I arrived in McLeod Ganj yesterday. The traffic here is diabolical and the heat doesn't really help. Added to that you get an endless questioning by the Indian crowd about where you come from and what's your bike's name!
I met an Italian, Mauritz and his Austrian companion Suzy on the road riding an ultraloaded Enfield 350. Brave and nice guys.
We made the last miles to Dharamshala and McLeod together, stop for drinks and chat about the road.
Trying to reach McLeod the Indian drivers managed to gridlock the road several times and the last mile or so took over an hour to get through.
At some point, manouvering the bike to let cars pass Mauritz's luggage got entangled on one of my Touratech panniers. I was flung right and struggled to keep the bike up for a while.
I had my chest flat on the tank. My left leg on air and the right one giving up to the bike's wheight as it slowly, unavoidably slided towards the floor.
Srtruggling as I noticeably was I could still hear the Indian passer-byes asking: what country you are? what is the value of this bike?
I could also hear Mauritz laughing at the ridiculous scene.
Luckily, or maybe because it was resting on Mauritz's bike, I never fell, managed to lower the side stand and disentangled the bikes.
I think had I fallen under the bike the Indians would still had asked unconcerned: sir, what is your country? What is the name of this bike...?

Hereâs a new video about the Sikh Golden Temple in Amristar.

The temple has five doors, symbolic of their welcome attitude to all faiths.

The temple is run by volunteers. No money is asked of anyone to visit, stay overnight at the temple or to eat. They prepare up to 40.000 meals a day to feed pilgrims and visitors.

It not only impresses for its architecture, the solid gold plated and carvings but for the friendly, welcoming attitude of the pilgrims and guards and for the sense of calm spiritual atmosphere.

I choose not to voice over this piece. I hope you enjoy the walk trough the temple, dormitories and kitchens and the sounds of this magnificent, incredible place.

At other points there were long extends of nothingness. I rode in completely alone. Alone was fine for me. I could do any speed I wanted, fast or slow depending on the surface and breathe the hot but dustless air. After miles and miles without seen anyone I begun to wonder if I had lost my way. Entertained with the bike handling and some worries about the direction heading and the amount of petrol I had left I kept going on. In the distance I spotted the first person for quite a stretch. He was carrying two big bundles like those you see in train stations and Asian markets, plastic weaved into a sort of cloth in red and white chequered pattern like Parisian bistro tablecloths. On sight of me he dropped the bundles on the steppe floor and begun to run towards the edge of the road. He was a few dozen yards from it. Under the biting sun in the middle of nowhere; not a working field, not a machine or oil rig, house or any other sing of men activity. Nothing from miles behind or ahead.

I became suspicious of such a strange reaction. I tried to ignore him but he kept running to meet me making gestures to call my attention. What could have I done for him? I don't speak the local language and have no room for passengers or parcels. I carry little water and was already wondering if enough petrol. I accelerated. He reached the road as I was passing just on time to gesture what he wanted. I didn't understand his gestures immediately. Two or three hundred yards ahead the penny dropped: he needed light.

You don't really want to ride away thinking you've just left someone in the middle of nowhere without water or light. I think I would not like it if it was me in need. I stopped, turned around, slowly travelled the few hundred yards back. It gave him enough time to pull something out of his pockets. As I reached where he stood he was waiting anxious but smiling. he was maybe thirty, Asian face, tan and crisscrossed with features enhanced by exposure to sun and wind, his life already bas-relieved on his face.

He had a cigarette between his short strong fingers hold to the lips ready for me to light it up. It was easy to pull the lighter out of the Touratech tankbag side pocket. I rolled my thumb on the mechanism and he lit his cigarette inhaling deeply, then puffing the smoke out slowly, enjoying every bit of it, looking like he just had his life back.

After many words of gratitude I didn't understand and answering how much was the bike worth and the speed it makes I left him there, the happiest thing on a cloud of smoking heaven.

The only other event worth mentioning on this stretch of road is a stop for water. Heading into a town I catched, with the rabbit of the eye a door opened on a house by the road and recognised shelves with produce on it: a shop. I stopped, turned around and rode back there. Several women shoppers cramped the tiny shop while one served. I bought cold water, and came outside to sit on the shadow, on the few steps heading to the door to enjoy the cold water and fill my flat tank bottle. While doing this three men arrived near the bike, parked ten or fifteen meters from where I was. They where stumbling onto each other shouting all at once marvelling at the bike. I have no idea what they shouted about. One tried to mount on the bike. I gestured, making an effort to smile to prevent him from jumping on the bike and probably knocking it down.

He then ran in my direction. He stood on the stairs. I was sat down. He begun to shout questions on my face, about three inches away, not necessarily aggressive but made me really uncomfortable. I kept on answering to his questions in English that I didn't understand Russian. Each time he would just shout an 'eh?' with a question mark, miffed at my ignorance of Russian. I was trying to widen the distance and avoid breading from his lungs when the second one arrived and hit me on the chest with both hands. The water bottle flew right, the flat bottle left and the helmet and I roll down the few steps. I stood up as fast I could knowing that you are very vulnerable on the floor. And very angry, to be honest. But before I could do or say anything he was trying to hit me again. I dodged him the first time then pushed him away. In his precarious alcoholic balance he tripped and fell. Now there where two trying to hit me and the third was making the last ten metres running in my direction. I was ready to start throwing punches or to run, which looked very wise an option then. So I pushed and shuffled for a short while when I suddenly realized the women inside the shop were joining the fracas.

Luckily, thankfully, they sided with me and begun to thump the drunk men and to hit them slippers on hand. The women surrounded me, gave me the bottle with the little remaining water and the flat tank bottle, escorted me to the bike and sort of signal that it'll be better if I leave. With the drunken still shouting abuse, now looking around for stones, I speeded road down after thanking the women.

You have to admire many of the vehicles you find on the former Soviet Republics. How they keep them going itÃ??s a mystery. Every Russian, Kazakh, Kyrgyz, Uzbek, Tatar you find on the road is a mechanic able to force any old pile of metal to burn any sort of oil and move for a few more week, by which time they will start again the mending process by the side of some road. For battered vehicles that probably should not be on the road this part of the world takes gold, silver, bronze and all following certificates. Most, because of the unbelievable amounts of smoke they spew, make you believe they burn raw, unrefined oil as it comes out of the ground. In contrast, there are also a number of shiny new super-luxury cars that look completely out of place in the bumpy streets and landscape of soviet housing states and many top range SUVs.

The city is divided by the Zayyq River. It looks beautiful in the late day sun from the bridge and shores. People stroll along its embankments enjoying ice creams, tasty sashlik, marinated meat barbequed on sqeuers and slapping at the mosquitoes on their arms and necks.

There isnÃ??t much more to say about Atyrau. The surrounding roads and ways arenÃ??t much interesting neither. I enquired about travelling SE and trying to reach The Northern shores of the Aral sea but was repeatedly told that it was dangerous, that I will get lost and likely to neither make it nor come back.

The bush catches on fire and long tongues of fire front sweep the steppe. Again, it makes for a bizarre and stunning spectacle on the nearly featureless desert. I came close to the reason for these clouds crossing the road. It, the road, disappears in the smoke. I hesitated weather to dart into the dense smoke curtain. Having just seen a car heading opposite direction meant it could be crossed. At least by car. I think I was more afraid of being hidden by the smoke and hit head on by a car than of the fire. I went for it. It got hotter and hotter and I went faster and faster. I had to pass a few of these, maybe four or five times. On a couple of occasions it was flames crossing the road just over the tarmac but luckily found the end before anything too worrying happened. The heat inside was suffocating and difficult to breath in the poor and burning air.

A diesel loco pulling a convoy of oil tankers wasnât so lucky. In the distance, I saw it slowing into a small station pulling its once silvery cylindrical tanks, now all marked in black oil spill. One was on fire. Just minutes before I overtook a fire engine heading that direction. The old lorry could not make more than maybe 25 or 30 miles an hour. Brave guys. Two on an old lorry to tackle a 20 or 30 long oil tankerâs convoy on fire. Maybe the tanks were empty, I couldnât tell.

I made very slow progress that day. By the late afternoon I was hopping to arrive to a small village called ZaburÃnâe on some maps, that stands on the shore of the Caspian Sea. Well, so says the map. The reality is that the village is a scatter of square white one-story high houses with corrugated tin or asbestos roofs spread from a 300 or 400 yards from the road to the dunes a mile before the sea. Camels and goats roam freely through the dusty planes between the houses. They are shapeless and few resemble streets. I crossed town looking for the way to the sea. The southernmost I reached the more sand dunes I encountered. There I found that on the sand my handling of the bike was as precarious as it was on Russian mud. The back started to swing right and left and the handlebars turning in opposite direction. Normally you try to go along with this and it should be fine, the bike finds its way but, I suppose because of the luggage added weight it all became too much to handle and on slowing down the bike shook me off. My legs are too short for the tall girl. Once passed some point putting a foot down to correct the leaning is pointless and I go on the floor.  Trying so my foot dug on the sand and the bike fell on the duneâs side, my right foot twisted backwards trapped under the Touratech metal luggage box, I stopped face down on the sand and in pain. Good luck I was wearing the sturdy off road boots Malcolm Rathmell had given me. They took most of the impact and prevented the foot from twisting to damage.

Only a few camels witnessed puzzle faced my fall. They always look a mix of disdain and mild surprise with annoyance. Not a hundred yards away, on the door of the closest house a woman looked at me struggling from underneath the bikeâs luggage and sand. I shouted a most charming âhelloâ as possible and asked for help but it prompted the woman to disappear inside the house closing the door behind. There are few or no tourist here and this is Muslim country. I managed to free myself. It took a while; by then the woman was out again. When she saw me walking her way she went back inside slamming the door.

I wasnât able to pull up the bike straight on my own. I skidded and fell on the sand and all I managed was to further bury the machine. The sun was low in the sky. I make a rule of stopping before sunset so I can survey where to stay, where to pitch the tent, ask locals for permission to camp near their houses before dark, so them and me feel safe. Trying my best not to worry the woman I approached the house which had the only sign of life other than camels. I knocked on the door to no reply or sound. After a while a nine or ten year old boy came out. He had learnt a few words in English. He didnât seem afraid and in no time we were in friendly terms. I showed him what the problem with the bike was although he was more interested on the bike itself and asked in Russian how much was a bike like this and how fast it could go.

He was relaxed and unconcern; not yet known to me they have called his dad. Soon he arrived, a Kazakh man on a battered Ural with and equally battered side car that make a doodle of riding on the dunes and sand. He helped standing the bike up aided by a second man whom arrived on an equally bashed Ural and saw me riding precariously until I reached his house. Then we tried to have some sort of conversation about how much was the bikeâs worth and how fast it could go when not falling over sand dunes, where was I from and if I was a Moslem.

The second Ural rider went away. I was left with Irvul and his son; nice guys. The kid taught me a card game and went on to beat me on every single hand. I became his best friend I think because he just wanted to come out of the house and play cards. I went with Irvul to the shop where I bought stuff for myself and juice and sweets for Irvul and his family. They changed my few remaining Rouble at a good rate. Irvul later enquired to see if they had taken advantage of me but found was a faire rate. Nice detail of his. At the house again we were joined by the second man on his Ural and I watched the sun go down while they talked sat on their bikes. ( http://www.flickr.com/photos/dodgydago/page32/ )

Later, they called me into the house, offered me camel milk a thick cheese yoghurt and bread. I have had dinner but he insisted. The woman and a young girl I saw for a few seconds never showed up. With the rest of my provisions to share I came in. After my second dinner I was invited to watch telly, the final of the Football World Cup, France v Italy. I was so tired that I fell sleep on the cushions they gave me. They woke me up at half time and I went to sleep in the tent.

The next day Irvul went to work before dawn. He fishes in shallow waters on the sea shores. I asked if I could follow him but, I think he explained that it was some 30km away and that they stayed at sea for days. He said goodbye and departed on his Ural. I went around with Irvulâs son to look at the sea. On the way he showed me where they kept their animals. A nasty looking bull lived under a strange stable built between sand dunes fixed by vegetation, walled and domed with some sort of thatch; he prevented me from getting to close. After loosing a few more card games I packed and headed for the road amazed at their hospitality, and with a sore foot and knee I gave myself.

I hope Txaro and Basilio and Ana and Elena have the chance to see it and like it. I hope to see you soon in Bilbao.

f

Ah, thanks for watching.

At some point, on second set of officers they asked me if I spoke English; yes I replied enthusiastically and an officer went away to bring some forms in English. The forms turned out to be in German. When I pointed it out to them they went away again but it seemed German forms were all they had. I don't speak any German neither. The guard told me what to write in each of the form's fields having no idea what were they for.

Then I was sent up stairs to a raised office in between both sides of the road where higher ranking official, judging for the size of the star on his shoulder showed me a form for the the green card. I produced the one I had arranged with Maria Alessi in Rotterdam. He looked at the papers and gave me a blank official form, it looked like a certificate or a bond and a computer diskette. He pointed the way I had to make to the next building.

Most of the custom officers or police around were friendly and asked in russian questions about the motorcycle, where I came from and where was I going. Some showed me to the next hut and joined the queue. Once it was my turn I had to sit across the desk of a very good looking young lady who began to extract however she could information from the motorbike papers and from me. I mean, she didn't speak English but managed well with a piece of paper. She typed the lot on the computer and passed the info to the diskette. She handed it to me and asked for 150 Rouble.

Luckily I had managed to change some of the Ukrainian currency at an exchange point at the first border check and had 500 Rouble. A bit baffled I payed her, got no receipt and was told to go back to the officer at the raised office.

Queued again and once my turn he put the diskette on the computer and printed the information on the certificate. Handed it to me and asked for 150 Rouble. It somehow seemed a very unofficial request but I could not tell for sure. I payed the money, got my papers and made it through the barriers to Russia!


   Tayucinskey Rayon, X. Komuntern  -  I find dealing with officials and authorities stressing. When you have no clue what is they are asking for and what is what you are signing is even worst.

It was a sunny afternoon and I was in the first of the countries I wanted to visit, happy. The road from the Ukrainian border ends at the cross with the mayor road from Rostov na Donu and Moscou. At a village there I tried to change some currency, sterling, but they only exchanged Dollars and Euros. On my way back I could not find my way towards Volgograd.

The Police had been friendly enough at the border, when I saw a police car at a roundabout I stopped to ask them. The process is simple, I shout at them the name of the place I want to reach and point at it on the tank-bag map. They were happy to help. He tried to give indications but it didn't seem easy. He talked briefly with his colleague and they told me to wait. Then, they turn to the coming traffic stopping cars one by one and after talking briefly to them, wave them pass. I got the idea. They were trying to find out someone going my way. When one showed up the signal me to follow the car! The fifth or sixth car signalled me to follow them and they put me on my way to Volgograd.

But it was getting late. I had to find out somewhere to stay. After the forced excesses I made in the Ukraine I decided that I should camp. I hesitated and never seemed to settle for a road or a village to stop. The villages are scattered miles away from each other. With the sun about to set, I took a detour to a village. A small rural hamlet surrounded by fields and woods. After a short exchange with a lady and drawing my tent on a piece of paper for her she understood and seemed happy for me to stay around. She pointed at a little road at the back of their houses and I started the bike and followed the dirt trail.

Soon I found out it wasn't such a good place to stay. Ponds of water kept from evaporating under the trees shadows where covered with a foot-deep swarm of mosquitoes. Despairing, really. I was not going to camp there and get eaten alive! So I followed the road out of the woods. It went round towards the village, through the vast fields where tractors were still plowing. Now I was riding on the road the tractors used to go to the fields. I came to a ford on the dirt road, the tractor chains had made long, deep puddles of chocolate like mud. I went through the first and came out the other end stumbling, hitting the floor with my feet alternatively. Thank good I'm wearing the heavy off road boots because both got knock and locked between the footrest and the floor.

Phew, It was really close... About 2 or 3 hundred yards further there was a smaller one. I, at least, had gathered some confidence and decided to go through at a fairly slow speed.

But I didn't. It was a deep ditch, as soon as the front hit the bottom it went sideways and before I could blink I was in the middle of the paddle nearly all under mud and the bike was on its side.

I wasn't hurt and the bike had gone quite slowly but I can't pull the bike from the floor on my own on the dry, my attempts on the muddy paddle only sent me diving on the mud twice.

I walked towards the road a hundred or so yards away. It was deserted. A little girl showed up and I tried to talk to her from the distance and waived. She said something I could not understand and something I could: '...niet, niet' and went off the way she came as fast as she could make it.

It was only another hundred yards to the first houses in the village. Half way there a young lad called Cola had the patience to put up with me. He seemed to agree to follow me to give me a hand. Soon another man I had briefly talked with when at the Babuska's house turned up on an old Lada screeching brakes. They fished me out of the mud pond and told me to follow them. Both the bike and myself were covered from top to bottom on mud.

He was Peter, the lad on the photograph underneath and the cheerful lady next to him is his wife Natasha.

 

Cola and Peter begun to bring out buckets of water and helped me to clean the bike and myself. They insisted I put up my tent on their yard and to take a shower.

I was reluctant to accept but was also exhausted and I finally agreed. I was really embarrassed because of what had happened and the trouble I caused them. I ended up with half on the neighbors of the small village covered in mud. But my embarrassment was only about to begin.

I only had 200 Rouble left (about four quid) and I had to put petrol, to reach a cash point or bank on the next mayor town. Nevertheless I try to tell them I would go and get some beer or something if there was a bar in the village, once I put up the tent and washed up a bit. They asked me if it was beer that I wanted, no milk or tea. I asked them back if they wanted beer and they say yes. They knew little english, but with patience one gets there.

They showed me to the shower they shared between Cola's and their house. It is a humbling experience to see with how little people make do. When I came out of the shower, they had a bottle of beer and natasha was cooking potatoes for dinner. They dragged me to their dinner table and told me I had to eat with them. I was thinking of taking the camera out and taking some shots of the place where I fell and to show a bit the way they live but, overwhelmed by they generosity I couldn't get round to do it. I think think it would have been disrespectful.

I showed them the equipment and took a few photos and very little video.

   Volgograd  -  Volgograd is an immense city, 60 or 70 mile long on the shore of the Volga. It was rebuilt on the ruins left after the battle of Stalingrad, its former name. It has monumental buildings of 'Stalinist style' and is dotted with statues commemorating the war and the socialist effort. In Volgograd is the biggest statue of the motherland, an enormous iron lady wielding a sword that can be seen from miles and miles.

I've been a few days here in Russia now. Most people are very helpful and nice. Some of the guys that have to deal with you, border controls or get a bit frustrated you can't understand anything. It is not only the language but the way things works: the stamping of immigration papers, the registering vehicles at hotels and access to them. You can't tell if a guy at the hotel is from security or an usher. At reception they tell you to show your receipts for the bike to security and you walk in front of them unaware of what is what they do. Someone comes and tells you off for failing to show the papers straight away!