpling, relying completely on the filling for any taste. This is what had thrown me at first, taken as a whole it was pleasant, though not what I’d consider breakfast fodder. For over an hour we chatted, covering many aspects of our relative lives. She’s a teacher, born the same year as Cai, her mother was born in 1960, the same year as me. Reading the date on my tattoo it made her question the relevance of the dates, unlike the discomfort many western people exhibit when hearing the news of Cai’s death she didn’t, showing simple acceptance. When returning with money to pay for the food the family refused, I really should have given a little present, maybe a couple of my dice for her baby sister. (Photo: Cityscape - Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

In comparison I encountered my first ugly situation with a drunk Mongolian, later on in the same day. It all seemed to blow up so quick, as far as I could deduce because they women in the cafe I was eating in wouldn't serve him any more alcohol. One moment it was a slightly slurred request being made, then a raised voice followed immediately by shouting. With no hesitation he starting kicking the counter, hurling abuse at the women in the kitchen. As he stormed out he picked up a chair and threw it violently at the floor, I was gobsmacked, but kept my head down as I didn't want to get involved. Once he'd left I did follow him to the door, just to ensure he wasn't going to vent his anger on the BMW. Since arriving in Ulaan Baatar (the correct spelling this time) I've witnessed a number of outbursts from drunks, it is true the storeys of aggressive drunks here, they can be seen daily, and the number of outrageously drunk guys can be witnessed 24 hours a day. Innocently I sat eating at a local restaurant, a couple of guys came in, one really pissed, within minutes the drunk one was shouting abuse in my direction, or so I assume. The staff interposed and made sure he didn't have access to me, the fairly large cook came out and stood between us, then sat down blocking him in. The city dwelling Mongolians have not shown any desire to acknowledge me in passing. Yet it's common for them to nudge each other, point me out and snigger or blatantly laugh at my expense. In any Asian cities europeans stick out like a sore thumb, especially if you're over five feet tall. I've never come across such reluctance to extend any form of welcome or acceptance as here. It doesn't matter that you make eye contact, or smile, say hi, anything; they will look away, pretend you aren't even there. And that can often apply to merchants as well, which is really strange!! (Photo: Cityscape - Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

I've now spent five days in the capital and I can't say I've enjoyed them tremendously. The high points have been the other travellers in the guesthouse, after the weeks of hacking across the steppes alone the company has been welcome. Rather peculiar for me was the willingness to share part of my journey with other motorcyclists, but they mainly seem to have failed to make it. I thought there were a number of groups leaving the UK sometime in June, but so far they have either not made it out the country or are not contactable. But while I've been here the bike has been serviced and is ready for the next leg, crossing the Gobi desert. This is the real challenge, a tougher one than I've ever attempted before on a bike, and I don't treat it lightly. Tomorrow I set off, into one of the harshest riding zones you can imagine. No Roads, and I mean none at all. Pick a track and follow it, hope it gets you where you want to go. There are main routes, there are tracks to follow, but the terrain is harsh, it can be treacherously deep quagmires, washed out tracks, and flooded sections to navigate through. I feel rather apprehensive about it, I'm as ready as I can be, but it still shits me up at the prospect of going it alone, right the way across. With my huge fuel carrying capacity I shouldn't need to worry about running out, I can carry 6.5 litres of water and pump unlimited amounts through my carbon filter, so I won't die of thirst because it's wet out there at this time of year. It isn't a matter of risking life and limb, it's purely a matter of the physical hardship I'll be putting myself through. It could be a couple of weeks or so before I blog again, so don't go freaking out coz you've not heard from me, don't fret, it'll be fine. I've plenty of cash on me for people to rob, so there's not reason for me to come to harm that way. It'll be cool, I'll tell you all about it soon enough! (Photo: Not quite living on the high side - Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

Among the ravaging hoards!

Suuch Baatar was the first town after the border, the route down consisted of broken and sandy land, no aspect of it could be likened to what I passed through in Russia. It all looked wild and wonderful, there was no sign of cultivation, it was a land ravaged by time and the elements. How much could survive there was beyond me, of the little that grew even less could sustain any but the hardiest of animals. But I loved it, it screamed of unclaimed wilderness. No animals, no people and no buildings, not even Gers (yes they are Gers here, not yurts)! Still not having stocked up on food setting up camp without bothering with the few places of habitation wasn't an option, in fact with an empty stomach making it's needs abundantly clear I was getting desperate for fodder. At the edge of town a large building declared itself a Restaurant/Hotel, it was in fact a dilapidated, broken down derelict, with no sign of being used for many years. And then the weather turned against me, the wind picked up to gale force, turning the place into a giant sand blaster. It was viscous, I could hardly breath, had to fight to keep the bike upright and made a snap decision to hole up for the night, bugger camping. Once ensconced in a hotel I could feed myself and relax while the storm blew over. Right on cue it started raining too, double trouble! No-one else was stupid enough to be out in it, I could only ride around in the vain hope of finding a hotel. Three were found, but they all denied being a hotel, they'd feed me but I couldn't stay there. (Photo: Open plains - Nr Darkhan, Mongolia)

Puzzled is the only way to explain how I felt, they were all clearly labelled, in one I could even see a whole row of empty rooms. I didn't know what was going on, but wasn't impressed in the least. It wasn't a good start to my time in Mongolia! My last attempt seemed successful, yes a guy said, this is a hotel, and he called a woman down from the upper floor. No she said, I couldn't stay there, I was flummoxed. So was the guy, with a puzzled look on his face and a shrug of his shoulders he indicated there was nothing he could do to help me. And off into the storm I rode, the Doors tune failing to enliven me, I was livid. Hating Mongolians, doubting the wisdom of bothering to come the extra distance to include it in my tour, I carried on regardless. I couldn't imagine trying to pitch the tent, the wind was raging, blowing me all over the road. My shoulders ached with the effort to keep the BMW on the road, it felt too hazardous to attempt to ride in it, but I didn't feel I had a choice. I don't know what raged worse, the storm or my anger, but it was my anger which kept me going, driven by a raging hunger. As it was my anger lasted longer than the storm, which blew over within the hour. It had got to 8pm, breakfast had been over 12 hours earlier, I was starving. (Photo: Grazing lands - Nr Darkhan, Mongolia)

A three hut hovel sat desperately at the side of the road, two with open doors and signboards of gobble-di-gook displayed outside. I reckoned them to be cafe cum restaurants and made a beeline for the first in the row. Drawing up outside a large matronly woman appeared with a welcome smile which overshadowed even her enormous breasts and huge protruding belly. it doesn't matter the language, make signs of shovelling food into your mouth and people get the idea. In response she simply beckoned me in, I'm sure words weren't needed, my gratitude must have been transparent. Hungry and parched my instant reaction of spotting the freezer was for a bottle of water, until I spotted the beer, then that took precedence. Two truck drivers welcomed me, a third person failed to even register my arrival, until I cracked open my bottle of beer. He then turned round and indicated that if I couldn't drink any beer, because I was riding my bike. Hello Mr policeman, why couldn't you have said so before I opened the bottle. Ok, fine, water it will be then. Until one of the other guys informed me the place was also a hotel. To be honest I thought it was a broken down shack, maybe doubling as a cow shed, not that I cared, if I could call an end to the day it would suffice. Even more to the point, I could have that beer. So with a nod to the copper, off came the cap again and down went the amber nectar. Food was plentiful and better than anything I'd had for days, at least it was more welcome. (Photo: Young lad and his helpers - Darkhan to Ulan Bataar, Mongolia)

Wanting an early night I thought my luggage might as well be unloaded, at least the bits I wanted secure with me. I’d only taken off the tank bag when the policeman came out showing his appreciation for the bike, pointing at it and, so I thought, saying he had one too. No, not at all; he was asking to have a go on my bike. Bearing in mind I had no insurance, and didn’t want to offend the local law enforcement officer, but I hesitantly said no. Bless him, he tried real hard to reassure me he was a competent rider, I was sure he was writing an ‘A’ to either indicate he was an advanced or ‘A’ class rider. Apologising, I still refused, asking what would happen if he dropped it. He would not be put off, emphasizing he was an ‘A’ rider again, and he only wanted a quick spin around the parking area. Then I relented, why not, if he did drop it, it would be his fault rather than mine. I wouldn’t be the one to drop it for the first time, and it would serve him right. Yeah, fine I said and started it for him. Bugger me if he didn’t nearly drop it as soon as he took the weight onto his legs, he was only a short arse and was at full stretch. But it didn’t put him off, and give him his due he was well versed in the operation of bikes. He pulled off clean and took it easy, a satisfied smile creasing his face. Halfway round he stalled it, it doesn’t like walking pace in second, and damned near dropped it again. But again, giving credit where it’s due, he held it up and as he pulled up in front of me snicked it into neutral and pulled up with style. He loved it, making it clear how impressed he was with the suspension, how forgiving it was with the potholes, and when he nearly dropped it. (Photo: Life on the open road - North of Ulan Bataar, Mongolia)

After a relaxed start the day felt tranquil, emphasized by the gorgeous scenery. Whilst almost deserted the hilly surrounds were never without a Ger here and there, sometimes in only one or two, more often in clusters. I wasn’t in a hurry, and kept to 60mph. I wanted to make the most of the fabulous land, I was aghast at how phenomenal it all looked. Before Darkhan it was more isolated; a few Gers were to be seen, but not an abundance of them, small herds of animals were to be found widely spaced apart, and only a few people were to be seen. Hills graced both sides of the road, nice rolling hills accentuated by mountains behind them. Frequently tracks diverged from the highway, often heading off apparently nowhere. More often Gers could be seen in the distance, nestled into the leeward side of the slopes, faints tracks wound their way across the tundra. I was in my element, there was no sense of urgency, no need to hurry anywhere. Ulan Baatar was within easy reach, I could at any time crack the throttle open and make it in a couple of hours or so, but that was the last thing on my mind. I wanted to savour the flavour of the wonderful terrain around me, why would I want to rush through such a lovely place? What had initially been sparse, sandy land gave way to decent grassland, more capable of supporting the limited number of animals evident. Nor was the road itself tedious to ride, curving gracefully round the hillocks, rising and falling with the natural terrain, running through leafy avenues amongst the frequent clumps of trees. (Photo: Horsemanship skills - North of Ulan Bataar, Mongolia)

Basically heading directly south the quality of the land for grazing improved. From Darkhan verdant green open pasture provided plenty of rich grazing, herds got larger and filled the available space. Accompanied by old guys in traditional robes, or young horsemen with their playful hounds, the animals were a mix of cows, goats, sheep and horses. One old guy escorted a small herd of camels, leaving them to come take a closer look at my bike. He liked it, giving me the thumbs up, whilst I returned the compliment over his horse. As the grass grew greener the number of Gers increased in proportion, distance between them decreased and tight concentrations of people and animals showed clearly how well the land provided, at least at this fertile period of the year.The majority of herders were little more than kids, I’d be surprised if any of them were out of their teens. Care had to be taken on the bike, there are no fences to prevent wandering onto the tarmac surface, herders would often be doing little more than following and keeping an eye on the herd, driving them over the road to safety rather than allowing them to congregate so close to danger. But horses were often free roaming, a hundred or so animals hurrying to the nearest source of water, the young frolicking in youthful enthusiasm. Life’s hectic around the communities of Gers, each family with their own herd, all working them, keeping them apart, rounding them up into corrals. Darting here and there one kid seemed to be doing all the work amongst one family, aided only by a dog, who was in no doubt as to what needed doing. A couple of kids on horseback drive their charges back home, another on his BMX helping in the process. Happy smiles and enthusiastic waves brought a smile to my own face, there hadn’t been much of that on the journey so far; the rural communities of Eastern Europe had shown little desire in attracting my attention as I rode past. Of the Gers, they looked in good shape, well maintained with decent quality equipment. Clean canvas was the norm, caste iron stoves, often sitting outside the Ger itself, let out thin trails of light grey smoke. I’d been led to believe they used gasoline stoves, though the smoke didn’t look like it; I’d have expected darker more profuse smoke from a petrol stove, unless it’s a pressurised system, in which case I wouldn’t expect ot see much in the way of smoke at all. They may be nomadic still, they may be very traditional in their way of life and their attire (the older folks dressed so anyway), but they hadn’t refused to take on board modern conveniences. Most of the Gers sported satellite dishes & solar panels. (Photo: Nomadic life - South of Darkhan, Mongolia)

Though tarmac the road was slightly lumpy, it had a fair number of patches and was obviously maintained on a regular basis. At one stage, for a few miles, square sections had been cut out in preparation for repair. Twitchy steering plagued me all day, a slightly dodgy feeling that the bike wanted to follow faults in the road rather than where I was steering it. The front tyre looks a bit low, I’ve been meaning to check it and blow it up but haven’t got round to it, I won’t put this off any longer, it will be sorted before I leave the city. What an awful approach to city, as the road met the city boundaries it stopped and all traffic was diverted. Across what was the puzzling thing, it looked like open steppe, people chose their own route across churned up mud and dirt, over an abysmally wet terrain of horrible craters, pits and trenches. I just followed someone else at first, then decided that picking my own route might just provide a more suitable alternative. Barring loose sand this is my nightmare dirt surface; deep water filled ditches, slippery climbs out, and the pandemonium of busy traffic to contend with as well. Vans were sliding on the slopes, losing their grip and threatening to slip back towards me. It was manic and it scared me, but I held my nerve and trusted the bike would handle it, I only had to use the appropriate controls and relax. Covered in crud we rolled back onto the city streets, and proceeded to get completely lost. Every time I found my way back onto the correct road there would be a detour, I’d have to make wide sweeps around the city, through disgusting looking neighborhoods, to find my way back on course. I stopped dozens of times and it took forever, fighting my way through the traffic was worse than anywhere in Russia. But I made it eventually, poor directions but good advice over where to stay, I’ve taken a private Ger at Gana’s Guesthouse. The Gers are on the roof, and from the premises many Gers can be seen in tiny compounds in this part of the city. (Photo: Summer camp - South of Darkhan, Mongolia)

Bye bye Baikal!

Despite taking a days rest at the Baikal Plaza, it didn't inspire me to prolong my stay any longer. Whilst it was nice to spend my time amongst a more cosmopolitan environment, it wasn't enough for me to cool my heels. I've felt on a mission to reach Mongolia, and whilst the east of Lake Baikal feels as if you're in Mongolia it just doesn't quite fit the bill; there are still too many white folk around to fool yourself. The terrain falls from hilly forest alongside the lake, to flat grazing land around Ulan Ude. Heading towards the A165 from the city it changes subtly at first, but very soon it becomes a very different world. What at first appeared only as faint shadows on the horizon, gradually closed in to form distinct ridges to either side and followed me as I rode on down to the border. Finally turning onto the A165 itself they are close companions, I could see the details of them, they made me feel at home. If there is nothing I like better than riding my bike, it's riding through mountainous regions. (Photo: Hoopoe - Roadside dosshouse; Mongolia)

I've realised how harsh I sound about Russia, as though the areas I passed through were unpleasant, or boring. Nothing could be further from the truth, I never got bored of the place; tired of it maybe, but the landscape wasn't boring. To be surrounded by such vast open spaces is quite amazing, though the endless empty landscape, and endless long straight road, failed to inspire me to greatness; it simply urged me on the reach the end of it. It invoked a strong drive to get somewhere, which probably showed all to clearly by my relentless pace across the steppes. They don't actually stop at Lake Baikal, the area a just before, and around Baikal, was merely a relieving break. It done wonders for my morale, I was driving myself into the ground, days of taking it easy was to try and maintain a speed of only 70 mph, for up to ten hours. Obviously with stops and holdups (not the highwayman type) I never managed such drastic mileage as 700 miles, the best I managed in one day was 550. In reality that is far too much to do on poor quality, single carriageway highways.It paid it's toll, not drastically, but bad enough. Time spent riding is great, the evenings alone can be a bit on the lonely side. (Photo: A new day dawns - Roadside dosshouse; Mongolia)

Being very much a people person it comes as a surprise to find myself segregating myself from other people. Ok, I know this has something to do with not being able to communicate effectively, however, that knowledge doesn't make it any easier. Don't get me wrong, I feel content to keep myself to myself. I don't shun people, though neither do I initiate contact. The times I can share a language I willingly do, though I don't leach onto people. Like a French couple I met, I chatted in French to the guy, then in English to his wife. We then rode off in the same direction, at least for a short while, I sort of make tracks slightly faster than them and lost them within a few miles. Actually, I done a nifty overtake and saw nothing of them ever after. It worried me a touch when there was no sign of any traffic after me for a while. So I stopped and preyed nothing untoward had happened, even turning back round and heading back to check. As there was no sign of them or any accident I assumed they had turned off to find a place to stay for the night. I couldn't bring myself to ignore their apparent disappearance; images of a distressed biker trying to deal with a squashed partner wouldn't leave my thoughts. I'm glad to think I care enough not to carry on regardless. Not that I could have done a great deal, but if it had been a drastic situation a fellow motorcyclist would surely have been better than dealing with hoards of curious onlookers who you couldn't communicate with at all. (Photo: Roadside dosshouse - Mongolia)

But my last few days in Russia enlivened me more and more, the riding got better with each successive day. Windier roads and more interesting scenery acted as the perfect tonic. And the final day was the best of all, discounting the border crossing! The road was almost devoid of other traffic, the countryside virtually empty. It was lovely to stop and bask in the silence, only occasionally would anything come along. Following a valley rather than crossing an open plain was therapeutic, it made me feel glad to be alive, and with that came the tears that Cai wasn't. I don't strive to fight off these feelings, they don't destroy the moment, it just saddens me. For years such experiences would entail enthusing about them with Cai, either at the moment or shortly after, I always shared the thrill of travelling with him, he loved to hear the stories of my adventures, or even better the be at my side and marvel at the moment with me. I guess in that way I've lost more than my son, that closeness is what made my travels even more of a thrill; maybe that's one reason why it's so important to share them with other people now. Sometimes it makes me wonder whether there is any point in merely going through the motions, because it often feels that way, but no more so than life itself. Therefore I have to remind myself that doing something worthwhile is a more constructive way to continue with life than moping at home on my own. (Photo: Child's play - Open grazing land; Mongolia)

Nearing the border the bends starting rising and falling as I passed through the hills. Forests closed in and the ride was only slightly marred by the atrocious surface conditions of the tarmac. It could have been much worse, and then it was; it started to rain. Adverse camber and broken tarmac gave a slightly unreliable ride. Often the bike would give a slight wiggle, not enough to threaten my safety, but it certainly made it feel dodgy. But it had already been a breakthrough day, I was relaxed and unhurried, so curbed my speed that little bit more to compensate. It lashed it down for about an hour, but fortune smiled on me, buy the time I reached the mayhem of the border it had stopped. The sun shone down, boiling me alive, not only did I need to shed the waterproofs asap, it was a matter of stripping off as many layers as I dared. Whenever I had to confront any official I made sure neither my dreads or my tattoos were on display. They raise eyebrows, in Russia tattoos have connotations of prison life, they are an integral part of the criminal element; it isn't the impression I want to create with customs or immigration. Heaven knows what the delays might have been if the officials found cause to be suspicious, it was a tedious affair as it was. Not aimed at me personally, the Russian authorities do not hurry for anyone, and I had it easier than most. The wait to even enter the compound was a couple of hours, all in all it took four hours to get out of Russia. (Photo: Camel herder in traditional garb- Roadside; Mongolia)

A friendly Mongolian assured me no such problem would greet me on the Mongolian side, and thankfully he was right. The procedures proved more convoluted than entering or leaving Russia, but given able assistance by English speakers it was almost a pleasure. Everyone, without exception, expressed pleasure to welcome me to their country, officials and general returning nationals alike. The amount of form filling was immense, having each question translated for me took a bit of time, but the whole process took less than an hour, then I was free to discover exactly what awaited me. Boy did it change! Borders invariably are desolate places, and often squalid towns await the overlander, I never find it pleasant and generally I hightail it out of there as quick as possible. Being informed that cheap motoring insurance was available immediately exiting the border post gave me cause to pause. I can only assume it was closed, I searched and searched but to no avail. Some offices were closed, certainly the one declaring Reinsurance and National Insurance was, it could prove foolhardy but I decided I would set out for Darkhan and sort it out there, or in the capital if absolutely necessary. So off I set, with the intention of filling my belly as soon as possible then finding a convenient place to make camp. Suchaan Baatar was only a short hop from the border and it seemed a better place to fulfil my needs, infinitely better than dealing with the disreputable scrotes hanging around at the border. (Photo: Lakeside scene - Nr Darkhan; Mongolia)

As soon as I left the gates of the border compound the bike was surrounded by a dozen characters; scruffy, dirty guys who's sole purpose seemed to be hanging around to see what entertainment turned up. I shouldn't question their integrity, but I must follow my instincts. They weren't in the least threatening, but neither were they up to any good. They crowded the bike, poking and prodding various parts, checking the luggage, how it was secured to the bike, which bits featured additional security. They twisted the throttle, operated the brakes and generally interfered with all the controls. Establishing I couldn't understand them they laughed and joked between themselves, no doubt at my expense. I made light of the situation, laughing with them, especially when one asked me to allow him to unlock the topbox. What could I do but show clearly what a joke that was, even more at his winks and attempts to cajole me into agreeing. Maybe he thought I was a complete mug, maybe some fool had complied at some distant occasion in the past. He could be sure of one thing though, in that aspect at least I am no mug! I wouldn't leave the bike to look for the insurance hut, and I certainly wasn't going to hang about overnight, hotels or not. Already being 6.30pm I didn't want to waste any more time so off into the land of the all conquering hoards, the birthplace of the great Khan. (Photo: Heading for the hills - Road to Ulaan Baatar; Mongolia)

One Steppe beyond!

It's always easy to criticise a situation, or group of people, and see it as an isolated instance only. We must remember that good and bad exist in all factions of society, in all nations, colours, cultures and creeds. I have done, and will continue to criticise the actions and attitudes of those I encounter as I travel. But let's not condemn any particular group, bear in mind the comments I make are of my own experiences, they highlight that which I observe. Look to your neighbours and ask yourself, are they any different? Is the meathead getting drunk on a Friday night and beating hell out of an innocent passerby any more caring than the Russian who caves a dogs skull in. Our home culture isn't necessarily any better than those through which I travel, in fact it is often so much harsher than the kindness and care I encounter as I pass haplessly through stranger's lives. As a traveller I so often rely on the goodwill of people who I've never met and will probably never meet again. I meet so many genuine people, people who go out of their way to offer help, who's generosity and friendship can make or break our interaction. So question my words, at least see the broader picture; there's ugliness all over the world, there's also a lot of beauty! (Photo: Orthodox Church - Angarsk, Russia)

Russian drivers are truly awful, not necessarily bad, but dangerous. In fact I'd say their level of competence is quite high. Statistically there are more road deaths here than anywhere else, in my mind it's due solely to the speeds at which they tend to drive and their reluctance to show more patience on the road. Don't get me wrong, they seldom rant and rave at each other, but many are reluctant to wait behind other vehicles, they make high speed overtakes, in very risky situations. When an accident happens, it's a bad one! But if I can see a gap and go for an overtake, I don't get anger and fury from other road users; not as I often experience in the UK. I do see too many who are reluctant to be overtaken, who will pull out and follow someone else, nose to tail, past a whole line of traffic at speeds of 100mph or more. The common fault here is overtaking dangerously, I think this is the main cause of accidents, which is why the police concentrate of such offenders. You really do need your whits about you, concentration must be at a maximum at all times, and it proves as tiring as ever. (Photo: Golden conifers - Irkutsk road, Russia)

I've not been inclined to bother tackling the Russian language, the phrasebook I bought has stayed in my pocket for much of the time. It's the cyrillic alphabet which throws me. However much I'd love to ignore it completely I just can't, all the road signs are in Cyrillic, so I've had to get the gist of pronunciations.The town names sound the same in both alphabets, but they bear no resemblance in the written word. So I am slowly progressing, every time I see a name I pronounce it to myself, trying to reinforce the use of cyrillic symbols. By and large I manage, but I do need to ensure I have looked up each destination before setting out. Likewise the menus are a mystery to my untrained eye, it's all hit and miss. Borsht is easy and appetising, I thought Stroganoff was too. Ordering a dish proved me wrong, or maybe it was purely the the culinary expertise of the establishment. I got a plate of it and it was like a plate of gristle in a snot sauce, I couldn't even stomach dipping my bread in it to stave of severe hunger. And after weeks here I finally discovered that my phrasebook does have a section listing foodstuffs, it just isn't in the main food section. Albeit a touch too late, it has proved useful in the last few days. (Photo: Beautiful windy hill country - Lake Baykal, Russia)

Having been warned in Chernoyask that the roads were non-existant past Kansk I'd expected the worst, but it wasn't to be so. In my eyes they only got better! After the first joyous excursion onto rough roads coming out of Kansk I settled down more. That one had got me excited, it had an enormous grin factor and I couldn't help myself, it had to be ridden quite hard. Since then my approach has been more staid, keeping to a reasonable pace and not being enticed to rip her open. More sections have been unsurfaced, and there have been a fair few that are actually under construction, making for many kilometers of riding off tarmac. Most of them were simply various types of loose aggregate, ranging from a thin layer of dust, through to the large uneven stones used as substrate when constructing new roads. The bigger stones felt insecure to ride over, especially where they lay quite thick. The back and front ends of the bike didn’t feel in reliable contact with anything, almost as if they were rolling off the surface.I it was disconcerting at first but got quickly easier. Not that they were all broken and potholed, far from it, instead I was treated to a road that can only be described as curvaceous in the extreme. The further behind I left the steppes the windier the road became, no longer vast unrelenting plains, the forests closed in and what had started as a slightly windier road just got better.In fact I adapted rapidly to whatever was thrown at me, I didn’t like being the first over newly scraped earth, not when the front end was slewing around, but it just needed more throttle. The longest sections were rough and totally unmaintained; I don’t think they’ve ever received any care since being carved out of landscape. Deep pockets of sand lay at the bottom of chasms, and filled rutted tracks, that inevitably lay right in my path of travel. I’m glad to say I didn’t flinch and didn’t back off, just gave it a bit more throttle and powered through. Generally I sat relaxed and made good progress, at times, when it got very rough, I’d stand on the pegs and let the bike and my knees absorb the bucking and bouncing. We actually took off from one huge dip, it took me by surprise, I lost my footing and landed on my arse into the seat again. My only slight complaint was still the clouds of dust thrown up by all the other vehicles. I overtook all and sundry as quick as I could, most the time without knowing what approached through the cloud of dust, or whether is was completely clear to be passing. I would be able to discern that nothing was coming once level with the back end of the other vehicle though, so I wasn’t being totally reckless. (Photos: 1] Mountain border - Looking towards Mongolia from Russia; 2] Serene river setting - Lake Baykal, Russia)

My initial reaction to the ethnic mix in Ulan Ude was to assess it as distinctly Mongol in nature, there are so many of Asiatic features, but there is a subtle difference.Many people have the narrower features of the Han Chinese, rather than quite round flat features I'd associate with the Mongols. Skin coloration tends to be fairer too, but that can often be purely a modern cultural thing. In many countries it's more desirable to nurture a pale complexion. It's a status thing, common field workers, peasants in other words, are exposed to the rays of the sun. Therefore pale skin denotes you as leading a better lifestyle than that of a lowly peasant. An interesting factor here is that Asiatics seem to outnumber white Russians! As couples they mix freely; though on the limited contact I've had it appears that white Russian females consort with Asiatic males more so than Asiatic females mix with white Russian men. In the service industry, hotels, shops and restaurants, the staff are exclusively Asian. For the first time in Russia I've seen down and outs scavenging litter bins and begging on the street, they've all been white Russian men. Ulan Ude is more cosmopolitan than the other cities I've seen here. It appears cleaner in the centre than others too, with less traffic congestion and more amenable driving. I've not tried finding my way back out and onto the correct route yet, so I could easily be proved wrong there. (Photo: Mongol hoards become farmers - Nr Ulan Ude, Russia)

Physically it's been quite a punishing time since leaving Novosibirsk. I've covered 1,500 miles, making it a tad short of 6,000 miles since leaving home. Calculations are amiss, I had it as 4,500 from home to Ulan Bataar, that's out by 30%. There again it's not easy getting accurate distances off a map with a scale of 1:2,000,000. I can't expect to feel comfortable doing such distances, not in the time taken, that's 2,000 miles per week. So it's no surprise to find my forearm aches more than normal, or that the hamstrings in my left leg are more susceptible to cramping up on me. They're having a tough old time and handling the abuse admirably, who'd have thought only eighteen months ago that I would be stupid enough to put my limbs through this type of strain. I've still not resorted to using pain-killers, so it can't be that bad. Anyway, the landscape I'm in now is just my cup of tea, the type to appreciate, not ride through like a bat out of hell. I know how bad I can be for setting a blistering pace, it's time to relax and enjoy the areas I pass through. (Photo: Reproduction of Mongol battle dress - Baykal Plaza, Ulan Ude, Russia)

Ever eastwards, ever better!

What a dichotomous world we live in, hopefully it balances itself out. Even better if it works in our favour, though it can’t work in everyone’s favour. Finally leaving Novosibirsk I found myself in the left hand lane of two at a set of lights. I was the first vehicle in that lane, going straight ahead, when another car came behind me wanting to turn left, the left filter light was on green, the one forward wasn’t. As soon as he drew up behind his hand was pumping the horn, to which I shrugged my shoulders and turned round to say, “hey, give me a break, I don’t know my way around here”. He didn’t even give me a chance; hanging out the window he was cussing me really loudly. I guess if that’s the way he wanted to communicate who was I to deny him his wishes, so I let rip too. I haven’t a clue what he was shouting, but I’d hazard a guess he understood most of the foul language I threw at him. And as my light went green, I slipped the clutch with a final, “up yours” sign off I went. Only momentarily did it bug me, in fact I quite enjoyed letting off a bit of steam. If that was the type of cultural exchange he wanted, fine, it actually made me smile. I wonder if he found it humorous. (Photo: I spy a bend - East of Kemerovo, Russia)

To create a balance to the day, another exchange couldn’t have been more different. I’d stopped to rehydrate and clean my visor, and no sooner had I got off the bike when a guy approached me, I hadn’t even got my helmet off. What a great guy, loud and enthusiastic he asked if I was English, and got even more animated at the positive response. He didn’t spout a stream of unintelligible Russian, just shook my hand and introduced himself, to which I returned the compliment. Using few words he ascertained where I was going, expressing amazement and full approval with a firm emphatic handshake. He had a knack of making his requests understood, next he asked my age, and was overjoyed that there was only three years age difference, he was my elder. So overjoyed he embraced me in a full on body hug, “oh Leslie, Leslie!” His enthusiasm was contagious, what a lovely character, it was true back slapping fondness worthy of the closest of long lost friends. I was touched, truly awed by this larger than life character who’d jumped into my world. And that was that really, with a blast on his horn, a flamboyant wave and a last, “Leeeesliiiie,” he was gone. Now that put a big happy smile on my face, and a definite spring in my step. (Photo: Tracked down by trees- East of Kemerovo, Russia)

My route has followed the M53, and don’t even think it; no, it is not a motorway! From Novosibirsk it took me to Kemerovo, Krasnoyarsk, then Kansk, and finally over to Irkutsk. By some miracle it has presented the occasional stretches of beautiful flat tarmac, but they have been in a very small minority. Generally it’s broken and patched tarmac, rising and falling with the lay of the land. With the exception of my entry into the Urals it’s remained pretty much straight, in a landscape so devoid of irregular features there was no reason to build it anything but straight. With the extremes of weather during each year it’s also little wonder the road surface is in such a mess. The substratum is frozen more half the year, the expansion of water into ice must create havoc with the road foundations. For the rest of the year the upper surface is scorched mercilessly by a baking hot sun, turning the tarmac into molasses, which squelches into ridged runnels whenever a truck brakes heavily. (Photo: Laying in ambush- East of Kemerovo, Russia)

Getting through Kemerovo was a real bitch, but everyone made it a better experience than most nightmare navigations through Russian cities. People drew up alongside me to smile and wave, so many people wanted to get my attention and show their approval. I stopped often to check my directions, and people’s response was so dynamic, not only giving me the correct directions but with enthusiasm, wishing me well and shaking my hand in the bargain. Not a single person was reticent about giving what aid or recognition they could, they acted as though honoured to help, and I felt honoured by their actions. I was flagged down onto the hard shoulder to receive well wishes from strangers, waved at by sexy women in gas stations. So many drivers honked their horns and gave me the thumbs up. I didn’t eat from 8am till 5pm and didn’t need to, I got my sustenance from the fantastic welcome extended by everyone en route, especially the citizens of Kemerovo. A truly brilliant day! (Photo: Trusty Russian military machinery - Just before Krasnoyarsk, Russia)

After Kemerovo the roads, riding and landscape were the best since entering Russia, woodland outstripped the grassland, making for a welcome break from the Steppes. But most delightful, was the road itself, it got bendy! Ok, it wasn’t knee-scraping stuff, but the bends were fairly constant and they made me work the bike. Wide open bends on new, flat tarmac, it was sheer joy; apart from the sudden lumps of unexplained tarmac sticking out of the otherwise gorgeous surface. And it was like that for over 60 miles, I’d got so used to straight line riding I’d forgotten how to lean, but not for long! Is it any wonder I didn’t stop to eat, though I kept promising myself I would, but I was much too busy munching on the miles. Eventually I had to stop or I would have carried on all night, which I actually considered. The sudden appearance of a rather shabby looking motel changed my mind. It looked quite dubious, but the people were lovely, once stopping I didn’t question whether to stay or not. From there it was only about another 900 miles to Irkutsk and Lake Baikal, within a couple of days striking distance. (Photo: Leaving the Steppes - East of Krasnoyarsk, Russia)

On the way into Krasnoyarsk road works slowed everything right down, I hated the melee of cars and trucks, nose to tail pushing and trying to leapfrog round each other.It was a pain, my best option would have been to power through it, but with one truck directly in front and another trying to insert himself up my anal crevice there was no chance. I couldn’t see what hazards were approaching, where the best route would appear, or which obstacles were looming. It was painfully slow 1st gear work, it might have been fun if the other vehicles hadn’t spoilt it. I did whip past a couple of cars and trucks when the oncoming traffic thinned out. The real fun began taking the road out of Kransk, a sign declared road works for 38km, at least I though it had and didn’t relish more of the free for all. It was nothing like before though! When I first took the turnoff I couldn’t believe it was the right road. It was as rough, loose and awful as anything I rode in the Americas (except the boulder field I lost the KLR on), and I loved it.Overtaking a couple of trucks I slowed down as I drew level to the driver’s window, shouting Irkutsk, and nodding forward. His face said it all, “yes, I’m afraid so”. I smiled a big beamer, stood on the pegs and opened up the throttle. There wasn’t any flat route through, and there was no point trying to delicately pick the least chaotic path, the BMW is meant to be built for such stuff so I ploughed straight through it all. I loved it, and the bike didn’t seem to mind. It soaked up the lumps, skimmed over the craters (to an extent) and went wherever I pointed it without as much as a squiggle. Huge grin factor, it made my day, the only disappointment was that it was too short. It wasn’t 38km, it was only 3.8km, so I felt a touch cheated. I shouldn’t have, there was plenty more along the way. Not as bad, but regular stretches of a couple of km or so of road works. The big stones are a bit of a hassle, but no real problem, I just need to relax the death grip I have on the handlebars. I fair flew past all the trucks, blasting my horn to let them know I was there, and to get them out my way. The dust they kicked up was a nightmare, obscuring all visibility completely at one stage. As I was overtaking one dickhead pulled out on me, the dust was so thick I could see nothing, no track, no truck, not even my handlebars. Now that was a bit scary, he’d hit a patch of very deep dust that threw up an impenetrable cloud, I had to slow down sharpish or I’d have been up his arse. Once he got out my way things improved rapidly I didn’t delay in the slightest, just hit the gas and flew past him, and all the others, cars and trucks alike. Again the big stones felt a bit wobblier, but it only takes a bit more confidence, they’ll be fine.m (Photos: Alpine scenery - East of Kansk, Russia)

So things have been progressing in a positive way, I’ve had the first days that I’ve genuinely enthused about. Feeling pleased to be where I am, doing what I’m doing, it's a good place to be. I’m knackered at the end of every day, but that’s good as well, isn’t it?

In the lap of luxury

I never set out to do a speed trial across Russia, but that’s the way it’s turned out. It isn’t that the countryside has been boring or monotonous; rather that it’s been slow to change and lacking in inspiration. Riding through broad expanses of nothing is soothing, even though the driving habits of the average driver enforce constant vigilance. With hardly a bend in sight the riding takes on a different dimension, for hours each day I point the bike east and keep the throttle open. This was the miles have passed continuously with little to distract me from the task at hand. I had envisaged taking my time crossing one of the largest countries on our planet, it just hasn’t happened that way. The number of coincidental meetings has failed to present Russians with any command of the English language, and my efforts to tackle their language, have been non-existent. I haven’t the inclination, nor the energy to take on board this difficult language. Road signs and menus are all in the Cyrillic alphabet, an indecipherable mix of random symbols that don’t represent anything in my experience of reading. St Cyril, the culprit of this bizarre alternative to the Roman alphabet, should be shot rather than canonized. Surely a common alphabet would have aided international understanding a great deal better than inventing a wholly new set of symbols. I only wish he had grown out of his childish habit of fabricating secret codes to baffle the unwary. (Photo: Steppes - Omsk to Novosibirsk, Russia)

The people I encounter remain approachable and genuinely friendly, the fact that I speak nor understand a word they say does not perturb their efforts to communicate. Without fail the sight of my bike raises eyebrows and gets a big thumbs up, passing motorists hoot their horns and give an encouraging wave. I’m even flagged down for people to express their delight, and as I draw ever closer the question, “Mongolia?” issues from every mouth. The distance across this vast country has been under estimated, which realisation has driven me onwards at a rate I never dreamt of achieving. Despite the enormous acreage given over to grain production the area of natural grassland still pushing it into insignificance, and signs of human habitation are few are far between. In the initial days in Russia a list of cities would be drawn up every day or so, crossing them off steadily. As I’ve progressed ever eastward it takes more than a day between each staging point, over 400 miles between cities makes for a very long day on single carriageway roads. Kursk, Voronezh, Saratov, Samara, Ufa, Chelyabinsk, Kurgan, Omsk and finally Novosibirsk. I was warned that the roads would steadily worsen, especially after Chelyabinsk; they don’t appear to have gotten worse, if anything they seem less busy and in better condition. (Photo: Rail Station and river - Novosibirsk centre, Russia)

The short route to Omsk would have taken me through Kazakhstan, I preferred to take a longer route and save the precious entries on my visa until I leave Russia for good, which is after Mongolia. It meant a two hour detour, which I believe in the long run saved me time, the border crossings into and back out of Kazakhstan would surely have taken much more time. Over running my proposed route saw me turn up at the border anyway, and nearly made me change my mind. But no, I did an about turn and hightailed it out of there. That day I set a sizzling pace, with the throttle cracked wide open I rode almost flat out at 90 mph for hours. Only once have I managed to break 500 miles in one day, that particular time I arose early and was on the road by 8.30. What a difference that makes, normally I lazily prepare for the day’s ride, having a leisurely breakfast and mount up by about 10.30. Generally I ride until about 6pm, covering 300 or so miles. Every day or so I lose an hour or two, which adds to the confusion of the body clock, necessitating regular checks on the local time zone. Sometimes I’ve had a two hour adjustment to make, I can only assume it’s because I’ve been unaware of one change and get hit with a double whammy. It isn’t anything new to cover much higher mileage than planned expected, I get sucked into ethos of not wasting time, many times on travels I’ve had to curtail this habit of mile munching. At present I don’t mind, it’s Lake Baikal and Mongolia I’ve got my sight set on. (Photo: Perfect solution to inner city pollution - Novosibirsk, Russia)

How grateful I am to have made the decision to buy a new bike for the journey, I can’t fault the new acquisition, it’s handled everything I’ve thrown at it so far, in good style. I adored my KLR650, and wouldn’t begrudge the wonderful times we had together. It didn’t handle jousting with tractors well, but the BMW probably wouldn’t either. Whilst comparable the two bikes are quite different beasts, the Kawasaki is rougher round the edges and more fun with it. The BMW has a better build quality, is more economical, more comfortable and a steadier machine. It soaks up the bumps with ease, which is of vital importance on Russian roads. Hitting the biggest potholes, the deepest gouges and most irregular surfaces fail to cause any problems. I gain more confidence every day, which I need to do, I have a feeling Mongolia will be a severe challenge to my riding skills. Do I worry about this? Why for sure, but I’m not about to let it put me off! I can get to feeling quite nervous about what lies ahead at times, but I try and concentrate on the here and now, the adversities I must deal with at any given time. Riding these roads I need my whits about me at all times, it doesn’t do to let my concentration slip. And that is what makes the hours of riding so very tiring. (Photo: Not such pleasant inner city housing - Novosibirsk, Russia)

So what of the physical effects? Only two and a half years ago it seemed set that I’d be a virtual cripple, how’s my body taking the strain? For myself I must keep this in mind, it’s no good disabling myself through sheer pig-headedness. Despite a huge supply of good painkillers, I’d rather not rely on numbing the pain. So if it hurts I know and take appropriate action, depending on how much it hurts. Well I’m pleased to say my left arm hasn’t given the slightest sign of stress, it’s proving very resilient to the strain it’s being put under. Unfortunately my right forearm isn’t doing so well, but it’s endurable. To be honest, I think it will need further intervention at some point, but it’ll do for now. I’ve not resorted to using that supply of painkillers yet, so it can’t be too bad. And my legs? They’d be better if I practiced what I preached, I really must set a routine of stretching and exercise for them. My hamstrings are proving uncooperative, cramping up and waking me in the middle of the night. I do stretch out quite often whilst riding, but it isn’t enough. I guess if they become too much of a problem I’ll be forced to pay them more attention. I don’t want to be blasé about my injuries, they were my biggest concern when planning this journey, it scared me at times how I’d cope. But we can’t run our lives on fear, otherwise we’d never break free and do anything with our lives. (Photo: Sunset over the city - Novosibirsk, Russia)

And so I come to my present location, the plushest hotel in Novosibirsk, in the lap of luxury. Why go for the expensive option? Because it was the one that presented itself, because I can! Try going into any city without any road signs (or any you can read) and find a hotel, any hotel. Locating the city centre is probably the best bet, and that in itself is not as easy as you think, not without direction. So I stopped at gas stations, at the side of the road, anywhere, and asked which way was the city centre. Gradually, over two hours, I eventually made it to the central area. Up to that point no-one had been able to give any indication as to the whereabouts of any hotels, only that there were such things in the centre. Traffic was horrendous, at a standstill virtually the whole way in, now and again I’d stop to let the bike and myself cool down. A couple of young guys I approached were pleased to practice their English, not knowing of any hotels in the immediate vicinity could at least give directions to the Railway station, the perfect place to find a hotel close by. At a final stop, as I climbed off the bike, stood in front of me was a bike shop. They may have understood no English, but they found a hotel for me on an Internet map, and wrote down roads and places, landmarks to find the way. Then all I had to do was stop and show a piece of paper to someone and shrug my shoulders. Ten minutes later I arrived as a huge 23 storey international hotel, I didn’t even flinch when they said the price, though did only book in for two, rather than three, nights. When things begin to fall in place, go with the flow! (Photo: Countless squalid tenement blocks - Novosibirsk, Russia)

.....loathing!

Approaching Saratov brought heavy industry into focus for the first time. The skyline is littered with a multitude of pylons, power stations darken the horizon; combined with brooding dark clouds it presented a foreboding sight. It wasn’t the sort of place where I wanted to hang about for long, I tried damned hard to hasten through the gloom.(Photo: Industrial Russia - Saratov, Russia)

And so I come to the point where I must confess indulging in my own hypocrisy. It’s very well taking the moral high ground, especially when you’re in the right; not so easy when you’re in the wrong and must squirm your way out of trouble. What a complete idiot I can be! Leaving Saratov I got pulled by the ANC (traffic police) for overtaking on a solid white line. They were parked in the best place for it, with a video camera to capture offenders, and I ran straight into it. Wam Bam, $150, thank you Mam. I was well and truly fleeced, due to my own impatience and recklessness. I’ve been getting worse and worse for hastening my progress, not riding at daft speeds, just overtaking regardless of where and when, in a typically Russian way. It’s all been due to eagerness, not wanting to dally amongst the riff-raff and their atrocious driving, so I guess I let myself become as bad, if not worse. I gave the officer my IDP, so could have left it with him and got away without paying, replacing it easy enough. But I didn’t think quick enough, it would have been difficult as I need it to get into China, only after did I think that Mum could have bought me another with my spare license and sent them both over. I’ll do that anyway, then have a spare photo license and IDP. They tried screwing me for $200, after checking I wasn’t travelling on a diplomatic passport, but I had $150 conveniently in an envelope and said that was all I had. And, not looking a gift horse in the mouth, that's precisely how much they took. I now carry $100 in that envelope, and a separate $30 in my wallet, just in case! (Photo: Urals lake - Nr Kurgan, Russia)

Since then I’ve curtailed my impatience, I have barely crossed another solid white line, and only by mistake. The quality of driving around me hasn’t improved, they really take the biscuit here, they bully and intimidate. It can be frightening, how there are not more accidents I don’t know. There isn’t a vast network of usable roads, so the one’s there are tend to be really busy with long and frequent tailbacks behind convoys of trucks.It makes people take suicidal dashes in an attempt at getting past, how some of them manage to avoid the impending collision with oncoming traffic I don’t know. I’d rather be the one making the dash past, I trust myself, know my limits, and I’m in control, I can also squeeze past easier. One day I only made 40 miles before an overturned truck blocked the road completely, all traffic both ways was brought to a standstill. I waited for a while, but it wasn’t going to be cleared any time soon, they hadn’t even extracted the dead bodies. Cars were making detours down a steep embankment and along the edge of a field to get round the obstacle. I approached it, dithered while looking at the deep muddy drop and bottled out, deciding to try and find another way round by road. As I went up a side road I met a small bus who asked what the problem was, so I gesticulated my response, to which he immediately set off across the field. It was now or never, if a half pint bus can do it so could I, so I held my breath and set off across country. And you know what? It was ok, the bike felt fine and I handled myself OK too. It was wet, it was muddy but the BMW was as steady as a rock, At the point I had to rejoin the road there was a deep, wet muddy section. I went for it anyway, the rear end slid and slewed to the side, but all went well and I was back on the road again in good style. Deep sand and slippery mud are my nightmares, that quick muddy sojourn done wonders for my confidence. (Photos: 1] Truck versus rotavator - Chelyabinsk, Russia; 2] Forest waterway - Urals, Russia)

What a mixed bag of salts Monday was, the day started off in the most horrendous way. As is my way I made friends with two dogs on Sunday night when arriving at a hotel, someway south of Samara. One was a bit timid but excitable and very friendly, the other was patient and happy to get what attention I gave it. Next morning an older male turned up as well, forthright but not pushy, again very friendly and playful with the young timid one. I made a fuss of them all, not one of them showed anything but playfulness and affection. Minutes later I sat drinking my coffee, the older male come round the corner and started to approach me again, but stopped when it saw the owner of the hotel glaring at him. It was obvious there was friction between them! I can’t say I took to the owner from the start, pale blue shell suit, gold teeth, pot belly and balding. He obviously ruled the roost, everyone else ran around doing all the work whilst he sauntered about giving orders and drinking with his mates. His skivvy was busy getting a fire pit going and stocking up the wood supply, on seeing the dog the gold-toothed shithead barked a command and the employer coaxed the dog to him and proceeded to tie him up. I thought little of it, except to think there was no need to secure him, he was lovely, if a bit muddy, and very welcoming to customers. It seemed a good relationship between the guy who worked there and the dogs, his manner with them suggested he was the one who cared for them. The next thing I know he was caving in the dogs skull with the blunt end of an axe, one, two, three, four blows, and all the dog did in response was to yelp as he was battered to death. I was stunned to see it happen, stunned into inaction, it was so unreal. As I turned round the bastard in his shell suit looked on in grim approval, only then did my whits return, and I launched a barrage of questions at the hotel owner. The only way I can describe his reaction was that he nodded his head as if to say, “it’s done, I’m happy,” and walked off. I was livid and let out the loudest, foulest stream of expletives I could think of, and he paid not the slightest bit of notice as he strolled back into the hotel. How can I emphasis have furious I felt? I could have ripped him apart. I was left with a his wife to vent my anger upon, and all she could communicate was that the dog had bitten someone. My supposition was that it had been the twat who owned the place, and to be honest, I’d have bitten him too. I rode like the fury for many miles trying to put the image out of my head, but to no avial. Little wonder I took full advantage of an offer to get slaughtered that night, I also had my first cigarette for over a week. (Photos: 1] Steppes cowboy; 2] Breeding ground for bloodsuckers; 3] Motorcycle graveyard - On the way to Omsk, Russia)

It would be harsh judging a nation of people by the barbaric actions of only a few, but it does tend to taint your perception of them. When you see how easy such actions come to the few, and how easy it is for their fellow countrymen to accept those actions, the barriers to feeling affinity for the nation are tough ones to break.

From Russia with........

Though only a week has gone past it seems an eternity, endless miles have rolled beneath my wheels, and countless acres of grass have affronted my vision. What has remained elusive it any source of Internet connection, so while I continue writing the words mount up, desperately awaiting the light of day. May I suggest you enter your emial address and subscribe to my blog, then you'll get notifications whenever I actually manage to find an internet connection.

I sort of expect border guards, or customs, in backward countries, to try and subsidise their wages by extorting bribes; but not when leaving a country. Ukraine customs officers are quick off the mark, blatantly suggesting I give them some money, then there would be no problem over contraband. With hindsight, I can only wonder what the problem would be as I didn’t have any contraband. My immediate tactic then was to pretend I didn’t understand what he meant. He was having none of it and reiterated his demand, so I clarified the fact, “you want me to give money to you and him, to let me leave the country?” That was an affirmative, so I asked him to wait one minute and went to fetch something from the bike. On my return he was relaying some information to another driver, he didn’t notice me writing his number onto my notepad, when I wrote his mate’s number down he saw all too clearly what I was doing. All of a sudden his manner changed completely, nothing was a problem anymore. Oh it’s alright sir, don’t worry, you can go, everything is fine. His companion was in good humour, it’s only a small border crossing, they can’t get many foreigners pass through. Rich pickings is what he thought, he was taking the piss in Ukrainian, until he had explained what was happening, that stopped him laughing pretty quick. I was escorted through the whole process, customs and immigration, swiftly and efficiently, the full VIP treatment. Funnily enough, during the legitimate processing for departure, he asked me where I’d come from on the bike, and was stunned when I said. Then I explained where I was going, then admiration rather than avarice shone in his eyes. He went and told all the other officials, almost as if he were proud to be helping me. When my paperwork was done it was handshakes all round and hearty farewells, I also made a point of screwing up the page from the notepad. (Photos" 1] Hippified Ural - Countryside cafe, Nr Kursk, Russia; 2] Let the Grasslands begin - Directly east of Kursk, Russia)


I get off on the admiration, awe even, shown by the folks I encounter on journeys such as this. It smacks a bit of being egotistical, but a little pride in doing something out of the ordinary is fine. Of course people notice the bike first, and this is their point of interest, next comes the question of where I’m from and how I got to that particular place. Then it starts to get interesting, reactions range from complete disbelief to hero worship. Refusal to believe such a tale came early on this trip, from a German hotel owner, who’d just been proudly telling me of all the top range BMWs he’d owned, and how he’d travelled to Spain, Nord Cape and Scotland on them. His reaction was classic when I told him my plan, “what on that bike?” Little did he know that my first two bike journeys abroad were more extensive than any of his, and they were done on bikes more than 20 yrs old; this is actually the most able bike I’ve undertaken a journey on. Cars have been pulling up next to me, giving a big thumbs up or beeping their horns and cheering me on. My favourite was a guy in a Ukraine supermarket car park. He really liked the bike, kept walking around it and smiling, only after some time did he glean the full story from me. He got so enthused he insisted on giving me a present, and from his car he produced a tree cutting wire, a good one too. How could I refuse? I may already have a fold-up pruning saw, which is much more useful to me, but it would have offended him if I’d refused it. The look of delight on his face made it a tremendous pleasure in accepting his gift, I love being an ambassador for international relations. I’m sure I can pass it on to someone who will utilise it more. (Photo: Not a bend in sight - Rural Russia)

Kursk is a far cry from what I expected of Russian cities, it’s modern and vibrant with a lively street scene. The young and trendy, saunter along the sidewalks looking good and feeling pretty, happy to see and be seen. At least the young women do, the guys aren’t quite as elegant or fashion conscious, but that isn’t only restricted to Russia. Males are often less inclined to spend the time and effort in their appearance, wherever you go. Considering that most the guys I’ve seen through Eastern Europe look more as if they’ve spent a hard day in the fields, or under their truck, the city fair slightly better. It was heaving with attractive women, most unaccompanied by males. I had it explained to me that women in Russia far outnumber the men, little wonder the huge numbers of Russian brides to be found on the Internet. I delighted in the passing display of young fit women, and indeed spent a couple of hours over a beer or three, perusing the passing parade from pavement cafes. (Photo: Sunset Steppes - Trans-Siberian highway, Russia)

I’ve cracked on with mileage, it’s been going well. There isn’t exactly a great deal to interrupt the riding, and the riding itself isn’t the best I’ve experienced. Virtually all the roads are fairly straight, and if it wasn’t for the countryside, would prove quite boring. There’s been a distinct lack of twisty roads to enthuse about, so it’s more a matter of making good progress. But it’s pleasant to ride through open countryside, far from being one continuous landscape there’s been constantly changing scenery. Initially very similar to Ukraine there were still subtle differences, largely it consisted of a more manufactured landscape. Not industrial in nature, it’s vast areas of mechanised agriculture, endless grain production stretching to the distant horizon. Near villages land is divided up into smaller plots and worked by hand, each property has well worked plots, little of the land seems wasted. (Photo: Russian Orthodox church - Nr Kursk, Russia)

Mile after mile of highway is flanked by wide grassy verges, with an endless line of trees acting like a barrier from the vast fields. In fact they’re not really fields, they’re plains of arable farming. The narrow strips bordering the road are commonly harvested by hand, even hauled home on the sturdy backs of grimy peasants. This is the Russia I expected to see! On the second day small lakes frequently appeared, weed choked and ringed by swathes of tall reeds. They must be plentiful, in close proximity rows of stalls sell a variety of dried fish, a dozen or more vying for trade. Wherever accessible fishermen caste their lines, I haven’t noticed any other methods of catching the fish, though the amount for sale belies such mundane methods of fishing. Car tracks wind through fields to the lakesides, Ladas sit in seemingly inaccessible spots, where countless men while away their free time. It’s impossible to tell if this is a way to earn a living, for some reason I get the feeling it’s a form of subsistence living, some free food and a few extra Roubles. No doubt the, now familiar, sight of shabby dressed folk at the roadside selling their wares is another way of getting that little extra. At first small buckets of strawberries were the produce in question, but it varies from region to region, and no doubt it’s also seasonal. Through the forested sections buckets of Boletus mushrooms were on display, later it was apples. (Photos: Let the Urals begin - Gateway to Central Russia)

Emotionally last Saturday was a troublesome day, I got a bit teary and felt quite lonely. The tears accompanied episodes thinking about Cai, I couldn’t get those thoughts out my head, and didn’t actually want to. I felt a strong need to communicate with him, so rode along saying the things that are important; how much he means to me, how proud I am to have had a son like him, how drastically I miss him. It needs to be done, otherwise he lives only in my head and that’s too much to keep contained, I’d go mad if I didn’t have some release. It isn’t as if I get a response, that would worry me; though to be honest I could live with that, I could live with anything to share a few more precious moments with him again. And so, when I set up camp for the night I did so with a heavy heart and intense feelings of loneliness. I still wonder how I manage to get through each day without him in my life. But of course he is very much still a part of my life, I can’t stop thinking about him, I can’t stop loving him, and every day I don’t see or talk to him is a day I could do without. (Photo: Vodka buddies - Nr Kurgan, Russia)