### 🌏 The Journey In April 2025, we quit our jobs, sold all our stuff, bought a motorcycle, and rode it from Jersey (UK) to Japan. Over 6 months, we travelled through 25 countries and over 35,000km. <iframe src="https://www.google.com/maps/d/u/0/embed?mid=13Q3BJrrkCm77-YGinOScVNHQONU3udA&ehbc=2E312F&noprof=1" width="640" height="480"></iframe> ![[coverphoto.jpg]] ### 22🇯🇵 Japan - the end ###### 67 days and 6,839km (Total: 225 days and 38,983km) After riding for six months, through twenty five countries, and covering thirty two thousand kilometers, we rode K off the Eastern Dream ferry and into the port of Sakaiminato, serendipitously back on the left hand side of the road for the first time since Jersey. We had reached Japan. Our original plan was to ride straight to Tokyo and put K on a ferry back to Jersey. But the sun was still warm, the trees were turning autumnal red, and we had no jobs or responsibilities to return to. We were on a Japanese motorcycle in a country obsessed with motorcycle travel. So we changed our plan: let’s ride around Japan. That's what we've been doing for the last two months. Riding the back roads of Japan, staying in a new town almost every night, and experiencing more of this deeply fascinating country that we fell in love with when we first visited a decade ago. ![[Japan 1.png]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Where we’ve stayed each night*</small></div> My Google maps pins are now yellow scooters instead of red racing bikes because the riding itself has been less adventurous. Slower, shorter, safer. Pristine roads and no crazy drivers. It took at least a few weeks before we heard anyone beep their horn. And about the same time for us to learn that skipping traffic is a total no-go. Putting on our boots each morning used to feel like we were preparing for an intense bootcamp, now it feels like we‘re getting ready for a jolly day out. Japan has been amazing to experience, but impossible to fully understand. Everything runs on this fine line between ultra-sophistication and pure simplicity. Traffic lights feel telepathic, knowing exactly who to release and when. Convenience stores stock whatever you might need — new socks, chilli oil, a printer, even a porn magazine. After a month in Mongolia and Siberia, the cleanliness was a shock (in a good way). Public toilets are as spotless as those in five-star hotels, petrol pumps shinier than my cutlery at home, and onsens where everyone scrubs themselves half a kilo lighter before getting into the bath. My continued wonder is how the streets stay so immaculate in a country with no public bins. There seems to be this grounding of trust, unity, and peace that sits quietly beneath everything. But it’s not the feeling of oppression. In most places where things “work,” you can sense the machinery behind it — rules, cameras, police, consequences. Japan feels different. There’s no heaviness from above, just a kind of responsibility from the side. Everyone queues without being asked, returns the umbrellas they borrowed, leaves bikes unlocked, and respects each other’s space. It seems like something fragile and easy to break… but it doesn’t. It just flows, in a collective harmony. The other thing we noticed was how big camping culture is here. But our tent hasn’t left the pannier since we arrived. Partly because it’s dark and cold by 5pm, but mostly because we’ve loved staying in local inns. We could usually find a ryokan for €40–50 a night. Adding meals almost doubled the price, but the food was worth it: of portion of meat, an array of fish, fresh vegetables, miso soup, unlimited rice, and occasionally a cow tongue. There was often a large shared bath — sometimes pre-filled and kept warm — and, if we were lucky, yukatas to wander around in. Most of our hosts spoke zero English, but they always had endless patience with our Google Translate attempts before showing us around their home, each one unique in some special way. ![[Japan 2.jpg]] ![[Japan 3.jpg]] ![[Japan 4.jpg]] ![[Japan 5.jpg]] ![[Japan 6.jpg]] ![[Japan 7.jpg]] Our eight-month adventure ended on the Japanese island of Kyushu. We were the furthest we’d ever been from where we’d started, yet K was back at the factory where it was built, after we’d been personally invited to the Honda Motorcycle HQ in Kumamoto. The instructions were very Japanese: “Arrive at 14:30 for a meeting that will start at 14.40 and finish at 16:30.” By this point we knew those timings wouldn’t be a second off, so we showed up ten minutes early with absolutely no idea what we were walking into. At precisely 14:30, a group of ten Honda employees in white lab coats and Honda caps walked out to meet us. They introduced themselves: the three-person Africa Twin research and development team, two Africa Twin engineers, a four-person marketing team, and Remi, who was running the whole visit. They took us on a tour of the factory (no photos allowed) where we watched each stage of the Africa Twin production line. A conveyor belt, a station every five metres, and a Japanese engineer solely focused on one specific task. Machines or computers weren’t building the bike, they were double-checking the humans had done it perfectly. At the end of the line the finished bikes were tested; anything that didn’t pass went left, anything that did went right and straight into a lorry to be shipped and sold somewhere in the world — hopefully to become vehicles for journeys of a lifetime, like ours. We have now left Japan for South Korea, which we’ll explore in the cold before K is put in a crate and shipped back to Europe, and we figure out what adventure comes next. Our Road to Tokyo ends here. Thanks for reading. ### 21🇷🇺 Russia Part 3 - saved by the biker ###### 18 days and 4,119km (Total: 158 days and 32,144km) Our third time entering Russia. This time into Eastern Siberia and only three thousand geodesic kilometers from our final destination. The ferry to Japan was booked and we had to reach Vladivostok a week early for customs clearance. Ahead: eleven days, one long road, and no expectations. The last two Russian border crossings had been intense. Phones confiscated and scanned. Interviews about our reasons for visiting. So we came prepared, arriving at the crack of dawn with a flask of hot water, a 3-in-1 Nescafé sachet, and some biscuits. Instead, it was almost pleasant. Customs staff filmed us declaring no drugs, drones, or guns, before a kind woman helped us through the long motorcycle import forms which were entirely in Russian. A short and sweet exchange — “Welcome to Russia” — “Spasiba” — and we were on our way. Within hours my puny geography knowledge multiplied. We soon discovered that the big mass of water next to us was Lake Baikal — the oldest and deepest lake in the world. And the area we were riding through was the Republic of Buryatia — a federal subject of Russia and home to the indigenous Mongolic Buryats. If it weren’t for the Russian number plates and flags, we’d have thought we were still in Mongolia. We rode past Buddhist temples and into the region’s capital, Ulan Ude. Not a city that could compete in a beauty contest against the European cities we were travelling through on the other side of summer, but perfectly functional for our simple desires of a clean bed and a working stove. We were probably one of the few foreign tourists there that night, and almost certainly the only ones that cooked a Portuguese ensopado with Chinese Tsingtao beers on the side. We set off early the next day and headed east. Rain was abundant. Paved roads weren’t. It was a tough ride over one hundred kilometres through greasy mud, sludge, and pot holes filled with water of unknown depth. If Russia was tapping our helmet intercoms (not improbable) they would have heard my cursing within the fine lines between tears and laughter. Becs, as always, was keeping her cool and me distracted with pub/bike quiz questions like “How many red cars are there in China?” ![[Russia III 1 (reduced).png]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Probably a nice scenic drive when it’s dry*</small></div> We eventually found pavement again and finished the day on a high. I doubt the locals had ever seen a man so ecstatic, dripping wet and splattered in mud, standing before a backdrop of desolate Soviet apartment blocks. We left early the next day. Or tried to. A railway barrier blocked our exit from town. A uniformed man gestured “It’s going to be a while!” and pointed to the pedestrian underpass. I was sceptical — until an old woman on a mobility scooter made it look easy. Pride prevailed. we stripped the bike of the panniers and Becs, and I made it through. ![[Russia III 2.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*I nearly asked if she could take K down for us*</small></div> The rain continued to hammer it down. Finding accomodation was difficult, with camping off the cards and many hotels not accepting "foreigners". Prices were between €30 and €40 per night — more expensive than we had gotten used to — and we already knew that attempts to negotiate abruptly end with “нет” (“no”). Quality was... variable. Dirty rooms, mattresses that must have been used thousands of times, and sinks that fell over when you lent on them to brush your teeth. But, our bar for good continued to plummet and it only took a few days before I found myself saying "Becs Becs, look... the room has a window". We kept going east, riding alongside the Trans-Siberian Railway, which crosses Russia in seven days. With little else to stop for, we made good distances. After a week, we detoured to Blagoveshchensk and spent the evening walking the Amur River, captivated by the surreal view of China just across the water. Our hostel was full of men — likely truckers headed over that river in the morning. The weather was improving but finding accommodation was getting tougher. I found a biker refuge that was close by and sent a message explaining “We’re a couple from the UK, riding to Japan on an Africa Twin, looking for a place to stay.” The reply: “Good evening, yes, of course, come!” That was all we needed. We rolled through the gates late afternoon and were greeted by two guys fixing their van. They were from Yakutsk, the coldest city on Earth, visiting Vladivostok for their summer holiday. The host was out, so we waited in the garden — a Harley in one corner, a barking dog chained in the other. Maxim soon arrived. He was proper biker. Cargo trousers, oversized hoodie, military boots, sunglasses. He was the first person in Russia that greeted Becs with a hug and we instantly felt that reassuring connection that runs through the biker community wherever you are in the world. He showed us around his home and where we'd be staying. It was a perfect refuge for the night: double bed (pull out sofa), reasonably clean bathroom (just some cat poo on the floor), a fully equipped kitchen (an old pair of men's boxers as oven gloves), and some guns hanging in the garage (not that we needed them). Another more friendly dog showed his face, along with a fat cat and a pet hedgehog. ![[Russia III 3.jpg]] After a couple of beers, we walked into the tiny town for dinner. When we finished, Maxim picked us up and gave us a proud tour of his local town… the only highlights being a massive hydraulic damn and a tiny pool of dirty water with some fishes. We acted amazed. We all had tea and biscuits when we got home. We woke to heavy metal music on full blast and Maxim fixing a quad bike. He never asked for money but we left some Rubles, wrote in his guestbook, and said goodbye. Vladivostok was only days away now. The cultural jigsaw of Russia continued to amaze us and the next day took us into Birobidzhan, the capital of the Jewish Autonomous Oblast Region. It is one of two officially Jewish jurisdictions in the world, the other being Israel. Yiddish is still an official language. The following night we reached Khabarovsk, the largest city and previous capital of the Far Eastern Federal District. The sun was out and the streets buzzing. At a quick glance you'd think you're in San Francisco. We then turned south and had a straight 800km to get to Vladivostok, a city that was closed to foreigners until 1992 and made the region’s capital in 2018. After two weeks of rain, cultural fascinations, and more human generosity, we arrived at the port. Back by the sea for the first time since Turkey. We swam, explored supermarkets, and savoured our final Russian meals. Locals helped us book taxis and print the documents we’d need for our last border crossing. ![[Russia III 4.png]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*A pin for where we stayed each night along the way*</small></div> Next stop: forty eight hours on a boat. ### 20🇲🇳 Mongolia - eagles instead of seaguls ###### 11 days and 2,466km (Total: 140 days and 28,025km) Mongolia is an overlander’s dream. You can travel in any direction and you’ll find otherworldly landscapes in harmony with real nomadic culture. You just have to be okay with the weather flipping moods in seconds, riding through sand, and seeing more camels than humans for days on end. We crossed the border from Russia straight onto the main asphalt road that cuts through the country — a country with an average of two people per square kilometre. The first sign of civilisation was a town called Ölgii and, at nearly two thousand meters altitude, the winter gloves were back out for the first time since Europe. ![[Mongolia 1.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Arriving into Ölgii*</small></div> That night we stayed with a family spanning three generations, all living in a big ger (yurt) with a few cabins for guests in their garden. The dad of the middle generation worked as a tour guide and spoke good English, so I asked him what route we should take. He looked at our fully loaded bike, then at me and Becs, and quickly said “stick to the road” — as if it was a dumb question I had asked. He warned of August rains and the risk of getting stuck in the middle of nowhere. We listened (for now). For the next two days we rode hundreds of kilometres between scattered towns. The air was crisp, the landscapes green. It reminded me of Jersey but stretched a thousandfold, with mountains as a backdrop, camels instead of cows, and eagles instead of seagulls. ![[Mongolia 2.jpg]] When the sun started to descend, we’d look for a place to stay. The tactic has been refined: I’d wait on the bike while Becs went in to play the innocent traveller. Even when they say they're full, they have a room available somewhere. And even when they have prices formally listed on the reception desk, there's always room to negotiate (until a more fancy place listed a double room for €75 and we said we'd do it €25 — that one didn't work and we ended up in the tent). Evenings were slow and peaceful. We’d walk past kids playing basketball, families watching the TV inside their ger, and stray dogs which didn't pay us any attention — just like the locals. We’d have a couple of beers, reflect on the day’s events, and plan for the next. ![[Mongolia 3.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*At least one will be wearing a Christian Ronaldo football top*</small></div> Mornings would always start with coffee. I've been keeping ground beans in a packet from my favourite coffee shop in Jersey, appropriately called "Bean Around The World." But the grocery stores only sold instant coffee, which won't satisfy my addiction. I ended up in an actual coffee shop ordering ten espressos, then trying to explain to the young woman I didn’t want them made, just the beans ground into a plastic bag. After some confused translations and bewildered looks, we got there. The whole saga only set me back €10 (cheaper than Bean Around The World). First addiction satisfied, the next one came knocking soon after. The asphalt road was smooth, enjoyable and safe, but I was craving the adventurous path. So, on the fourth day, we left the asphalt and rode two hundred kilometres across tracks, grass, and sand. In Mongolia, you can basically go in any direction you want and you will find a way. ![[Mongolia 4.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*It must go somewhere…*</small></div> ![[Mongolia 5.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Most herders are also on motorcycles*</small></div> We aimed for Uliastai, one of Mongolia’s most remote cities. We rode up to the gates of a local ger camp on the outskirts, where the young owners told us we could pitch our tent in their garden. It turned out to be karaoke night (we hadn’t clocked it was Friday night) and they pointed to a central ger with a massive TV and sound system. We tried to pay for the stay — cash practically forced into their hands — but they refused. We pitched the tent as far from karaoke central as possible, but still laughed ourselves to sleep that night as local songs grew louder and the singing quality steadily declined. After Uliastai, we cut back onto a smaller, mostly paved road and slowed down the pace. For four days we cruised through stunning scenery, stopped for lunch in fields so large you can’t see the edges, and pulled up at ger camps in the evenings. For €5 they often let us pitch the tent behind a fence or cabin to hide from the evening winds. A hot shower and somewhere to charge our helmets was just a bonus. ![[Mongolia 6.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*End of season, so most cabins were empty*</small></div> One week after entering Mongolia, and on a diet of tuna, beans, and biscuits, we made it to Ulaanbaatar. Riding into the city wasn’t pretty, as we passed through suburban ger districts that looked extremely impoverished and exuded potent smells my brain struggled to comprehend. But the city itself was like many in Europe… high rise buildings shimmering in the background while younger folks sipped ice tea in the afternoons and alcohol in the evenings. Being the final days of August, there was a “back to school” vibe in the air. ![[Mongolia 7.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Beginning of the new school year*</small></div> ![[Mongolia 8.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Could pass for any city*</small></div> We took a few days rest and prepared for the last leg of the journey: bike maintenance, money exchange, and washing clothes. We would have loved to stay longer, but summer was slipping away and we didn’t want to be left behind. Next stop: the road to Vladivostok. ### 19🇷🇺 Russia Part 2 - helicopters and holy water ###### 4 days and 1,320km (Total: 129 days and 25,560km) On the world map it looks like you should be able to hop straight from Kazakhstan into Mongolia, but there’s no official border between the two. Heading south through China was a no-go because foreign vehicles aren’t allowed, so we gladly rode back into Russia on the pricey multi-entry visas we’d secured in London before the trip began. This time we entered four thousand kilometres further east along the country. The border crossing was a breeze compared to last time and only took us an hour on the Russian side. We just had to fill out a form about our jobs, which always causes minor hiccups when the answer is “unemployed.” But the staff were, as at most borders, friendly and welcoming — going about their day-to-day lives and happy to see others visiting their country. Our first night back in Russia was at “Guest House Man Wearing a Dress”. Not its real name (which is something in Cyrillic we can't read or pronounce), but what we named it based on photos from their Instagram. The owner (not wearing a dress this time) showed us to our room, pointed out the well where we could find "holy water," then proudly told us we were his first ever foreign guests. To welcome us, he gave us a complimentary bottle of champagne, which we really didn't need considering the beers already stashed in our panniers. The second day took us northwest to a city Google calls “Barnaul” but road signs referred to its actual name of ‘”Барнаул” — making road signs not particularly useful to us, or vice versa. Thankfully the road there was straight, rolling over lustrous meadows which were a welcome change after Central’s Asia’s endless flat plains. No more camels either, which I didn’t miss as their favourite hobby seems to be standing in the middle of the road chewing grass with a face of confusion but interest. ![[Russia II 1.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Very different scenery from a couple of hours earlier*</small></div> That night we stayed in another apartment block, the kind we’ve oddly grown to love. Cheap, private parking, a grocery store downstairs, and usually at least one pull-up bar lurking near the kids play area. Everything you need an elevator ride away and the perfect antidote to the constant and consequential unknowns of life on the bike. Such an unknown hit us the very next day, as we came the closest yet to falling off the bike at speed. Not camels this time. Not crazy deep potholes. Nor crazy crazy drivers. Instead: a helicopter. Out of nowhere, one suddenly lifted above the trees, maybe twenty metres overhead. The downward gush of wind jolted us sideways at 90kmph, and I only just managed to keep the bike from veering off the side of the road and into the trees. Probably the one time I’ve been thankful K weighs as much as a small car. Fittingly, it turned out to be an ambulance helicopter, so at least we’d have been in safe hands if we’d crashed. Day three we set off south towards the Mongolia border. The ride looked arduous on paper but turned out to be splendid in practise. Six hours through the Altai Mountains with smooth, empty roads winding alongside a river. Each town we passed getting smaller and smaller as we covered the four hundred Ks on K, before we arrived at the smallest and most peaceful of towns and settled there for the night. ![[Russia II 2.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Some locals chilling*</small></div> We thought about staying another night, but we’ve learnt it’s often better to leave on a high, so waved goodbye to our host and her crazy chained-up dogs. Two more days to Mongolia. Our last stop was a campsite tucked off the road, where €10 got us a pitch near a flowing stream and €15 more bought dinner for both of us: two chicken legs, a good pile of bulgar, a small pastry, and unlimited tea. Simple, but perfect. We woke early and put our down jackets on for the first time in months, brewing an Aeropress from the shared kitchen as the sun rose with just enough warmth to overcome the morning chill. Summer felt well and truly behind us. The last leg of the journey just beginning. ![[Russia II 3.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Brewing a coffee, getting ready to cross into Mongolia*</small></div> Next stop: our 22nd country. ### 18🇰🇿 Kazakhstan Part 2 - Comfort City ###### 13 days and 1,617km (Total: 125 days and 24,240km) _“But he found that a traveller’s life is one that includes much pain amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are forever on the stretch; and when he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to quit that on which he rests in pleasure for something new, which again engages his attention, and which also he forsakes other novelties.”_ <small>- Frankenstein</small> It was serendipitous to read this on the morning we left Almaty, after ten days of beautiful repose. We had arrived into the city after the trials and tribulations — and pure adventure — of riding the Silk Roads of Central Asia, and were ready for a break. Our home was a family-oriented apartment complex called Comfort City, and the polar opposite of a Tajik hostel at four thousand meters above sea level. For the first time in months, packing up our gear in the morning was replaced with making the bed. Navigating a muddy track was now navigating aisles of a supermarket. And plotting the next day’s route was traded for a book and an early night. The extended shift gave me a newfound appreciation for the mundane-yet-blissful routines of everyday life. We’d spent our days doing very little, savouring the simple pleasures of it all. ![[Kazakhstan II 1.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Our view from Comfort City*</small></div> Our original plan was to stay in the city for four days while the bike was serviced. But that was extended, twice, as we fought with Kazakh customs over the delivery of new bike parts. By the time they finally arrived from Italy, I had acquired a Kazakh identity number, a registration with the tax authorities, and mastered the ability to maintain my place in a chaotic immigration queue using only Google Translate and universal hand gestures for “what the fuck are you doing.” Despite these new strengths, we had also grown a soft spot for Almaty. Set in the foothills of the Trans-Ili mountains, the air was cooler — a mild thirty degrees compared to the forty-plus elsewhere in Central Asia — and the sound of running water from the mountains was a lush replacement for the constant onslaught of sand and dust. The best part, although a bit awkward to admit, was that people paid us absolutely no attention. Everywhere else in Central Asia, kids and adults approached us whenever we stopped, which is lovely, but it gets tiring. You always feel like a tourist unable to blend in and flow with the everyday lives of the locals. But in Almaty — and Kazakhstan as a whole, for reasons I can’t explain — we were almost entirely ignored everywhere we went. The most attention we got was from some people that kindly welcomed us to Kazakhstan and asked if we needed any help. ![[Kazakhstan II 2.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Being ignored at one of the excellent bakeries Almaty has to offer*</small></div> As we watched the leaves begin to fall from the trees, it dawned on us that Autumn was approaching and we still had a long way to Japan. On our tenth day, we finally picked up K, fitted with new tires, brake pads, air filters, and a new chain (which came in gold, really helping us blend in…). ![[Kazakhstan II 3.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*The cleanest it’s been for a while*</small></div> We enjoyed our final day in Comfort City, eating our last Plov of the Stans (for breakfast and dinner), and set off. The “pleasure for something new” was calling and, as we rode north through the peaceful vastness, we reminisced over the intercoms about the incredible memories from our journey through Central Asia. Next stop: Russia Part 2 of 3. ### 17🇰🇬 Kyrgyzstan - high roads and hidden gems ###### 8 days and 1,461km (Total: 112 days and 22,623km) The Pamir Highway had delivered ridiculous, otherworldly scenery — but at a cost. The high altitude, broken roads, and stale-bread-of-a-diet had been slowly beating the shit out of us, one punch at a time. By the time we arrived in Osh, we realised we were close to KO. We took a day's rest in the city and treated ourselves to an apartment that had the luxury of a toilet you didn't need to walk fifty meters outside in the freezing cold to get to. We had an easy day planning our route through Kyrgyzstan and lubing our aging bike chain with a bunch of kids watching and saying "hello" on repeat. We left Osh and rode four hours to a guest house called October, in a town called Oktyabr. We were back in forty degree heat and back in the world of unfathomable generosity as two local men brought over bread, cheese and fruit as we took a break under the shade of a tree. We continued on and arrived at October, agreeing €30 for a private room including dinner and breakfast with a woman that looked like she was going to give birth any moment. A few other overlanders turned up later that evening but we all silently acknowledged the fact that no one had the energy for small talk — so we did our own thing and went our separate ways the next morning. Perfect. Maps.me is popular here, but the routes it sends you down is a roll of the dice. Anything ranging from new asphalt to dirt tracks that look like they're only used by horses or donkeys. We tried our luck and on our first day the dice landed on gravel. We rode a hundred kilometres over two hours with the bike vibrating and traction control in overdrive. It wasn't the most enjoyable ride, but oftentimes that's the trade-off in exchange for stunning views with no other humans in sight. ![[Kyrgyzstan 1.jpg]] We needed to find a place to camp, which is more tricky in practise than theory when the sides of the roads are either steep drop-offs or covered in sharp shrubbery and/or rocks. The road continued to wind down over the mountain pass and we weren’t having much luck. We realised Becs had dropped her phone and then I dropped the bike turning round to go try and find it. Picking up the fully-loaded bike on an incline, at the end of a long day, took every ounce of energy we had left from the kilos of bread we had consumed in Tajikistan. Luckily the helmet was hiding my facial expressions which probably resembled a world strongest man competitor mid boulder lift. Eventually, we found a spot. The sun was setting so we ate some bread and cheese before setting up camp. At about 11pm, the wind introduced itself, hissing over the hills. By midnight, it had matured into a deep bellow, rattling our tent as it swooped through. It soon had pulled every peg from the ground and warped the tent to the point the only thing holding it down was our body weight. I knew I had to do something before the whole thing flew off. So I ventured out into the darkness in my boxers, sandals and head torch and continued my world strongest man training, carrying the biggest rocks I could find and strapping the tent to them. Whilst Becs held the structure together from the inside, I completed the fortress with a chain of cable ties hooked to K — the 250kg beast stood there unfazed. ![[Kyrgyzstan 2.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Calm after the storm*</small></div> Eventually the gusts calmed. Despite a restless night — Becs very much over camping at this point — we woke early and boiled some tea on the stove before loading the contents of our bedroom, kitchen, and wardrobes onto the motorcycle — alongside ourselves — and shuddered our way down the rest of the mountain pass. We soon came to a T-shaped fork in the road. Previously, choosing a direction meant a close examination of Google Maps. Now, after a month in Central Asia, it boils down to one thing: which road looks less fucked? We made the right call and followed a smooth and empty road for hundreds of kilometers around Song-Köl (a lake) — our eyes, ears, skin, and noses receiving data we hadn’t felt since Europe: endless greenery and crisp, cold air. It was beautifully nostalgic. Over our intercoms we agreed that Kyrgyzstan is a true hidden gem — our favourite Stan. The next day I even had the chance to run, led by a dog that I’d befriended and trotted on like a guide. She even waited for me as I took off my shoes to cross a river after she had nonchalantly waded through it. It was nice to chat to someone/thing other than Becs despite being seriously out of breath — which I originally thought was lack of fitness but later came to a more flattering hypothesis that it was because I was over 3,000 metres above sea level (as 40% of Kyrgyzstan is). ![[Kyrgyzstan 3.jpg]] The nostalgia continued the next day, but in a different guise: cold and heavy rain. As we skirted the edge or Issyk-Köl (another, much vaster lake) the dice landed on mud. It was a challenging ride over slippery roads and near-zero visibility, as the rain peppered our helmets like we were driving a car in a storm with no windscreen wipers. We knocked on the door of a guest house in the next town, which wasn't our first choice but turned out to be bloody perfect. The room clean and the bike sheltered, but more than that — "perfect" was the feeling that we’d be happy making this our home for the night. So much so, that after we had stripped off our riding gear — this time wet from rain and not sweat — we asked our Russian host if we could stay two nights instead of one. “Da,” she said. Despite the frequent power cuts which meant it took at least thirty minutes to boil the kettle, Guest House Amirhan and the town of Bokonbayevo made its way towards the top of our favourite stays so far. ![[Kyrgyzstan 4.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Bokonbayevo*</small></div> On our eighth and penultimate day in the country of the Kyrgyz, we continued East, stopping for a swim in the lake on the way of our short ride to a village called Jeti Oguz. We've loved the guesthouse experiences so much in Kyrgyzstan that we enjoyed our last one in the foot of the mountains, where our host made us a simple but incredibly tasty dish of potatoes, cabbage, and beef (or horse), served alongside dozens of extras: bread, watermelon, apples, apricots, pears, nuts, raisins, salads, sweets, and a bunch of other things I couldn’t identify (but they were all delicious). On our final day, the nostalgia eventually overstayed its welcome. We rode towards the border in a non-stop downpour for two hours — the kind that soaks through to the skin and sucks all the warmth from your body. Still, it wasn’t able to dampen what had been an incredibly positive experience of a country that we fell more in love with on every turn. Next stop: our last (and first) Stan. ### 16🇹🇯 Tajikistan - the Pamir Highway ###### 10 days and 1,370km (Total: 104 days and 21,162km) Three hours after exiting Afghanistan, we were sitting in a border hut sharing fruit and energy drinks with the Tajik immigration staff. We needed to pay $10 to import the bike, but they had no change for our $100 note, so we started asking random passers-through if they could help. Eventually a friendly Tajik man pulled out a wad of cash and swapped our dollars for somoni — but only once he’d made sure the note was as crisp as a new one. That matters here. Meanwhile, the system wasn’t accepting Becs’s Portuguese passport, but that got solved when one of the officers said “Hang on a moment,” took it round the back, and returned with it magically stamped. A few hiccups, but they felt so minor after Afghanistan that we just took them on the chin with a smile. In need of rest, we nailed it straight to Dushanbe, the capital. We’d booked two nights — but that turned into six after I was floored by Tajik Tummy and confined to bed. I couldn’t tell you much about the city, but I could certainly give you a detailed review of our bathroom and the sweets aisle in the supermarket across the road. Becs knows I’m not doing great when I’m watching YouTube videos like “How to drive a golf ball straight” at ten in the morning. The Pamir Highway was waiting. Part of the ancient Silk Road, it’s been used for millennia as the only viable route through the mountains connecting Afghanistan, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, and Kyrgyzstan. The Soviets turned it into an actual road in the 1930s and named it the M41. It’s famous for its Mars-like scenery, and infamous for sporadic landslides, deep river crossings, and dreadful road conditions. A week later than planned — and finally ready to trade the toilet seat for the bike seat — we set off. We left Dushanbe and rode east along the Panj River, which literally forms the border with Afghanistan. It was a scenic and gentle ride, exactly what I needed to get back into the rhythm. Kids played on both riverbanks, seemingly metres apart but a world away in every other sense. Tajik military patrolled their side to stop people crossing illegally. ![[Tajikistan 1.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Afghan villages on the other side of the Panj River*</small></div> Five hours later, we reached the first town. We knocked on a hostel door and asked how much. The guy wrote “200” on a calculator (about €20), so we took off our boots and unpacked. Thirty minutes later he reappeared and typed “300”. He had changed the price (apparently not unusual in Tajikistan) so, out of principle, we did the last thing we wanted to: got dressed again and repacked the bike. We rode to the next place down the road and quadruple-confirmed the price before unpacking. That night we had soup and a small plov for dinner and swapped stories with a French couple who’d cycled all the way from Lyon. On our second day, we followed the Panj River again but the road got rough. Broken asphalt, deep sand, gravel, and narrow passes barely wide enough for two vehicles. The bike was enjoying it even less than I was. From the intermittent revving and dirt flying everywhere, the clutch got stuck at full tension and wouldn’t stop slipping. I couldn’t loosen it with my hands because sand and dirt had locked it in place. So we were stuck in first gear for 20km, with another 100km to go. We passed a sign for a car mechanic and rolled down the path to his house. He called his brother (who spoke English), poked around, and said he needed to open the engine. I knew that was total overkill so eventually — and proudly — I fixed it myself (with a phone call to my dad). For the rest of the day I was too focused on dodging rocks and potholes to enjoy the landscape, but Becs was taking it all in. ![[Tajikistan 2.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*The next day we heard reports of a landslide that blocked this road for twenty four hours*</small></div> On the third day, we ascended away from civilisation and into the heart of the Pamirs. Trucks had battered the road to pieces over the last hundred years, so it took us nearly six hours to cover just 200km, probably shaving a few years off K’s lifespan in the process. As we climbed higher — above 4,000m — the scenery became breathtaking, literally. We passed a few cyclists and the odd truck, but mostly it was just us and the bike immersed in surreality for hours on end. ![[Tajikistan 3.jpg]] ![[Tajikistan 4 (reduced).png]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Endless*</small></div> By early evening, we rolled into a tiny village and decided to stop for the night. The owner, wearing a traditional Kyrgyz hat (locals here identify as Kyrgyz, even though they’re Tajik citizens), sat with us and told us this was his favourite time of year. In winter, it drops to minus forty — the coldest inhabited place in Central Asia. Dinner was stale bread, fried potatoes, and lentil soup. As the rain started and the light faded, it was exactly what we needed. ![[Tajikistan 5.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*€30 for private room, dinner, and breakfast (and wifi that barely worked)*</small></div> The next day brought another 200km of unbelievable views. We passed a town called Murghab, filled up on whatever fuel was available, and wandered through a shipping-container market. The altitude made us breathless within minutes, which was fine as the market didn’t have much to offer anyway. ![[Tajikistan 6.jpg]] We sat on the roadside and ate our last bit of bread before pushing on to Lake Karakul — two hours of jaw-dropping scenery. We found a homestay near the lake with a large room full of beds. The mum said we could have it to ourselves (I guess the tourist traffic isn’t heavy here). Her daughter cooked us noodles and potatoes and served more stale bread and tea, which we enjoyed like it was a Michelin-starred meal. We woke early the next morning and rode north, leaving Tajikistan and crossing into Kyrgyzstan via one of the highest border crossings in the world at over 14,000 feet, and a challenging ride too. ![[Tajikistan 7.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Between borders — no man’s land*</small></div> Our destination was Osh — officially the end of the Pamir Highway. Next stop: one Stan closer to Japan. ### 15🇦🇫 Afghanistan - hello how are you I’m fine ###### 4 days and 912km (Total: 94 days and 19,792km) “Foreigners face a high risk of terrorist attacks and kidnapping.” I get it, western governments don’t want Brits-abroad happening in Afghanistan. But when you cut through the conservative advice, you find stories from recent foreign travellers, of different nationalities and genders, that are surprisingly positive. It’s like a rollercoaster ride: there are warning signs plastered all over it but, most of the time, the experience is good. So we packed our bags — like we do every day — and set off to find out. The Afghan embassy in Termez, Uzbekistan, was a little residential building on the side of the street, with a flag flying above a small security shack. The address on Google Maps takes you to entirely the wrong place. Our phones were taken off us and we were walked through to a small, dark room, where the consular officer asked why we wanted to visit the country, as if confused. When we told him we wanted to see his country and its people, he told us we could get a visa that same day, if we submitted the application before 12pm and paid fifty dollars extra. There was a lot of paperwork to fill out, all in Persian, but a man and his two sons across the road offered to do it all for twenty dollars. After countless spelling mistakes and a couple of power cuts, the forms were ready by 11:42am. We ran back to the embassy and handed everything over. Then we had to go to a bank to pay for the visa before returning at 4:30pm to find it stuck inside our passports, stamped with “Land Only.” We had our final beer in Uzbekistan that night before heading into Afghanistan the next day. Exiting Uzbekistan was smooth. Entering Afghanistan was… significantly more unstructured… and a lot more intimidating. Halfway across the “Friendship Bridge” connecting the two countries, we had our first encounter with the Taliban: two men in black t-shirts with the Taliban emblem, AK-47s slung over their shoulders. Guns are common at most borders, but their presence here felt very different. They checked the visa stickers in our passports and waved us through. At the next stage, we had to unload our panniers and run them through an x-ray machine (looking for guns, drones, or alcohol). Then our passports were stamped, our photos taken, and we were officially in. It ended up being the quickest — and possibly friendliest — border entry we’ve had. The fact we were British didn’t change their attitude to us one bit. One officer wearing only civilian-style Afghan clothes — which we learnt means he’s the most senior — even pulled out a map of the country and passionately showed us the best places we should visit. We had a short ride to our first stop, Mazar-e-Sharif. We counted seven Taliban checkpoints along the way and were stopped at all of them, bar one. They’d ask where we are from and take pictures of our visas. Some were friendly, some cold, but never hostile. Between checkpoints were long, straight roads through empty desert. We rode with our visors down not to block insects — which aren’t a problem in these temperatures — but to keep the sand off our faces. When we arrived in the city, we parked K in a secure car park and walked into the hotel through a door that looked like the entrance to a Swiss bank vault (at least the kind you see in movies). A bit of haggling on the price — hotels for foreigners are expensive here — and €30 a night felt like a win. We were shown to a basic but decent room with a nice view over the city. ![[Afghanistan 1.jpg]] We took a walk around the centre, attracting stares from just about everyone. Some didn’t stop watching until we were out of sight. Others turned their stare into a smile when we caught their eye. A few shouted whatever English they knew — the most common being “Hello how are you I’m fine!” It was very genuine curiosity, mostly (I suspect) directed at Becs who, even in a hijab, stood out. Her eyes and face were visible, and instead of a burka, she wore trousers and a long-sleeve top that outlined her body. She handled the attention calmly but I could tell it became uncomfortable after a while, so we ate some Qabeli Plov and headed back to the hotel. The next day was a ten hour ride to the capital, Kabul. We rode for four and a half hours straight before stopping under a tree that offered some shade and, we thought, peace. But within five minutes we had dozens of young men around us. They love touching everything on the bike. One guy was revving the engine, another fiddling with the GPS, and one was biting our wing mirror like a toddler trying to make sense of a new toy. Some spoke enough English to ask where we were from (always guessing Russian, German, and then American), and they’d repeat the same questions on loop. The afternoon was longer in time but shorter in distance as the roads had turned to shit. Luckily, Turkmenistan had trained me well for this kind of riding and we were used to potholes, sand, and forty degree heat. The final hour was a slow approach into Kabul, where the energy kept building like water starting to boil. Kids playing football at the side of the road, women walking children back from school, markets starting to emerge, and a crescendo of car horns. ![[Afghanistan 2.jpg]] ![[Afghanistan 3.jpg]] There are no rules on the roads. Literally none. No speed limits, no traffic lights, no designated lanes or directions. Most cars don’t even have license plates. It’s an organic chaos seemingly held together by the shared instinct that nobody actually wants to crash. I must’ve looked like a mug trying to navigate roundabouts properly, while everyone else just funnelled in and out from whatever direction they fancied. We got to the hotel just before sunset. Our faces were grey from the dust our bums red from the saddle. The staff — also armed with assault rifles — unlocked the massive gate and we rode K inside. My negotiation skills were running low and my boots already off, so we paid what they asked and were shown to our room. After a quick shower, we went out to find food. Normally, we’d pick based on menu and price but here it was about whether they’d accept a woman inside. We found one that did and walked in, past rows of men eating, into the family room at the back — behind a curtain and hidden from street view. The waiter spoke great English and interacted with Becs a little, but most of the conversation went through me. When he brought one too many Cokes and Becs tried to hand one back, he ignored her and picked up a different one from the table instead. It was hard to wrap my head around and even harder, I imagine, for Becs to experience. ![[Afghanistan 4.jpg]] On the third day, we explored Kabul. The markets felt like those in any big city — people selling things to other people — but stripped to their most raw and gritty form. A man sharpening knives with no goggles, his child sitting quietly beside him. Three brothers baking bread beside their home-made clay furnace, the eldest looking like he hadn’t slept in days. A bird seller asleep in his bed, surrounded by towers of cages. It was a sprawl of isolated worlds, all bleeding into each other with loud noises and unforgettable smells. And pushing the senses into overdrive, the blue skies transformed into a thunderstorm. ![[Afghanistan 5.jpg]] We ran back to the hotel, taking brief shelter at a Taliban checkpoint, and crashed. Another biker we’d met back in Russia turned up at the same hotel, and we went for dinner together, sharing stories of the Stans and our longing for a cold beer. On the fourth day, we rode north toward a town called Kunduz. “What the fuck” was on repeat during that ride — first at the chaos leaving the city, then again at the mesmerising scenery once we got out of it. ![[Afghanistan 6.jpg]] ![[Afghanistan 7.jpg]] ![[Afghanistan 8.jpg]] We stayed at the “5 Stars Hotel,” which had a squat toilet and dirty bedsheets. But the air con worked and it had wifi, so by Afghan standards… it really was 5 stars. I later downgraded it to 1 star when the hotel manager knocked on our door and came in with two men carrying guns. They said they were police and wanted to make sure we had no drones. They unpacked all our bags, found our stash of cash, and stole a hundred dollars. Right in front of me. Fortunately, Becs was locked in the bathroom, they weren’t aggressive, and they left our passports and other valuables alone (including another four hundred dollars in the same wallet, surprisingly). I guess the western government advice has a point, after all. We didn’t sleep that night. We wanted to get the hell out of there and we were on the road by 6am and heading for the Tajikistan border — the end of the rollercoaster in sight. We pulled into a petrol station, woke up the guy working there, and asked for “super.” He yawned. I yawned. Halfway through filling up, I checked the price and realised he was using the diesel pump. “What the fuck.” Again. I pulled the nozzle out of the bike and he told me to smell it. Thankfully, it was petrol. The quality, who knows. The final “what the fuck” came moments later, just as we pulled out of the station and watched a car completely level a tuk tuk at a ninety degree angle. As we rode past, local men were dragging out a limp body. I felt completely helpless — there was nothing we could do but keep riding. The rollercoaster had come off the rails entirely and we slid our way over the border and towards our next country. Next stop: sleep. ### 14🇺🇿 Uzbekistan - ignoring TripAdvisor ###### 7 days and 1,013km (Total: 90 days and 18,873km) Navigating a two hundred and fifty kilogram motorcycle in these temperatures is a kind of physical labour I’m not used to (relative to the other types like making cups of tea and carrying the groceries home). Gore-tex keeps the sweat in just as well as it keeps the rain out, whilst your mind's playing a game of whac-a-mole to dodge pot holes, crazy drivers and wild animals. It certainly doesn't help when your body is trying to digest food and water it's not used to. The journey is a challenge but I absolutely love it. After Turkmenistan we needed a rest so pre-booked accommodation, more premium than our average, to guarantee clean bed sheets and air conditioning — two things Uzbekistan isn't famous for. Getting into the country was easy. The customs officer prodded around our bags but didn't steal anything, and even offered to fix our wing mirror which had fallen off from the bumpy roads. I suspect he saw in us two people whose day had been difficult enough. We were shattered but only had an hour's drive to Khiva, a quintessential tourist hotspot, where we did the things TripAdvisor will never write about: ate a kebab on the outskirts of the town and had an early night. The next morning we woke as the sun was rising, pushed K out of the courtyard to not disturb the children sleeping outside, and rode for six hours south to Bukhara. The heat was intense — not just in temperature, per se, but the shimmer on the tarmac, the hot wind blowing into your face, and the mind's consistent draw to water. We arrived at our accommodation and it was everything we had hoped for, and more. The host opened the door and led us through to a secluded courtyard that cast an instant relaxation spell over us. There was even a tiny tortoise wandering round slowly and aimlessly — the perfect antidote to riding six hours in one direction at a hundred kilometres per hour. The addition of a needy cat topped it off. ![[Uzbekistan 1.jpg]] The host and his family spoke good English and we really felt at home with them. They made us a huge delicious breakfast in the morning and we only left their house to visit the local bazaar and buy groceries — perfectly content to skip the thousands of TripAdvisor suggestions in favour of air conditioning, hanging out with a cat and a tortoise, and doing absolutely nothing. Whilst enjoying a cold Sarbast Special that evening, we realised we wouldn't be ready to leave the next day, so asked the host if we could stay an extra two nights with a lower budget. He said we can move into one of the smaller rooms and forfeit the breakfast. We both instantly agreed and paid up front. The next morning, breakfast was still served and he told us we can keep the same room. It's the first time on the trip that we've stayed more than three nights in the same place. It's also the first time we ate at the same restaurant twice! A place nearby specialised in Uzbek Plov for which you can order "0.7 portions" or "1 portion" and pay a little more if you want beef instead of horse. The food was so good that I had to keep myself from finishing the whole plate before Becs had finished her first mouthful. And the no frills dining experience made it even better: pictures on the menu, food served in two minutes, and the waiters don't bother you again until you get up and pay seven euros for the whole experience. Perfect. After four nights, it was time to leave Bukhara. As we rode further south the scenery turned from uninteresting desert to undulating hills with enough rain to support farming and some flora. The roads were great and the heat had calmed a bit. It was some of my favourite riding yet. ![[Uzbekistan 2.jpg]] We’re now preparing for our next Stan. Fortunately, an Aussie biker had topped us off that Tajikistan visas were currently in a state of unknown — some people getting them instantly, others taking weeks, and some outright rejected for no reason. British passports, we were warned, weren't having much luck. We were given a WhatsApp number of a “fixer” who could apparently get visas approved faster. It sounded pretty dodgy but compelling enough, so we sent him $150 and he replied “Leave it with me.” Next stop: Let’s see. ### 13🇹🇲 Turkmenistan - dead roads and bike yoga ###### 4 days and 1,433km (Total: 83 days and 17,860km) The last fifty kilometres to the Kazakhstan-Turkmenistan border were bad, really bad. If you wanted to recreate the road, here are five simple steps to get started: 1. Get a spade and create piles of ground close together but of random sizes and shapes. 2. In between said piles, dig holes anywhere from one to three feet deep. 3. Smother the whole thing in concrete (the cheapest you can find) but before it dries make sure to drive some tractors over the whole thing and lob some rocks in there too for good measure. 4. When all of that is dry, sprinkle a few hundreds of tons of sand over it all. 5. Finally, station a sizeable population of camels on either side with an incentive to cross the road frequently. It took us two hours to cover those fifty kilometres, in forty degree heat, with no one else in sight. For a fifty kilometre radius, the only sounds you could hear were Becs counting down in hundred meter intervals, me saying "oh fuck" every ten seconds, and K's suspension bottoming out and making a thud just before or after my cursing. ![[Turkmenistan 1.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*One of the good sections*</small></div> The arrival to the Kazakhstan exit border couldn’t have been anymore anticlimactic. We entered a small shed to get our passports stamped followed by a customs officer opening our panniers that were so caked in dust that he didn’t touch anything. Everyone looked confused to see us, saying that only about ten foreigners a year travel through this border. Exiting a country overland is easy. But entering one is another story, and Turkmenistan would be the protagonist if ever such a story existed. Three hours with more paper shuffling but this time we also had to pay per shuffle. Covid test, tourist tax (British being the most expensive), bike import, bike insurance, fuel tax, and others which I gave up asking questions about. They even spent time literally drawing out the route we were taking through the country on a physical map. Overall we spent about five hundred dollars and several litres of sweat before we officially entered Turkmenistan. Since separating from the Soviet Union in 1991, the country has remained insular and tourism is strictly controlled. You need a full-time guide with you at all times and ours was called Bahtiyar who was accompanied by a driver called Annamuhamet. They told us we had two hundred kilometres to reach our first hotel. The road was significantly better than on the Kazakh side of the border, despite the fact that a single pothole would still make headline news in Britain — and there were thousands of them. I realised that locals adopt one of two strategies: drive at fifty kilometres per hour and dodge around them, or drive at one hundred and fifty kilometres per hour in an attempt to glide over them. There's no middle option. We chose the former and arrived at our hotel four hours after crossing the border. From start to finish it was a gruelling twelve hour day — our most difficult yet. At the hotel, they gave us a wifi password but few websites loaded properly and all communication apps were offline — a fact we realised was true for all of Turkmenistan. Bahtiyar accompanied us to dinner and we were surprised at how expensive food was relative to neighbouring countries, with a staple Pilaf dish costing thirty manat, which Google (behind a VPN) converted to nine dollars. But, we learnt, that was the official exchange rate set by the Central Bank of Turkmenistan, and the “black market rate” used on the street was nineteen manat for one dollar; so our meal was really just one dollar and fifty cents. Great value for money for high quality food that was all home-grown due to strict import laws. Even better value for money was fuel. A full tank of petrol cost us just… one dollar. A welcome relief for our budget after the expensive border crossing, and especially since we were covering serious distances each day through sparsely populated desert. The mental stimulation of the riding was low: the roads were straight and flat, the scenery hidden behind a thick haze, and even insects had stopped flying into my helmet — either too hot for them or they need an expensive visa too. Speed wasn’t even something I had to think about, as local police aren’t allowed to stop foreign vehicles. With the extra headspace I discovered a new art: using airflow through the gaps in my jacket to air-condition different parts of my body. Sweat accruing near the belly button? No worries, sit up tall, tilt the head back slightly and air will funnel down your neck and over the torso. Right nipple starting to overheat? Just stretch your left hand out over the windshield, bend your wrist at a right angle, and splay your fingers like a starfish. Instant relief. Honestly, I could probably make a poster of all the different positions I’ve been learning. Bike yoga. On our third day, with my new air conditioning system operational, we rode into the capital, Ashgabat. It's like The Capitol of Panem from the Hunger Games. As you travel in, you go from shitty roads and basic concrete buildings to immaculate four-lane highways (one lane reserved for government officials) and white marble palaces — a policy decreed by the former president who envisioned the city as “The White City.” Only Ashgabat-registered cars can enter the city; if you’re born elsewhere in the country you need to park outside the city and get the train in. The cars can only be white, silver or gold, and they have to be sparkling clean otherwise the police will fine you. Fortunately we were exempt from that rule too. We left K at the hotel and got a tour of the city in Annamuhamet’s car. We saw the huge Turkmenbashi mosque (which was empty), the state museum (assigned with a new compulsory guide), and the city shopping mall (our favourite part). Along the way we drove past The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, The Ministry of Agriculture, The Ministry of Education, The Ministry of Energy, the Ministry of Construction, The Ministry of Security, and all the other ministries that were equidistance apart and grand in design. We even stopped to see a bus stop that was air-conditioned with the national news playing on a TV inside. After a night in Ashgabat, we rode to the Darvaza gas crater ("Door to Hell"), bang in the middle of the country. Our guide said the road to get there was "dead road" which, by this point, we knew meant dodging potholes like you’re playing a video game, just in sweltering heat and real repercussions if you make a mistake. So we decided that Becs and the luggage would go in the car to reduce the weight — and responsibility — I was carrying on the bike for the next two days and six hundred kilometres. I got stuck a few times along the way. ![[Turkmenistan 2.png]] But we eventually arrived at our yurt and parked (/got stuck) in the sand for the night. ![[Turkmenistan 3.jpg]] Bahtiyar cooked us a bbq whilst we walked over to check out Turkmenistan’s most popular tourist attraction. ![[Turkmenistan 4.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Gas crater and life-size replica of Turkmenistan potholes*</small></div> The heat kept us awake in the yurt till one o'clock in the morning, and we woke three hours later to start the final ride to the border before the sun rose. It was a seven hour ride, with one stop to refuel myself on the local version of Red Bull and another to refuel the bike on siphoned petrol from a stranger passing by in an old Soviet truck. ![[Turkmenistan 5 (reduced).png]] We arrived at the border just before it shut for lunch time, paid a few more border fees, and waved goodbye to Bahtiyar. It was an intense five days riding through Turkmenistan. The riding wasn't enjoyable, but we made plenty of life memories and it was fascinating to see inside a country that wants to keep to itself. Despite the physical strain, the motorcycle journey is making me feel a lot younger. ![[Turkmenistan 6.jpg]] Next stop: more "roads" to Tokyo. ### 12🇰🇿 Kazakhstan Part 1 - a paradise for overlanders and wind turbines ###### 7 days and 2,118km (Total: 79 days and 16,427km) "Turn right and drive 500km until you reach your destination" said Google Maps every morning. So that's what we did for our first few days in Kazakhstan — riding through the West of the country and wrapping around the Caspian Sea, albeit only scratching the tiniest surface of this huge landmass the size of Western Europe. Riding a motorcycle here is tough. The wind is so brutal that your neck becomes sore holding your head in place. The landscape is the exact same in every direction for so long that it becomes disorienting. And the bare road with nowhere to stop is simply intimidating. Time passes slowly and each day is a fresh challenge. But, it's one heck of a spectacle for the eyes. If Italy is the Teletubbies and Armenia is Dune, then Kazakhstan is Star Wars. It's like a different world — driving through vast landscapes contained only by the horizon and with opposing weather systems battling it out in the sky above. All the while, camels, horses, cows, tortoises, foxes, hedgehogs, and dogs meander across the road in front of you. The place, literally and figuratively, takes the breath away. Unfortunately I was taught nothing about the Stans at school so my only subconscious preconception was embarrassingly and incorrectly built from Borat. The people seem reserved, keeping in their own swim lane, so to speak, but are super friendly, welcoming, and always have a smile on their face when you interact with them. During our time in the country we had strangers buy us a full tank of fuel, a meal, ice creams, energy drinks, ice tea, and countless bottles of water. We learned earlier in our trip that refusing such "gifts" is disrespectful more than polite. The restaurants are the size of palaces and always look closed, with tinted windows and their doors shut, until you walk in. The food is tasty, you just have to be comfortable that "meat" is typically from horse and "milk" might be from a camel. Google isn't too helpful with menu translations, so we were often deciding between dishes like "potatoes of the fool" and "meat with confusion". But, whatever we ordered, we left satisfied every night for less than €5. The highlight of our week was on our fourth night. We had heard of a mystical landscape called Bozhira — a canyon that was the bottom of the Tethys Ocean millions of years ago. It was roughly 200km from where we staying but we couldn't find directions anywhere on the internet. We were recommended to find a local guide that is equipped with both the knowledge and a 4x4, but we had an adventure motorcycle and this sounded like a adventure. So we mounted K and set off. After four hours of road, sand, and dead ends, we knew we were close and saw some promising tracks veering off the beaten track and into the open landscape. After 10km (which is a long way when you're off road) we had to make a decision whether to keep going. It was late in the day, we were running low on fuel, and the track was getting worse. If it rained, which we had already learned could happen at any moment, we'd be in a bit of a pickle. We were close to calling it before we ventured over a small peak and Bozhira opened up like a pop-up book. ![[Kazakhstan I 1.jpg]] We found a flat spot overlooking the canyon, pulled up the bikes and setup camp. No internet, no people, no worries. We soaked up the view until the sun disappeared over the edge of the canyon and went to sleep happy and content. If the pop-up book actually existed, I like to think it would be called "Magical Places on Planet Earth." ![[Kazakhstan I 2.jpg]] The next morning we made coffee and waited for the heat of the day to tell us to get going. We rode back to Aktau and spent two nights in a hostel awaiting visas. More "chicken from a fried grandma", "eggplant sadness", and 90p beers. When we got news that our visas were approved, we left for the Kazakh border. It was only 160km away on a straight road but Google said we needed 4 hours to get there — something didn't add up. We'd soon find out why... Next stop: Turkmenistan *P.S. Before Kazakhstan we covered 702km over 4 days in Russia. We'll be back in Russia after the Stans so a post will wait till after then.* ### 11🇦🇲 Armenia (and Georgia Part 1.5)... the detour ###### 6 days and 733km (Total: 68 days and 13,607km) The Turkey-Armenia border has been closed since 1993, so we weren't able to pass into Armenia on our way from Iraq to Georgia. When we arrived in Tbilisi we had yet another biker rave about Armenia so, tipsy from our 90p beers, we spontaneously decided to detour there. Japan can wait a few more days. We crossed the border from Georgia to Armenia, already acquainted with the next-level inefficiencies you find at these bizarre places, with people handing you pieces of paper which say nothing more than your name on it, for you to then take it to other people, and then back again. It doesn't help when your passport and bike are from an autonomous island which 99.9% of people have never heard of. Once through immigration and customs, we bought compulsory bike insurance from some kids on the other side, and hit the highway in the boiling heat ready for a night's rest. We arrived at a campsite which was titled “Glamping Tereza” because they had two Decathlon tents you could rent from them (as well as pitch your own tent). The hosts were three generations of a family who brought us over pastries and tea whilst a child’s birthday party played out in the garden. Our chai relaxation was short-lived as ominous clouds rolled over the mountains in the background and, before I even had time to process what was going to happen next, the universe delivered the answer in the form of one big fat rain drop straight on the table in front of us. At this point, our bags and gear were still sprawled out on the ground in front of us and the tent still packed away in the motorcycle panniers. We knew it was now or never… “Becs, let’s get the tent up!” We certainly made the kids birthday party more enjoyable, as we flustered and flapped in what was now a formidable downpour. The wrong poles in the wrong holes, the outer shell inside out, the clips unclipping… all whilst our helmets and boots filled with water beside us. Our inefficiencies made border staff look like a Formula 1 pit crew and I had to retract my hypocritical complaints from earlier that day. Within a few minutes we realised we had to cut our losses. I crumpled the tent into a big wet ball and retreated under a small beach umbrella in the corner — defeated. However their age and language translates it as, I’m sure the kids were thinking something along the lines of “who the fuck are these guys?” The grandmother and matriarch of the host family, Tereza, felt sorry for us and hugged Becs as if she was her daughter. Seeing our sogging wet heap of a tent on the ground, she asked if we wanted to stay in their Decathlon Glamping tent, but we only had €9 in cash and we knew the “Glamping” experience cost more than that. She said we can use it for no additional cost but we insisted she take the €9 and told her we'd use our own sleeping bags and towels so she didn't have to clean anything in the morning. We woke to the sun shining and a cat meowing. ![[Armenia 1.jpg]] We hung up our tent pieces and the family invited us over to their all-in-one kitchen, dining room, kids playroom and lounge to make us Armenian coffee, which tasted like Turkish coffee but smoother and sweeter. We sat around with the whole family communicating with Google translate, hand gestures and mere smiles. A lot of silence that previously I would have defined as awkward but now I find peaceful and wholesome. They invited us to join them for breakfast but they'd already provided enough for us, and we had to leave for our long ride to the capital. The ride to Yerevan was spectacular and the hours passed by with ease. As we approached the city, the outskirts were filled with buildings either halfway to being built or halfway to falling down. But the centre was incredibly gentrified with kids wearing designer fashion clothes and the coffee shops selling iced-melon frappucinos with western music remixes playing full volume. Becs didn't like the place but the Dune-style architecture won me over. ![[Armenia 2.jpg]] The next morning we headed to a campsite which several overlanders had recommended. The owner, a Dutch lady called Sandra, greeted and gave us a tour of what she had built — the exemplar of contemporary campsites for overlanders. A garage for bikes and parking lot for camper vans; enough tables such that you can always find one in the sun or shade; three immaculate kitchens with every utensil under the sun (plus free sweets); and hot and spacious showers to fully enjoy that glorious feeling of the days dirt running off your skin. We pitched our tent (early this time) under a tree and setup a little base near one of the kitchens to enjoy a beer. ![[Armenia 3.jpg]] With my British passport blocking any possibility of going through Iran, we headed back to Georgia via another border and with a small stop at a hostel along the way. The host, an elderly gentleman, insisted we have a few shots of vodka with him before cooking us chicken with the help of a women I could only assume was his neighbour. The next day we rode back into Tbilisi and had a day off whilst the bike got new tires fitted. This time, they were 50/50 off-road/on-road, in preparation for the next chapter of the trip. Next stop: Russia and The Stans. ### 10🇬🇪 Georgia - which continent are we in ###### 8 days and 984km (Total: 62 days and 12,874km) Churches instead of mosques, sitting on the toilet instead of squatting over it, and beer instead of shisha... It felt like we were back in Western Europe. We spent most of our time in Georgia travelling the West of the country — back in luscious green landscapes, through the summer-version of ski towns, and over the highest inhabited village “in Europe” (I’m not really sure what continent this is…). We were aiming for the famous Zagari Pass but, along the way there, we were hearing mixed reports of too much snow, recent landslides, and/or uncrossable rivers. Fortunately the night before we got to the apex we met some German bikers travelling in the opposite direction who told us the pass is all clear. So we passed over it the next day and, despite having to ride through mud trails on the edge of a vertical drop, it was well worth it. ![[Georgia 1.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*On our way to Zagari Pass — 2,620m above sea level*</small></div> We didn’t camp once in Georgia because the guest houses were relatively cheap — often €20 for a private room with a balcony and view to remember. It’s also staggering the difference in cleanliness standards between Turkey and Georgia. A Booking.com “Cleanliness rating” of 10/10 in Turkey is equivalent to a 5/10 in Georgia, equivalent to a 1/10 in the UK. In some guest houses we were the only guests and we enjoyed the peace and privacy; others were full and we met new people from so many different walks of life. The latter type epitomised on our fifth night as we pulled into a guest house in a small town called Tskaltubo. The man who greeted us spoke enough English to tell us there was one room left with a balcony and reeled off a ton of other benefits. When we tried to negotiate the price we discovered he wasn't the host, just another guest! My initial suspicion of a pyramid scheme quickly evaporated when the genuine host (I hope) came over and we learnt he didn’t speak any English and this guest had been staying here for quite some time, so was helping a friend. The host gave us a tour of his house and our room on the top floor. I put it down as a 9/10 on the Turkish cleanliness rating which I was accustomed to (4.5/10 in Georgia, 0.5/10 in the UK) but we liked the vibe and it was a good price, so we took off our helmets and unloaded our gear. The host gave us a glass of his homemade wine, which tasted bloody fantastic, although I’m starting to realise almost anything does after you’ve been riding a motorcycle in scorching heat for two hours non-stop. We asked if the bike is safe outside on the street and the host said it’s so safe that we could leave the keys in it and it won't be stolen. (We still locked it.) He gave us a lift into town in his beat-up car (which no one would bother stealing, probably hence his advice) after telling us he knows where we can get cheap beer. When we arrived at a local pub we thought he'd misunderstood — we only wanted bottles we could take back. But he waved away our concern, asked how many beers we wanted, before translating to the guy behind the bar who whipped out a two litre plastic bottle and filled it straight from the beer tap. We had to quickly tell them we only needed one beer, not two. They charged us €2 — equivalent to about 40p per pint — and we were back in the car and on-route to our home for the night. It was a warm and wonderful evening. Whilst we drank our beer, the other guests chatted away around us like a big happy family. We started to connect some dots: The owner was man from Abkhazia and had been expelled from his home during the “ethnic cleansing” of Georgians in 90s; the mother and son were Russian Jews who had recently decided to leave their home in Israel; and the guy who we first thought was our host was Ukrainian. All of them spoke their common language of Russian and enjoyed wine and smiles all evening. The host’s son made the picture even more real-life playing games on his phone in the corner. ![[Georgia 2.jpg]] We finished our time in Georgia with three nights in the capital, Tbilisi. Our motorcycle needed a good service, and so did we. So as the bike got fixed-up we spent two days walking around the city, reading in the parks and enjoying the huge variety of pastries you can find on almost any street corner, with the language barrier making it a fun exercise as to what would be inside each time (we chanced upon kidney beans, cheese, beef, potato, and nothing). To burn off the added energy I even had the chance to run again with the stray dogs more manageable having tags on their ears to indicate their safety: green meaning friendly; yellow meaning safe; and red meaning dangerous. Georgia is a wonderfully beautiful and wonderfully undiscovered country. As it invests more in tourism I expect it’ll change a lot between now and the next time I’m back, even if that’s only in a week’s time… Next stop: Armenia. ### 9🇹🇷 Türkiye Part 3 - “I’m digging a hole to Syria” ###### 3 days and 1,020km (Total: 54 days and 11,800km) After a week in Iraq, our plan was to get back into Türkiye via a different border crossing further East. However, some Kurds advised us against it as the North East of Iraq is somewhat controlled by the PKK ("Kurdistan Workers’ Party"), which many countries identify as a terrorist organisation. So we travelled back into Türkiye via the same border from which we left and turned right. We wanted to explore the East — more rugged and mountainous in geography, more Kurd in ethnicity. We were excited for an uneventful and quiet first night back in the country, after a week of riding chaotic roads, staying up five hours past our bed time, and eating more deserts than I have in the last decade. But, like the landscape, our journey wasn't the smoothest. On the first day, there was one hotel along the only road we had in front of us, but it was outside our budget (we even did the tourist-price check by asking a local Turk to phone them, but they got the same quote we did). So we WhatsApp'd a restaurant and asked if we could pitch our tent on their premises. Their reply was short and included one of the few Turkish words we know — “yok”, meaning “no” — so we sighed briefly before Google told us they had actually said “no problem” and turned our sighs into smiles. We arrived about 3pm and the restaurant manager had reserved a table for us. He asked if we’d like anything to eat or drink and, despite saying no with all the accompanying body gestures to indicate that we _really_ didn’t, to the extent it looked like we were doing some weird dance, he brought out Turkish coffee, bottles of Coca Cola, and ice creams. We then had to play the subtle trick of showing the host that we were enjoying the food and drink but not so much such that they keep bringing more. "That coffee was great" led to me becoming seriously over-caffeinated at 5pm. Lucky they don’t serve alcohol in restaurants over here (although he did offer to drive to the closest town and buy me gin, convinced all English people love it). The manager sat down with us and we chatted for ages. I'm not sure how much time passed but he had at least five cigarettes, so it must have been a while. We eventually got on to talking about Kurdistan; he was clearly very passionate about their nationalism. So much so that he soon started talking about his love and support for the PKK... I had a small "oh fuck" moment before, whilst he went to make me another coffee, I did a quick check on my phone to learn that the PKK don't have any material prejudice against the British. I breathed a sigh of relief. As the conversation went on, his constant praising of Winston Churchill and Britain's defence of its independence in WW2 reassured me that he really did like us and there wasn’t an ulterior motive behind the free refreshments. Putting aside his affiliations, he was the nicest guy. Of course he offered us to come stay at his house and even got us on video call with his wife and one-year old son. At 1am, with the caffeine still keeping me going and the restaurant guests depleted, all the staff were sitting with us chatting via the manager as a translator. It was a wonderful evening with plenty of laughs grounded not on humour (we couldn’t understand each other), but just happiness manifesting. By 2am they had to get back to their families and told us not to worry about pitching the tent — we can just sleep in the restaurant and use all its facilities. They then pointed to a man in the corner, who looked like he was in his 80s, and told us he’s the security guard who keeps the restaurant safe overnight. We were pretty quick to take them up on the offer, partially because we didn’t want to have to pitch a tent in the dark and partially because we have learnt that saying no to the Kurds isn’t easy. When all the staff had gone, it was just us and the security guard. No less than five minutes later and a random guy just appears in the restaurant and sits down next to us. He looked like he hadn't showered in weeks and stank of cigarette smoke. We asked him over Google translate what he's doing here and his reply was "I'm digging a hole from here to Syria." Before we were able to verify the seriousness of his response, he quickly went on to tell us we should sleep outside — like he does — because it will get too warm in the restaurant. He finished his cigarette and left, no idea to where. Despite not in his physical prime, I was pleased there was a security guard with us, although that reassurance soon vanished after he changed into pyjamas and tucked himself into bed for the night on the sofa next to us! After a few hours of intermittent sleep, we woke up and made a coffee in the restaurant's kitchen before hitting the road. We aimed for a town called Van where we had booked a private Airbnb to guarantee an uneventful night. And that it was, with an incredibly scenic ride along the Iraq border to get there. Three weeks after arriving into the incredible country, we spent our last night in Türkiye at the bottom of Mount Ararat. Back in our tent, back in the rain, and back on our route to Japan. ![[Turkey III 1.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Mount Ararat (the one on the left covered in clouds)*</small></div> Next stop: Georgia. ### 8🇮🇶 Iraq (Kurdistan Region) - ❤️☀️💚 ###### 6 days and 808km (Total: 51 days and 10,780km) Crossing the border into Iraqi Kurdistan was long but easy. On the Türkiye side we exchanged a lot of different papers with a lot of different people. On the Iraqi Kurdistan side we waited for an hour whilst they cleaned the passport office and then paid $35 to temporarily import the bike. After about three hours we finally passed into Iraq and merged straight onto the highway towards the capital of the Kurdistan region, Erbil. The roads are total madness. People driving the wrong direction on motorways at 60kmph, cars slipping over oil spillages, and roads suddenly switching between asphalt, gravel, and sand, randomly interspersed with speed bumps that have no markings. I was lucky to learn early on that putting on your hazard lights doesn't mean something’s wrong, or saying thank you to the car behind you; instead, quite ironically, it invites them to a race. It's chaos. I suppose the police, understandably, care more about who is on the roads rather than what they're doing on them. For the next two days we stayed in Erbil and fell in love with the city. It has no red tape, just a free-for-all that seems to self-regulate itself through basic commerce and trust, with no ego and even less tourism. ![[Iraq 1.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Alive*</small></div> The city runs entirely on cash and it's the cheapest country we've been to so far — a substantial meal for two easily costing €5. But the reason we fell in love with the place isn’t the price but the fact that everyone was so kind and genuine. Someone selling falafel on the street corner didn’t seem like they were doing it to make money; they were doing it to feed a friend. It was on our second night that we felt this natural force first hand. We wandered into a restaurant and asked for a rice dish we saw on the menu. The owner said something in Kurdish and a man sitting at a table stood up and translated "they don't have any rice left" before adding "but don't worry I know a great restaurant, I'll take you there." We got into Anand‘s car and drove across Erbil as he told us about his previous life in Portsmouth before returning to Kurdistan twelve years ago. When we arrived at the restaurant he ordered loads of food, paid for it, and left saying “enjoy your meal, you are our guests here.” For the next ten minutes we were speechless — mostly due to Anand’s generosity but also the enjoyment of the food. But we soon had to get used to both as this wasn’t a freak event. The next day we left Erbil and rode somewhat aimlessly in forty degree heat. A decision we regretted two hours in as the wind hardened and the sun started to fade in the hazy air. We stopped outside a tiny grocery store with empty shelves and asked a local where we could buy food and pitch our tent. He spoke good English and told us we should go to Ranya — a bigger town thirty minutes away. Hunger didn’t allow us to wait around so we said “spas” (thank you), waved goodbye, and were off. Within two minutes of arriving into Ranya we had a crowd of twenty locals around our bike. Within five minutes two local women had given us their phone numbers in case we needed anything. And within ten minutes we had a young man phoning his mum to ask if their family could host us for the night. It was overwhelming but comforting. I've never felt so welcomed and safe in a place where you're a total stranger. We took Halo up on his offer. An hour after arriving into Ranya with no plans, and we were showered and sitting on the floor with a Kurdish family eating bread, beef, chicken, olives, tomatoes, cheese, okra soup, and four glasses of different drinks (non alcoholic of course). The family were eating with us but kept putting all the food in front of us before touching anything themselves. It was such a special moment. Starting the morning riding aimlessly had worked out. After dinner we were expecting to learn the word "goodnight" in Kurdish, but actually the evening had just begun. Halo took us and his seventeen year old niece named Sara (who had learnt English from youtube but had never met a foreigner before) into town where I got a haircut, we ate ice cream, did some shopping, and joined a game of “Okey” (like Rummikub) with his friends. Halo refused to let us pay for literally anything... including my haircut. "Please, you are our guests here in Kurdistan, you do not pay." When we got home at 2am, his mum had washed our riding gear (despite us warning her gravely of the smell) and had laid out two mats for us to sleep on. We could hear the dad (a police officer on the Iraq/Iran border) snoring in the room next door where we had eaten dinner, also on a mat next to the mum, Fatm. Sleep did not trouble us that night, as we let our minds digest the day’s events and reconfigure their understanding of kindness. The next day we made bread with the neighbours. ![[Iraq 2.jpg]] We went for a drive through the mountains with Halo and Sara. ![[Iraq 3.jpg]] We ate bbq'd fish at a local restaurant. ![[Iraq 4.jpg]] And we finished the day drinking more tea and pistachio coffee on the street with random locals that treated each other, including us, like friends even though they had never met before. The mum had asked us to stay for lunch the next day so she could make us a traditional Kurd Kofte (like meatballs). Our instinct was to say "thank you but we need to get going" but then we realised that, actually, we didn’t. We had just had the most happy and memorable forty eight hours of our lives — why the rush? Little did we know that after we had said yes, Fatm had invited round two more of her children and their entire families to stay the night, ready for Kofte preparations early the next morning! So that night there were ten of us sleeping on mats. The next morning we met more of the family, hung out with the kids who enjoyed practising their English, and helped pack different meat mixtures into hundreds of flour balls before they were boiled in a tomato-based sauce. The food was incredible. The mum asked one more time if we’d stay another night but it was time to leave. ![[Iraq 5.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Even the mum admitted that her daughter (right) was the best in town at making Kofte*</small></div> We had only been with the family for two nights but saying goodbye was tough. Really tough. Halo and his mum drove with us to the first petrol station (I finally managed to not let him pay for something), with lunch and tea packed by his mum, and waved us goodbye by touching their eyes and heart. The wind through my helmet always makes my eyes water but there was certainly more than usual this time. It was a short ride that afternoon as we headed back on route to Japan. We were stopped at military checkpoints several times but they would only check our passports, asked if we were carrying drones, and then take selfies with us (and their machine guns around their necks). We also stopped for tea in a small town which a local paid for whilst offering us to come stay with his family for the night. Something we were getting used to, for better or for worse. ![[Iraq 6.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Each town we visited had its own personality*</small></div> The sun started to dim and we needed a place to stay. At the beginning of the trip, not having a place to stay the next night was a bit scary. By this point we were comfortable asking ourselves "where should we stay tonight?" about an hour before it gets dark. At the next military checkpoint we asked a Peshmerga (Kurdistan Region military officer, which translates as “Those Who Face Death”) if we could pitch our tent on the grass next to them. They wrote something back which Google translated as "no problem, take it easy" and we settled in for the night, despite Halo calling me to tell me his dad’s friend would like to host us in a village nearby. However, by that point, we were ready for bed. ![[Iraq 7.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*The sound of traffic and spotlights didn’t stop us having a good night’s sleep*</small></div> The following day we were on the road early and heading back towards Türkiye. During the short ride we had two Kurds buy us tea, another buy us ice cream, and another offer us to come stay with his family. Instead, we chose to stay in a hotel that night so we could be on the road early the next morning without being rude. ![[Iraq 8.jpg]] And that's what we did to finish our trip in Kurdistan Region of Iraq. Crossing into the region was long but easy. Crossing out of it was short but hard. Riding through the Kurdistan region of Iraq has been a deeply special experience. The food and landscapes deserve their own applaud, but it's the people that stood out. On the outer layer, Kurds care about their reputation and want it to be shaped accurately by themselves and not by western media. A layer deeper and you find a community infused with a religion and history that makes them authentically put other people first. And on the deepest level you realise this is a community that has been at conflict with its direct neighbours for so many years that they welcome outsiders. It's the first country we've travelled through that I’m already excited to see again. ![[Iraq 9.jpg]] Next stop: back on route, East. ### 7🇹🇷 Türkiye Part 2 - balloons, tanks, and megaliths ###### 5 days and 1,770km (Total: 45 days and 9,972km) After our blissful day off in Antalya, we clicked on a random town in Google Maps, ensured the road there was windy, and got on the bike. It was a stunning ride up into the mountains again and through towns that were low on the tourist guage (a measure of how peculiar the looks you get are). We were riding to a town called Mut and we passed some fantastic scenery along the way. ![[Turkey II 1.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*The lakes here really are this colour*</small></div> But as we got closer, the lakes faded and the greenery turned to rock, gravel and, well, trash. We threw our plan to wild camp into the trash too and did a quick scout for hotels. We found one on the outskirts of Mut so put our sweaty gloves back on and continued. Our eagerness to finish the long day’s riding and take off our boots clouded any expectations we might have had. We arrived to the hotel and, to be honest, I think we would have preferred to keep our boots on. It wasn't the prettiest or comforting of hotels. The door to our room didn’t lock but the owner soon fixed that with a bit of WD40. The toilet didn't flush either but WD40 wasn't going to solve that. That evening we sat outside for our end-of-day tea and biscuit ritual. After a few women, dressed provocatively to say the least, walked out the hotel and got into the back of men's cars, we quickly realised that we were staying in a brothel. The owner realised that we had realised and kept bringing us coffee, biscuits, and fruit as if to say “yeh sorry guys I think you've stumbled into the wrong place." Mut was definitely rock bottom on the tourist guage. So the next day we dialled it up and headed to Cappadocia after countless locals told us it's a must. After 4 hours of riding we knocked on the door of the first guest house we saw, offered the host half what he quoted, and he welcomed us in. Local beers and snacks on the terrace before an early night. The call to prayer woke us the next morning at 4.30am so we rode K a few kilometers and perched ourselves on a small rock overlooking the open landscape. Soon, flickers of light emerged in the distance before hundreds of balloons started to rise in harmony with the sun. Time slowed down and we had a moment to really appreciate where we were and what we were doing. ![[Turkey II 2.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Some got a head start*</small></div> Before long we were back on the road to our next destination directly East. We stayed in a campgarden that evening and met the only other camper, a German guy cycling from Germany to India. We ended up having dinner together and it was a lovely evening (although a bit awkward that we were eating the same as him after he had just ridden 150km and we had sat on a motorbike all day). All the overlanders we have met so far are so friendly and humble. Overlanding seems to train your patience, teach you the difference between a “problem” and an actual problem, and appreciate that everyone lives their lives in different ways — none of them right or wrong. The next day was more humbling as we rode South East through more arid mountains. Along the way we kept passing huge development sites that had hundreds of empty houses identical to each other. 10km later we were riding through equally large towns but they were inhabited and everyone living in identical white tents. They were such strangely similar but contrasting sites so close to each other that we asked the guy at the next petrol stop. He illuminated our ignorance by telling us that we were in the region that was obliterated by the 2023 Turkey-Syria earthquakes. The new houses were being built by the Turkish government for the thousands that had lost their homes. The tents were the temporary accommodation they have been living in for the last two years. After "we are strong and resilient" his next Google translation was "you are our guests, please have lunch with us." We said we have to get back on the road but then realised he wasn't asking us. We sat down and they (yes, the entire staff of the petrol station) brought out a huge platter of roast vegetables — potatoes, tomatoes, peppers, jalapeños — with piles of bread. And, of course, unlimited Ayran. Some locals stopping off for fuel sat down and joined too. For the next hour they asked about our trip and recommended we go see Göbeklitepe, which was a coincidental oversight in our planning as we had recently listened to a podcast about it (it's the site of the oldest known megaliths, pre-dating the pyramids). That night we stayed in Şanlıurfa and met an English and German couple that had been travelling from Hong Kong back to Germany semi-overland. They also recommended Göbeklitepe, so it was decided... we'd go in the morning. Afterwards we followed a long road directly East, not fully aware that the road skirted within 1km of the Syrian border. The landscape was changing quickly and police cars transitioned to military tanks. We got stopped a couple of times (they stop 90% of the vehicles passing through) but when they realised we don’t speak Turkish they would always say “ok go!” with a big smile on their face. That night we pitched our tent in the garden of a hotel, feeling pretty safe with a military checkpoint right behind us. ![[Turkey II 3 (reduced).png]] Next stop: 👉 ### 6🇹🇷 Türkiye Part 1 - it feels good to be sunburnt again ###### 8 days and 1,783km (Total: 40 days and 8,202km) I always considered crossing into Türkiye and through Istanbul a big milestone for this trip. Probably a similar feeling literally millions of other humans have had travelling through this special place on some journey of their own. Despite visiting the country before, we weren’t sure what to expect this time round. And within a few kilometers after the border the uncertainty clarified itself as a van started beeping next to us on the highway. He seemed pissed off at something I was doing. But there were no blinking lights on my dash and I could still see Becs so she hadn’t fallen off. At 100kmph the van pulled up next to us, the guy wound down his window and stuck out two bars of chocolate. Becs grabbed them and the van sped off giving us a quick beep to say goodbye (over here beeping also seems to mean hello and thank you — very confusing). At our next petrol stop, the conservative British in us checked to see what was wrong with this free chocolate, but they were delicious and gave us enough energy to see through the rest of the ride into Istanbul. We stayed in the suburbs — a high rise flat with postcard-quality views of the sun setting over the city. That evening we had my favourite meal of the trip so far as we stopped by a woman serving a dish which Google translated as “rice with plenty of chicken” on the side of the road. As we ate literally those two ingredients (perfect), for the first time it felt like we were genuinely a long way away from where we had started. It wasn’t the beginning of our trip anymore. The next day we whittled our way through chaotic Istanbul and into Asia, settling for the night in a small town near Bursa. The little blue hotel had advertised private parking (actually the side of the street next to the bin) and we splashed out €20 on dinner that night using our “Mum Fund” (a little bit of money our mums had given us before we set off). The next morning I woke early to go for a run, passed the hotel receptionist (also acting as security guard, chef, and waiter) fast asleep on the coach downstairs, and ran up and down a 500m hill a few times scared of the stray dogs aggressively barking at me whenever I got close to the top. People always told me motorbikes are dangerous, but I now calculate that the biggest dangers on this trip are 1) stray dogs attacking me when I’m off the bike, 2) animals running into the road whilst riding, or 3) a fly blinding me whilst I lift my visor to itch my face. We headed West for a change towards a town called Edremit, where we had found a campsite that had pictures of motorbikes on its website. The hosts told us not to follow the Google Maps directions because it led to a 4km off-road route. I asked them how difficult it was and they had replied “it’s not too bad”. Well, maybe that’s true if you’re riding a trials bike or… walking. But riding 4km fully-loaded two-up on an Africa Twin weighing nearly 400kg all-in was a different story. Within 1km, we were down in the dirt. It wasn’t a sudden fall — it’s more like a ship sinking. The bike loses its balance and there’s nothing you can do to prevent it. You even have enough time for a quick dialogue — “Becs we’re going down” — “OK I’m ready” — and prepare to jump off. We’re getting quite good at it (picking up the bike on an incline afterwards is the difficult part). The remaining 3km took us about 30 minutes but we eventually got there covered in dust, with a leaking 5 litre water bottle, and Ayran (yoghurt) exploded inside our top box. The hosts laughed a bit and showed us their Honda CRF300 which is basically an off-road bike. There was enough of a language barrier for me to smile and think out loud “well yes, doing the off-road on that would indeed be ‘not too bad’.” ![[Turkey I 1 (reduced).png]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Post fall whilst I checked what’s around the next corner*</small></div> But Mikail and Su were awesome. A Turkish couple I guessed in their 30s that had ridden motorcycles through 35 countries over the last 6 years and had returned to Türkiye to start a campsite. We were, again, the only campers that day and at about 5pm both couples emerged to the outside table with beers and snacks in hand. They spoke enough English for us to have a good chat about motorcycle travel, their favourite countries they travelled through (Slovenia and Iran), and tips on our route through Türkiye. They asked If we wanted to stay another night but we had places to be so left the next morning heading south and east a bit. We found a small village called Birgi, which I later discovered was listed in “32 most beautiful villages in the world”, and indeed it was beautiful. We went to the door of a Pansiyon (guest house) and asked the woman if she had any rooms available. She did but they were outside of our budget so when we asked if there was anything cheaper she showed us a much smaller room on the ground floor made for single travellers with a small bed and a tiny bathroom. Everything we needed. We said yes and she welcomed us and K inside the gates. It’s a glorious feeling finishing a long day’s riding with you and the bike safe for the night. That evening the host, Dilek, made it even more glorious when she brought us some Turkish tea and freshly-made biscuits whilst we chatted about the cats she had adopted, her divorce, and other places we should see in Türkiye. We nearly stayed there another night too, but were on the road the next day by 9.45am. We continued our path south east and further into the mountains — riding next to stunning lakes whilst dodging pot holes, stray dogs and tortoises like you’re playing Mario cart. ![[Turkey I 2.jpg]] ![[Turkey I 3.jpg]] ![[Turkey I 4.jpg]] On our sixth night we had nowhere to stay so at about 4pm pulled down a dirt road and found a spot to pitch our tent and camp for the night. We boiled some vegetables in the single pot we’re carrying with us and enjoyed them with Turkish bread. Of course afterwards we sat in our camping chairs, made tea, and tried the next variety of biscuits we had bought, freely letting time pass with nothing to do and no worries except where to go the next day. A very serene moment in stark contrast to our previous lives. ![[Turkey I 5.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*About to unpack camping gear*</small></div> After a few nights in the more mountainous regions, we had an urge to be close to the sea so booked a cheap Airbnb for a night on the south coast in a place called Kargicak. It was so perfect that within an hour of arriving we asked the host if it was available the next night too. She said yes and that’s the end of this part of the story because the next 48 hours were blissfully uneventful. Washing clothes, hanging out with cats, making our own burgers, and doing a bit of bike maintenance. Happy and content, to new levels. ![[Turkey I 6.jpg]] We’re loving this country. I think we’ll be here for a while. Next stop: the right direction. ### 5🇷🇸🇷🇴🇧🇬 Serbia, Romania, and Bulgaria - pushing the limits of Gore-Tex ###### 7 days and 1,434km (Total: 32 days and 6,419km) When it starts raining, riding a motorcycle on the road instantly pivots from fun to shit. You can’t see through your helmet and the bike’s tires are on the edge of sliding around every corner. Despite the powers of Gore-Tex, you eventually get wet… and cold… somewhere… somehow. After Sarajevo we decided to head further East into the Balkans. But the forecast was showing rain — everywhere — so we did a short ride over the border into Serbia and found a small apartment (most importantly with a garage) on booking.com. We contacted the host on WhatsApp and he gave us the codes to get in and asked for us to leave €20 on the table before we left. We never met him. Perhaps spending too long in cities like London has made me, rightly or wrongly, overly skeptical of humans. But, especially in the more eastern parts of Europe, I can’t believe the levels of trust, warmth, and generosity we’ve been experiencing. We arrived early afternoon and within minutes the storm raged. One of those downpours with flashes of lightening that you can just sit and watch for hours. So that's exactly what we did, with food, local beers (60p each…), and music. Loved every minute. The next day the clouds parted for a few hours and we rode into Belgrade. It was like the exact opposite of Venice… no tourists, brutalist architecture, and fittingly dark weather. I instantly loved the vibe. That evening we ate Cevapi (bread with sausages and clotted cream) before watching Red Star Belgrade play football. I’ve only seen two professional football games before, but this was something I wasn’t expecting. It was 300-ish men (the rest of the stadium empty) chanting to one fan acting as a conductor and another banging a drum. They weren’t even watching the game. Seriously, when their own team scored they didn’t stop to celebrate. Ironically, we were more interested in the fans than the game! We felt a bit unsafe (we were told not to sit in the North stand; advice I decided to ignore) so left at half time. It was a great night. The rain was still going the next day but we decided to leave the city and keep venturing East. A small break in the clouds mid-morning and we headed out, only for the rain to start laughing in our face within fifteen minutes. It was a brutal hour but we got it done, arriving to a hostel on the edge of the Danube river. We were lucky again to have the place to ourselves, so cooked some dinner and watched the rain bounce off the river with more 60p beers, whilst deciding which country to visit next. ![[Serbia 1.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*People seem happy for us to park K basically in their house…*</small></div> We decided on Romania because the motorcycle community raved about two roads: the Transalpina and the Transfăgărășan. Against our luck, we got there after two day’s riding and learnt that both roads were shut because it was snowing (perhaps not luck but instead naivety considering we knew about the “rain — everywhere” situation). So we spent our second and final night in Romania in a hostel in a tiny town wearing every piece of clothing we had with us. But it was worth it just for the ride back down the mountain and further South the next day. ![[Serbia 2.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*We were told we’d see bears but this is good enough*</small></div> That night we camped about 20km across the border into Bulgaria. It was our favourite campsite yet. An open field on a hill with little huts dotted around for the kitchen, toilets, and areas to hang out. You could sense the owner’s kindness and peacefulness despite us not be able to speak the same language (where we are now a lot of people seem to speak Russian or Turkish as their second language). The sun was back and it felt good to be sweating again. We initiated our camping setup assembly line (secure bike -> make tent -> blow up sleeping mats -> unpack sleeping bags -> …), which we’re getting pretty good at, and were asleep by 9pm. The next day we drove all through Bulgaria — probably missing dozens of “Must See Places in Bulgaria” along the way — and arrived at our next campsite (another campgarden) at about 5pm. We were shattered but luck was on our side this time. Just as we were about to initiate the aforementioned assembly line, the owner said he had a spare room in his house if we wanted to use it, for no extra charge. We immediately said yes as “rain — everywhere” hadn’t finished yet. We woke at 5.30am the next day, I went to do some pull-ups in a children’s play area I found in the local village (the locals looked very confused), and we were on the road towards the next border before 8am. One month and one day and Europe is now done. Next stop: Where the sun rises. ### 4🇸🇮🇭🇷🇧🇦 Slovenia, Croatia, and Bosnia & Herzegovina - exploring the Jerusalem of Europe ###### 5 days and 886km (Total: 25 days and 4,985km) We left Italy and passed into the Balkans, travelling East along the southern border of Slovenia. We’ve been graced with full sun for a week now, keeping us warm and the scenery magnificent. The riding is addictive — I find myself asking the question “are we there yet?” but for the opposite reason a child would: I don’t want it to end. When we set off each morning, we usually know where we plan to finish the day, having found accommodation the night before. Often cheating booking.com by finding a B&B, campsite or hostel and getting in touch directly on WhatsApp and negotiating a good price for the next day. This is how we found Frankovič B&B and the exceptionally kind owner, Andrej. He greeted us on Google Translate and gave us a shot of homemade plum brandy before reversing his BMW out of his own garage and telling us to park our bike there instead. As it was Labour Day, most restaurants and supermarkets were closed, so he gave us a couple of beers and an hour later drove us to a restaurant 6km away. We filled up on omelettes, bread, and some local bean dish before walking back to Frankovič and our single beds (my favourite) happy and content. ![[Slovenia 1.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*The single beds made the moment even better*</small></div> The next day we rode the horizontal length of Croatia. After a 5-6 hour journey we treated ourselves to a cute Airbnb owned by a Croat who had visited Jersey, as well as dozens of other places in the UK which he detailed one-by-one, clearly not too aware of the fact we were sweating in our riding gear and ready to rest (I couldn’t understand his accent so was nodding my head as if I knew all the small towns he was talking about). Nonetheless plenty of relaxation came the next day, whilst also planning our rough path through the Balkans. Serbia? Romania? Hungary? Bulgaria? After making the decision the night before leaving, we pulled out of Stara Kapela the next day and headed South (and East just a little) into Bosnia & Herzegovina. ![[Slovenia 2.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Setting off on the bike each morning is not getting old*</small></div> Crossing the border was relatively smooth. Just bike registrations documents and our passports. No questions about where we were going and when we’d be leaving the country. Within minutes of leaving the border we knew we were in a country with fresh remnants or even live political divisions, with different flags being flown outside the houses as we rode south towards the capital, Sarajevo. Sarajevo instantly blew us away. Riding down into the valley and it feels like you’re entering a small city oasis with snow-capped mountains in the background. The houses are relatively small but beautifully simple in design. You get the sense that no one is trying to make a statement of wealth or status — they’re just living. You also have churches and mosques within 100m of each other, which is why it’s known as the Jerusalem of Europe. The next day we woke to the call to prayer and had coffee on our tiny balcony as the sun came up. ![[Slovenia 3 1.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Perfect*</small></div> We did a two-hour free walking tour which was brilliant. Sarajevo’s involvement in both world wars and the more recent Bosnian War was so fascinating to learn about. Our guide was clearly trained in how to talk about it all as there are still opposing beliefs and opinions throughout the region part of the previous Yugoslavia. That evening we walked past a small cafe with the woman cleaning dishes and finishing for the day. Serendipitously she had two plates of chicken and potatoes left, which we bought along with two pieces of burek (like a pastry/pie with a variety of fillings) for €10. The final morning we left Sarajevo over-caffeinated after my attempt to make Turkish coffee but happier than ever. The trip keeps getting better. Next stop: 3 o’clock. ### 3🇮🇹 Italy Part 2 - Nutella biscuits ###### 6 days and 1,247km (Total: 20 days and 4,099km) We’re almost three weeks into our trip from Jersey to Japan and we’re starting to find our groove. The motorbike is our vehicle to see the world and the “seeing” mostly comes from when we’re off the bike in the evenings, mornings, and stops throughout the day. When we’re on the bike it’s either a sensory overdose from beautiful sights, the lovely sound of birds (or the Africa Twin in 6th gear), and the feeling of twisty roads, or relatively uninteresting towns with the constant stop-and-start of traffic lights and roundabouts. Our days start with coffee and breakfast, before packing up the bike, and hitting the road between 9am and 10am. We have been riding 200-300km per day (4-5 hours) and stop every hour or so for a break as the scenery or our bladders dictate. Previously our bums had a say but they are slowly making friends with the saddle. The evenings usually involve a local beer and some cheap but satisfying food. We have now finished 13 days in Italy. Since Rome we have done another 6 days including day trips to Naples and Venice (I’m not sure why we don’t just call by their actual names, Napoli and Venezia?). Naples was not what I was expecting. Instead of a chic Mediterranean city like Monaco, we arrived to a sprawling chaos throughout unclean streets. Basically, it was more of a big city than I was expecting. The highlight was going to Museo e Real Bosco di Capodimonte and finding a random pianist playing Beethoven in an almost empty room the size of a school gym. (Maybe he wasn’t random…) Venice, on the contrary, was just as surreal as it is in the post cards. I really think it might be the most beautiful city I’ve ever seen. We walked around all day, probably crossing 30 of the 438 bridges, and finished the day with an aperol spritz next to a guy lighting Candles and dripping the red wax over uncooked pasta which he claimed to represent Trump Tower. I would spend another €4 on the spritz but not his artwork. We finished the day with our third and final pizza in Italy, sitting next to a small river in Treviso and watching the world go by. Perfection. ![[Italy II 1.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*It’s impossible to make an ultimate comparison of pizza, so I won’t try*</small></div> However the most potent memories came from outside the cities. On our first night between Naples and Venice we stayed in the countryside home of a Kyrgyz woman called Tatiana who had been living in Italy for 23 years. We had a room in her house with no other guests so basically had the place to ourselves. We cooked our own pasta ragu (tasted great to me; locals might say otherwise) and went for a walk with Tatiana and her two pugs to see the neighbour’s horses. When we arrived we couldn’t see the horses because "they are having sex", but we lucked out because he gave us a tour of his olive farm instead! We returned happy and content. ![[Italy II 2.jpg]] Nutella biscuits enter the story the next evening when we found a small winery that let you pitch your tent in their vineyard for €20. We went out for dinner and found an amazing pizzeria (which we later discovered was in San Marino - another country ticked off!) and stuffed ourselves for €14. The owner kindly filled up our flask with boiling water so we could make tea in our tent when we got back. The question was: what do we have with our tea? The title gives it away so I’ll cut to the chase. We got back to the tent and enjoyed a truly stunning moment with our tea and Nutella biscuits whilst the sun set over the winery. ![[Italy II 3.jpg]] The next day we woke to the sun and warmth of proper summer. We were excited to get back on the bike. Next stop: East ### 2🇮🇹 Italy Part 1 - new shoes, the pope, and motorcycle maintenance ###### 7 days and 1,108km (Total: 14 days and 2,852km) Riding through Italy is like being in the landscape of the Teletubbies. Except when you get into the cities and people are wearing leather jackets, smoking rollies, and drinking aperol spritz at 11am. On our first night in this sleeping beauty of a country we stayed in a luxury campsite on the beachside, just past the French border. €28 for a pitch! But, fair enough, the toilets were cleaner than my own. Local folks of older generations were there in their massive camper vans having a good crack on their yearly vacations. We setup our tiny pitch in the corner and headed out for a beer and pizza before returning happy and content. The next morning we woke to drizzle so decided to pack up and get going. Twenty minutes later - halfway through packing the tent - and it was fucking torrential rain. We didn’t know what to prioritise packing away and keeping dry… The half-deconstructed tent? Helmets? Jackets? Shoes? Gloves? Ourselves?? Nothing could be saved so we sucked it up and hit the road in the down-pour, increasingly thankful to Gore-Tex along the way. Much planning for this trip was last-minute, so we decided to take a day off the bike and get our shit together (sim cards, tax returns,… all that fun stuff). We found a guy renting a room just north of Genoa, about four hours away. The listing said there were a lot of cats and that’s enough to convince us. We arrived to a little home in the middle of nowhere with a fireplace, a tiny kitchen, and a stunning view over endless hills in their peak spring flourishings. I even did a bit of bike maintenance whist there - tightening the odd bolt, cleaning the mirrors, even lubing the chain. Bear Grills might now have a morsel of respect. After a beautiful day’s rest we rode into Bologna and stopped for a coffee before walking around sweating in our riding gear (my new workout routine). Our “campsite” that night was a guy called Pietro renting out his garden for €20 per night. He cooked us pasta and gave us a glass of wine. Met a German couple who looked madly in love and pitched our tent next to the unmaintained pool now full of frogs. ![[Italy I 1.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Perfect*</small></div> The next day was a very long one. Too long. We rode two hours into Florence and explored the city, fitting squarely in with the droves of tourists with our riding gear and my camera dangling from my wrist. Our campsite/garden that night was three hours away. As K was humming along, on our right was infinite blue skies (“life is great” feelings) and on our left was ungodly deep grey clouds about to burst (“holy fuck” feelings). The next direction on Google Maps? 90 degrees left… Soon, rain drops the size of acorns were hammering down on our helmets and, to add to the scene, the road had smoke coming off it as the rain evaporated from the tarmac. We pushed through and got to our next campgarden. The grass was drenched and the woman came down to greet us in a full umbrella poncho — she looked like the fucking grim reaper. We looked at each other and we both knew this wasn’t what the trip was about so decided we’d go somewhere else. A quick Booking.com search and there was a place fifteen minutes away that had a rating better than "passable" (we know from prior experience that those ones are total shit). The phone number wasn’t answering so we got back on K and nailed it there. We arrived to two Italian ladies who looked very surprised to see anyone, let alone two people on a motorcycle as big as the tractor the old guy was driving in the field behind them. They couldn’t speak a word of English so tried ann embarrassing mix of English, Spanish, Portuguese, and French. When I put into Google translate “is there a room available tonight?”, and they still looked confused, I realised they might just not like us. Anyway, we finally got through to the owner and managed to negotiate €50 for the night. Worth it just for this dinner setting. ![[Italy I 2.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*Perfect again*</small></div> They also had shelter for the bike, which I’m quickly realising the value of. €50 very well spent. ![[Italy I 3 (reduced).png]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*… and again*</small></div> The next stop was Rome. Getting there was a five hour ride. Ninety five perfect of which through beautiful Tuscany landscape, and five percent through a strangely gothic town during an intense hail shower that I’m not even sure I believe the memory of myself. It was like watching the Teletubbies and then suddenly Sin City interrupts for ten seconds before Teletubbies continues. “Did that really happen?”. Another gold star for Gore-Tex though. Rome the next day was a great day out. We had a coffee, I bought a new pair of running shoes, and we saw close-up Pope Francis in his coffin ready to be buried in Vatican City. That night we went to a Roman Trattoria for dinner in the suburbs and ordered a ragu and a carbonara. Massive portions. I learnt that evening that pasta dishes are typically served as “primo piatto” (first course) followed by “secondo piatto” (second course) which usually has fish or meat. It explained why the table next to us was sharing one pasta dish between five whilst we had one each to ourselves. Zero regrets. We’re having an incredible time. Every day is a different adventure and life is being simplified to “where are we going tomorrow?” ### 1🇫🇷 France - the country I secretly love ###### 7 days | 1,744km Japan here we come! The 9am ferry to St Malo was packed with young families, presumably going on their Easter holidays, whilst we’re sitting there in our full riding gear and the entire contents of our lives downstairs in the cargo. It was the perfect ride to start the trip. About four hours down through the country lanes of France. Mostly endless fields of different shades of green with the occasional yellow rapeseed fields and other colours from the splattering of flies on our windshield (honestly, I’ve already had at least 20 flies fly straight into my eye). Intermittently you pass through beautiful little French towns that look exactly as they do in the movies except no one seems to be in there and most houses have the shutters closed. Very interested to know what’s propping up the real estate market in these areas. The first night we stayed at a “campsite” which was actually a small farm run by a husband and wife - Florence and Jean-Luc - who let you pitch your tent, use their personal kitchen, and shit into a hole in the field. It was perfect. Setting up the tent for the first time was an experience. My last ten years of writing emails and taking zoom calls hasn’t exactly trained me like Bear Grills. We slept for over 9 hours straight. And I dreamed. I can’t remember the last time either of those things happened. In the morning Jean-Luc was shaving his sheep. He let me into his barn to watch — I couldn’t work out if the sheep were loving it or hating it. Either way, they must have been fucking freezing afterwards. Like going from a 4-season one-piece ski outfit to naked. Whilst the sheep layered-down, we layered-up and rode six hours south towards Bergerac, where we’d be staying with our friends Marcus and Laura. It was a bloody long ride but we had the warmest and kindest welcome you could imagine. Sun, smiles, and wine. The happiness of turning our lives upside down and setting off on this trip was really kicking in. The first day was sunny and warm. ![[France 1.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*I love this house*</small></div> ![[France 2.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*How many shades of green?*</small></div> The next day a storm was heading into the South of France, so we stayed an extra night. The concepts of hours, days and weeks are starting to take different shapes in my mind — we literally have no place to be at any specific time. This might be the only way to truly “live in the present”? It’s a new feeling I’m getting used to, but it’s a beautiful one. After two days of delicious food, great conversation, and loads of Rummikub (<- great game, I lost many rounds), we left and travelled south east to a hostel in Ceilhes-et-Rocozels. The hostel was empty (wasn’t surprised, it was freezing) so we had the place to ourselves. Cooked some food and figured out the fastest way to get to warmth tomorrow. Montpellier. ![[France 3.jpg]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*We cooked way too much rice*</small></div> On our final day in France we rode down through Montpellier, Nice and Monaco. It was my favourite day riding so far. Weather was stunning and it was cool riding through architecture mixes of art deco, art nouveau, neoclassic, and I’m sure many others. Monaco had a very special vibe which is probably heavily pretentious behind its layers, but who cares when the sun is out is and you’re riding past beautiful men and women on scooters in the middle of a Friday afternoon. We got stuck in tonnes of traffic so the ride took ages. And unfortunately you can’t skip traffic when your bike is as wide as card. On that note, to finish this first post, here’s a picture of our Honda Africa Twin which we’ve named K because “Kuro” is black in Japanese and K is the name of the main character in Blade Runner 2049. And yes, the license plate is a prime number. ![[France 4 (reduced).png]] <div style="text-align:center;"><small>*K*</small></div> Next stop: Italy.