Category: Int’l Adventures

As I drift off to sleep I peer through the door of my little tent at the burning fires high on the Himalaya hills of the Hunza valley of Pakistan, the echoes of drums resonate on the hill side as the final day of the national celebration comes to a close.  It is the annual celebration of Prince Karim Agah Khan.   Every year around the world on July 11^th fire and lights burn in celebration of the day when the prince received his spiritual powers from his grandfather.

As I close my eyes I ponder which is more beautiful the Himalaya mountains peaks that brighten my eyes and motivate my legs to pedal on or the Pakistani people who have captured my heart. Today, I spent the day with new friends drinking warm smiles and milk tea.  The word friendly doesn’t come close to the warmth of the people I have met since arriving in Pakistan. The Karakorum Highway may be famous around the world for beauty, cycling, mountaineering and trekking however the legendary hospitality of the people is a secret I am grateful to have discovered.

I’ll get you my pretties…what, huh, what’s that voice, did you hear that Pandemic? Is the desert wind playing tricks on me? Perhaps I have finally done my head in, does looking at too much sand affect mental stability?

What do you think Pandemic? Is talking to a bicycle a bad sign? Pandemic, got any thoughts on this one? What do bicycles actually think about? It has been over half a day without water, the wind is over powering me, desert insects are forming a colorful collage of itch on my drying skin. The sky is blackening as a dust, wind, rain storm sets in, a triple dose of doom for a bicycle, even a magic one. The wind will surely tear my tent. That is, if I actually succeed in putting it up in these blustery conditions.

My stinging sandpaper eyeballs are blinded by sand. I am standing on the historic southern silk road sideways with my body plunged downward over the back of a loaded bicycle into the throbbing gritty wind. Pandemic The Magic Bicycle is being blasted by the gales into my feathery insubstantial body. I am frozen in the wind and sand, frontward is no longer an option. Shelter, I must take shelter now…

As the tempest growls deep throughout the unfathomable Taklamakan desert, I take cover under the only thing available in the vastness of the uninhabited barren landscape. Since an insane asylum isn’t available, I chose the only thing around. I am under the road in a cement drainage tunnel. The stinging callous sand twists throughout with a shuddering howl, sand mixed with the occasional cold raindrop whizzes by as I cover my head and eyes in the hood of my black, now dirt brown shirt. I sit inside a projectile ridden sand vacuum in need of a valium and wait.

Is that Toto? No, it is just another sadistic stinging sand orb swirling with projectile plastic bottles, flying food wrappers and cascading cardboard chunks ignoring me as the ricocheting recyclables bounces off the not padded concrete walls and then my ‘in need of a straight jacket’ head. I wish I could fly like that, I would go get a pizza, umm, pizza. Click, click, click of the cycling sandals, there is no place like a pizza home.

A sand storm fit for the ‘National Geographic Edition of Morons On Bicycles Crossing The Words Biggest Deserts’ is chasing me, am I in some Jack Nicholson REDRUM remake of the Wizard of OZ? No, but I have been discovered in my stealth under the street not so clever hideout. Extreme paragliding combat desert vampire bugs hover all around me forming a thunder buzz of sorts. I need the Tin Mans outfit to ward off these militant insect extremist. Where are their little helmets? Reckless dive bombing activities in such conditions looks pretty dangerous.

Will this inexhaustible weather situation bring another windfall sandstorm, dagger sideways rain or the wicked witch of the west? If I am lucky all three, actually meeting the wicked witch of the west would be sanity right about now. I wonder what her favorite food is, something western I suppose, maybe steak? And, I would definitely not tell her about my magic bicycle or my cycling sandals. After all, she has that issue with shoes.

However, regardless of my frightening mental condition brought on by too much blinding sand, I am grateful to be under the road, and done for the moment holding onto a bicycle like a moron in the middle of sadistic projectile launching sand storm.

Embraced by the mountains to the south and the impending sand storms of the seemingly every direction, a few hours later I emerge from the tremulous storm tunnel covered in sand, blind and madly in love with thoughts of the lion from the Wizard Of OZ devouring a steak pizza. I continue forward at a slow crawl, pushing in a swirly OZ direction into the windy, sandy madness that the Int’l Psychiatric Association calls crossing The Taklamakan desert, NW China.

At least 100 times a day someone on the street double looks and even triple looks as I pedal by. I have tested the voyeuristic market here in Indonesia and warn short sleeves, long sleeves, short pants, hats, scarfs on my head and one day even tried to dress like a boy. None of these efforts make a difference to the attention level a solo women traveler can receive. By mid-day, I sometimes feel like a mutant not a Madonna by all the attention. The attention ranges from a intense I just saw a martian look to a hello in English, Spanish or French to the outright racial word in Indonesian for whitey/foreigner.

Tip one for the solo female traveler in Asia is to expect attention, lots of it and figure out YOUR best approach. The options range from ignoring the cat calls, diverting your eyes to wearing sunglasses. I prefer to join in the feline chorus and meow right back. In many remote villages they don’t get a lot of foreign visitors so I usually say hello right back to everyone or at least the first 50. I usually respond in the local language hello I am a misses. The word tourist in Indonesian is masculine so everyone says hi mister. Due to the wide spread love of Michael Jackson I sometimes add hello I am misses and I like Michael Jackson. A basic Michael Jackson number #1 conversation can usually be mustered up with most people. And if that doesn’t work the moon dance is entertaining and doesn’t require any language. It is important to note that the attention is completely harmless just don’t let it do your head in and find a quit place to regroup at times if the attention gets to be a bit much.

Tip two for the solo female traveler, myths exist all over the world concerning women and men too for that matter. As a solo female traveler, I have been asked if I like taking my clothes off in the sun and letting my skin go red, if I drink whiskey and in Australia I was mistaken for a prostitute and was asked if I was working and what I charge. I walked away laughing so hard I thought I might pee my pants. I was wearing dirty shorts fresh from the tent floor, a ripped hippie hat and clearly hadn’t showered since college. A fashion myth buster right there on the street corner.

However, some of the stereotypes and myths are warranted because many foreigners flock to the popular beaches of Thailand, Malaysia, India and Indonesia in bikinis to visit the sun. I have nothing against the bikini and own a few (pro-tip/a bikini string is the best bungee robe to lash things to a bicycle rack) but in countries where women are swimming in their long sleeved clothes and local men have hardly ever seen them naked, perhaps as western women we should follow suit of the local culture and fashion. After all, if I farted in Japan where farting is a compliment, I would enjoy the new experience of not excusing myself at the dinner table. Therefore, If you want to wear the g-string bikini there are great clothing optional beaches in Southern Spain, Spanish men are hot and the Mediterranean sea region is truly beautiful.

Tip three for the solo female traveler, there are lots of restaurants, hotels and shops that are operated by women, often by a mother/daughter and her daughter team. In areas ,where I am sticking out like a sore thumb, I naturally float to the company of women. The only times I have ever been asked about drinking whiskey and taking off my clothes is when I accidentally walked in to a room full of drunk men playing cards. On the same token some of the best directions I have ever been given have been late night by sober men. So perhaps the lesson there is never get directions from drunk men in any country. Another myth that may or not prove true!

Check Out Her Ass…Top 3 Tips for The Solo Female Traveler. Do you find this article interesting? Push the new buttons below and share it on facebook or twitter.

As the smoke lifts from the burning corn cobs that line the fresh wet muddy ocean side road, the road begins to incline. The stiffness in my thighs is occasionally replaced by the lingering taste of rotten eggs and peanut butter burping in my mouth. My jar of Ramadam roasted peanut butter has been rationed conservatively in order to cycle through the central region of Sulawesi, Indonesia during the month long Muslim fasting holiday of Ramadam. The food options are scarce and my camping stove has replenished the moment with 2 minute instant noodles numerous times in the last couple of days.

Eggs are another food that appear along the road and are readily available; however, after hard boiling and eating the last two, then visiting them again shortly thereafter on the way out, I have been leaving the eggs for the chickens. There is limited refrigeration in the Tinombo region due to electrical shortages, most remote families receive only 4 hours a day of electricity, therefore, when the egg exits the chicken, is the real determining factor of palatable freshness. And since the Muslim majority is fasting for a month and only eating after sundown it can be assumed that there isn’t a big demand or turnover for the rotten eggs.

My local map isn’t to scale or topographical so I have been peddling along watching the mountain approach and feeling the road incline. As I begin to peddle up, up, up, the mountainous switch back road I look up through my muddy sunglasses, attempt to not to think about peanut butter and search for the big electrical tower that would indicate the mountain summit and the crest of the hill. I hear sounds unlike those of the usual macabre sounding psychotic roosters, foot long belching lizards or pencil thin snakes. The melted crayon green trees up above my head are swimming around as if stroked by a gusty tropical storm. The monkeys that perch over head seem to be jumping with their arms in the air, you are almost at the top, sort of celebration. I quickly remove my muddy sunglasses and allow my eyes to reason with my brain. Monkeys???

My legs immediately forget about peddling up the mountain, my stomach forgets about being hungry and my brain goes what the……??? I then realize I AM looking at monkeys that are dangling in the original melted crayon green trees. The you are not in Kansas anymore Toto moment kicks into full bloom as I immediately park Pandemic The Monkey Loving Magic Bicycle against the first rock I spot and mid hill I climb up 20 feet of loose rock, break free of a giant cobweb that has more elasticity then a sling shot, apologize to the 3 inch spider for crashing into her home and perch myself under the monkey tree. Two tiny baby monkeys and the mom are startled by my approach and change branches as I realize I have no idea what appropriate monkey etiquette is, although, thoughts such as stupid tourist do not hug the wildlife come to mind.

As I squint my eyes through the setting sun peering at the acrobatic monkey show, my stomach begins to remind me of Ramadam and the thought that they might eat monkeys here. I immediately cheer for the safe keeping of my Selawesi Crested Mocaque monkey friends, for despite a government ban poaching is comon practice by local residence who claim they are a pesty nuissance. I continue to peddle and climb into the setting sun and the 40 kilometer (25miles) decent to the nearest village to find something strange, vegetarian and nutritious to eat. I hope it’s bananas. For if bananas are good enough for monkeys they are good enough for me.

Follow the yacht race on facebook @ Darwin Ambon Yacht Race
http://www.facebook.com/#!/event.php?eid=101476716562067&ref=ts

I am feeling a little bit gangster today as I wrap the plastic and tape round and round Pandemic The Magic Bicycle. After a couple of minutes of this treatment she begins to protest. Pandemic doesn’t quite understand why I am suffocating her with plastic sheeting and tape and lashing her to the side of a yacht. But Pandemic ocean salt causes rust and corrosion, I say out loud, as I finish up with the final knot, firmly securing Pandemic to the sailboat for the Darwin to Ambon, Indonesia yacht race.

I have been talking to myself for most of the morning as I sort out the best way to keep ocean salt and waves away from Pandemic as we cross the ocean to Indonesia. I helped repair a bicycle this week that had run into a gear death by salt situation. As I remove as many of Pandemic’s bicycle components as possible, I try to sort out which worries the skipper of the boat the most, talking to myself or suffocating a bicycle. Turns out that he had me figured for a mad cyclist long before I started suffocating my bicycle while talking to her about the danger of ocean salt and yacht races.

The skipper has taken to calling me the mad cyclist on every occasion. But after meeting the rest of the yachties, the last 3 nights at race reception dinners, I am certain that if I am mad, I am in great company with these beer swilling, fun loving, yachties. My liver, the past week, has had a hard time keeping up with my sailing lessons, for the first rule of sailing is cold beer. I have learned a tad bit more about sailing then drinking beer this week so according to my new yachty (and yes that rhymes with naughty) friends this is the correct ratio of sailing knowledge to beer in which to arrive at the starting line of the race. Tomorrow morning we depart for Ambon, Indonesia which is 600 nautical miles away or about 6 days. The winds are predicted at 35 knots. I am sailing on Maralinga a 55 foot concrete mono hull with 5 other crew members , 489 cans of beer and 1 magic bicycle. If you would like to follow the race throughout the week The Dinah Beach Yacht Club website will be providing updates. When they have a free hand that is…..

http://www.darwinambonrace.com.au/