Photos – Solo Female Cycling Around The World

Big Bolivian Photo Show

You are going to die” The man shouts and raises his hand to gesture a knife cutting his throat. He is well dressed. His blue button down tour operator shirt appears freshly cleaned. His belt bunkle shines in the sunny glare.

“Thank you sir, will you come to my funeral? I like purple flowers” I mumble while giggling at the dramatics that are unfolding.

“I sort of just wanted to know how locals navigate on a wet high altitude Bolivian salt lake. There´s nothing to follow, the tracks have been washed away.” I say

I do not have a GPS (global positioning system) but the GTL (Global Locals System) usually works… well everywhere but here I think to myself.

“We don´t do tours to the island in the rain season, too much water” He says, a grin softens his right cheek. His eyes begin to sparkle.

“So where is the lake at? Is it there or there?” My gloved hand points out over the vast expanse of a white plateau.

I am willing to walk if the water is deep I think to myself

“You are going to die, and alone!!!” He says less loudly then the first time. His smile is expanding. My grin is reaching flirtatious proportions as I patiently wait for some instruction on how the locals find the dry camping island.

“Thank you sir, have a good day, I am going to just go west, there is a island out there somewhere….” I say while I peering out through my weak sunglasses at the sea of salt. I shift my feet in the slushy wet salt. I am strattling Pandemic, my green bike. It is speckled with white dots and salty chunks, a perfect look for a bike called Pandemic.

“The Sahara desert in North Africa, looked a lot like this. I really enjoyed cycling alone in Africa.” I say.

Boy am I really shining it on now I think to myself. Maybe if I tell him scary Africa stories this dude will give up which bump out there on the horizon I should aim towards

“Did you know that my small wheel here fits inside a lions mouth” I grin while leaning down and brushing the salt off my wheel.

“That giraffe I cycled with, I can´t believe how fast he could run. How do you say zebra in Spanish, sir?”” I grin and chuckle even enjoying my own sarcasm at this point.

CLICK HERE FOR MORE OF THE BIG BOLIVIA PHOTO SHOW

“You see that volcano there…” I am abruptly interrupted like a mouth full of soap.

“Keep the vocanoe on the right and those mountains on the left. Look for 3 bumps on the horizon, aim for number 2. The island will appear in 55 km on the left.” He is using his figure as a pen. His clean shirt tightens over his back as he crouches down over the salty puddle. His hand drawn map of Salar de Uyuni and Salar de Copiaso, the worlds largest salt lakes appears before me.

“Buenos Viajes (safe travels)” He says

“Thank you sir . The GLS (Global Local System) works everytime. I say as I adjust my sunglasses, tighten my face bandanna and head off though Bolivia´s Inter-salar (salt lakes) Rt 1 to the inter- volcano route and eventually to the capital La Paz.

Solo Female Cyclist Interview: Wylie Goodman

COMING SOON…With The release of the new BIG WOW eBook:100 Women From Around The World Travel By Bike, there is so much inspiration floating around I was not sure where to start….the web’s premier resource for solo female cyclists interview series is on it’s way….

Solo Female Cyclist Interview: Nancy Vogel

Peru…Photos and Gringos

Absolutely beautiful kind old woman who I befriended today. She grabbed my hands gesturing hello and tapped me on the shoulder with a huge grin when I met her on the street twice today!

“Gringo (foreigner in a disparaging sense)” I hear growled from the roadside market stand. The ladies rough holler captures my attention about as fast as the site of what she is selling at the market in Peno, Peru. Her beige sombrero hat hardly shades her from the grouchy scowl placed across her face.

A stark contrast to her nearby market vendors, smiling toothless welcomes. They wave their bronzed sun aged hands over their goods displaying coco leaves, dried llama fetus and every other remedy used for Peruvian traditional medicine. The locals market in which I wondering with my camera isn´t exactly in Peno´s tourist brochure.

I love this woman´s style. Notice the coco leaves stuck to the side of her face. After taking her photo, I showed her my pictures, her toothless kind energy put a huge smile on my face

“Gringo” The one woman persists and chuckles with the insistence of a harmless 8 year old school yard bully.

“Well, At least I am not selling llama fetuses…selling llama fetuses now that´s weird” I chuckle to myself as I continue strolling, my camera strap dangling on my wrist.

Bicycles And Bellies…How Many Kilos Are You Pack´in?

My tanned hand cinches the strap on my otlieb rack pack, my load feels light this morning. The week´s worth of food (470km) I carried over San Francisco pass from Chile to Argentina has been eaten. The 10 liters of water that was attached to the frame has been reduced to 6 liters. The next big food shop is only 50 km away. The morning sun beats hard on my shoulders as I park at the bank machine on the way out of town.

“Did you cycle San Francisco pass I hear”. The confident voice rings with a slight accent of someone who truly understands cycle touring.

“You travel pretty light” The man says as I turn my shoulders and smile at the full size man. His t-shirt stretches over his firm belly. He appears fit. He legs show the signs of a couple of tours. His eyes are kind and curious, he continues

“ My name is Ive, I am from Belgium but I live in New Jersey, I flew here to cycle the pass. I carry 50 kilos of gear. You only have back panniers and a rack pack, how many kilos do you have. That packing is magic!”

“ I don´t know but I only weight 47 kg. Your gear weighs more than me. I weighed myself yesterday at the pharmacy, maybe I should weigh my gear (found out later it´s 22kg) or start eating more icecream. My bike´s name is Pandemic the Magic Bicycle” I say, we both laugh as I stand in his shadow.

“I met Harriet and Neil Pike from the andesbybike.com website on New Years Eve. New Year’s is when everybody talks about weight loss, is it not” I say and I adjust the baggy waist band of my new boys size large shorts, the only ones I could find in town.

At almost 5 foot 2 I have always considered myself huge compared to Asian. I chuckle to myself.

“Harriet and Neil told me they carry 12kg and 14kg each. Their website is a great resource for touring in the Andes They go light so they can climb lots of mountains and access off the beaten track areas. I am looking forward to their next project, a regional hiking and cycling guide of their favorite area in Peru. ” I say, excited to be talking to a fellow cycle tourist.

“Well that is why I am here” The big guy says. The underside of his chin is freshly shaven. My neck strains up. My eyes squint in the sun as I look up at him. My titled faded green visor hardly a sun block for the sun overhead.

“I read about the route on the andesbybike.com website so I came to try the route. You just came from there? How was it?” Ive, the man from Belgium says.

“Paso San Francisco is beautiful, I will show you the photos if you want. My water froze on day 4, the wind went wacko and stopped me after 20km on day 5. I slept at 4725 meters 15500ft on day 6. There is ample water about every 80-120kms (2 days riding). Beautiful scenery, bike trekking at it´s absolute finest” I say as I make plans to meet Ive later to show him my photos.

Rambling On and On and On…A Photo Show

As anyone who has met me knows, occasionally I suffer from verbal diarrhea. Babblying my way to babbleon, a favorite pass time of mine. Rambling on and on and on, often, I could frighten a coma patient with my energy level. Sitting still has never been my strength. Sometimes, I (and all those aching ears around me) are lucky enough to encounter scenery so phenomenal that it is best expressed in the silence of a photo.

(70 Km from Ushuaia, Argentina)

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Bandits and Bras…Securing Support While Cycling In Bandit Country

I am going to have to start wearing a bra if this corrugated dirt road doesn’t improve I think to myself as my flimsy torso bounces off Pandemic’s seat, my airborne body hardly landing vertical back on the pedals. My bum, insect bitten from peeing outside is also bruised. I feel as if I have been continuously spanked from attempting to cycle from Lodwar to Kitale. This road is getting to be a real pain in the ass, I chuckle to myself as I make my way into Kalengmorok village. I park Pandemic and waddle into the restaurant for some lunch and a break from all the bouncing.

At lunch at the hotel/restaurant I sit eating stewed brown beans and ugala, a wet cake like stable food made of maize flour. A friendly man wearing a world vision t-shirt and freshly pressed grey pants comes over to say hello. I ask him about road security, I read on the internet somewhere that N.Kenya south of Lodwar, is an area known for banditry. The often savage nomadic Pokot tribe occasionally infiltrates the Turkana tribes territory and shoot at passing vehicles. “Insecure area misses”, I am told for the 5th time in 2 days, choosing to pedal forward through the area asking the locals at every village on route about banditry, “I will find you a truck for the next 80 km”, the man with the world vision t-shirt kindly insists. Truck verses magic bicycle, always a tough decision for any circumstance that removes me from the bicycle I always see as a less appealing form of forward travel and always a plan B.

Hesitantly, wondering if perhaps the locals are just being a little overly cautious, I board the truck with 5 obliging jovial guys who are on a delivery south. We sit 5 a crossed in the cab truck as if 2 front seats are truly designed for a least a half dozen people. Pandemic is secured in the truck bed as we make our way forward down the bouncy road. The conversation is light hearted, welcoming and fun as we sweat all over each other and holler back and forth over the noisy racket of clanking truck metal and flying road rocks.

At a military check point, a metal security barricade is strewn a crossed the road. It is made of recycled metal bits that have been welded into sharp metal teeth. It is designed to puncture tires and/or stop all traffic for a routine security check. A man, I named Rambo joins us as we crawl over each other into every available seat space. There is always room for more, I think to myself as my shoulders fold over each other, my hips poke into the soft thighs of the guys who are pressed firmly into me like book ends. We are happily sharing each other’s personnel body space, odor and communal humidity.

Rambo is armed with a circa 1980 automatic weapon, his military green attire and large laced calf high black leather boots hop on board the truck with us and I am told by the laughing locals that are security just got better. Rambo cocks his gun, the noise is loud enough to capture everyone’s attention. I curiously peer down as our guard loads the ammunition clip securely into the weapon. He large strong hands firmly clasp the gun, on full alert he looks out the window, he tells me he is ready for anything. About 20 minutes later, Rambo turns into Rampunzle and falls fast asleep. His sweaty shiny head bops about as his loaded gun wobbles around about a ½ foot from my knees. This security problem may be a bit over rated, I laugh to myself as I bounce along wondering how a sleeping gun might help improve our safety in bandit country.

The seemly comfortable grinning man spilling over my right shoulder blade explains the road situation. There are several sections of road between Kalengmorok and Marich each about 5-10 km long that are known areas for banditry. The locals do not like to travel these sections. People from rival clans hide in the heavily forested sections of road and shoot from the canopy of Acadia trees at ongoing traffic, robbing local motorists of their riches. About 80 km later in the village of Marich, I jump off the truck and begin to pedal again. I wave goodbye to the truck load of make shift security personnel who are venturing south to Kitale. I will bounce into Kitale in about 3 days time, happy to arrive by pedal power with loads of elbow room. Stinking of my own sweat I will cycle through the Marich mountain pass on a safe road through Western Kenya heading towards the Uganda border.

The Kenyan Border…Through Granules Of Sand To A New Land

I am percolating with a certain kind of elation that I have not felt in some time, hit by a wonderful speed ball of energetic happiness. I crest the final hill into Konso village as a new day begins over the glowing emerald green hillside. The tropical southern region of the Omo valley, Ethiopia is where the cotton and banana industry blossoms as I cycle through the humid region.

Smiles at sunrise abound as children wave hands instead of sticks. Adults dressed in traditional rainbow striped skirts, a short hem indicating marriage and log hem indicating single, crowd the curb less roughly paved street. Wow, they must of discovered a pot of gold, I think to myself, as I grin at their colorful attire. Their excited welcoming smiles radiate like a contagious fever as I begin smiling so hard that I crack my sun burnt lip.

The barefoot women carry bundles of fresh green chat, the traditional plant used like chewing tobacco on their strong backs and hearty heads. A plethora of beige spotted cows and a kaleidoscope of goats crowd the street as I slowly navigate through the herds of noisy livestock.

It is market day for the smiling beautiful mix of Konso hillside tribal folks. Trucks full of plastic Chinese shoes and western men’s clothes have traveled from as far as Somalia and Kenya for the weekly cultural market.

“Good Morning” , a very sweet and way too thin man named Dominican says, his eyes twinkle with sincerity, as I stand straddling Pandemic in the middle of the street amongst the market mayhem. I am looking around for a breakfast restaurant.

Dominican and I spend the day eating traditional Ethiopia foods, such as injura, a thin flat bread made from fermented teft flour and lentil stews. We drink jabana traditional coffee with his many friends, my arm happily tires from shaking hand after hand.

Dominican calls his friend and helps me purchase Kenya shilling on the black market so I can venture through the remote Lake Turkana border crossing into Northwest Kenya. I do believe I have found my slice of utopia while bicycle touring in Ethiopia, happily embracing the Southern Tribal region leaving the mystically bizarre overpopulated Northern area behind.

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The mountain road crests upward on a gradient that over powers my thighs, too many mosquito, spider and sand flee bugs have swollen my left eye which only complicates my blurry half vision. I push Pandemic up the crest of the final steep 25 km hill, in the distance the village of Key Afar Village awaits. Hammer and Banna tribal people who live in circular grass huts are dressed in goat skins, they necks are heavily decorated with colorful plastic beads. Topless women wearing animal skins as skirts venture home after their travel to the local village. The men carry their AKA 47’s strapped a crossed their chests. Deep scares endured by lashings as a part of a coming of age ceremony indent their bronzed darkened chests. The heavy metal weaponry adorn their tribal markings. There welcoming smiles glow as their arm bracelet made out of recycled metal shimmer in the heat of the midday heat.

There is a long standing tribal conflict over nomadic territory between the Kenyan tribes and the Ethiopian tribes, a recent lethal mugging of a clan man over his AK-47 and fishing territory on the western side of Lake Turkana is dinner conversation as I camp at the Christian mission after a long day of cycling and pushing Pandemic through the sandy remote border crossing at Omorate, Ethiopia/ Todenyang, Kenya.

However, cycling in the deep sand was surprisingly easy with the help of about 2 dozen village children pushing me. After the sandy sections became cycleable, they took turns riding the magic bicycle. One boy wearing a short tattered cloth wrapped around his waist pushed the pedals backwards instead of forwards as I realized it may have been his maiden voyage by magic bicycle. I then began pushing the children on the bicycle supporting the weight of the bicycle and heavy gear in my arms. The smaller children sat on top of the gear on the back rack as I attempted to push and pedal on the coarse sandy trail.

Killings and tribal clashes are personnel in nature and a bit hard to believe from all these warm people who seem very happy to have a visitor in this sandy arid corner of the planet. Unfortunately, since the influx of cheap guns from Kenyan border countries tribal clashes that used to be resolved through discussion are now resolved through shooting and often death. Personal conflicts that do not involve a solo woman bicycle touring on a magic bicycle or the kind welcome that I have received as I continue south down the western side of Lake Turkana deeper into Kenya.

Rocket Sprocket…How To Detonate a Route While On Tour

As rain dances on the ferry boat schedule departing Turkish, Cyprus, I stand like a racehorse at the starting bell antsy and raring to go. I have new water bottle holders, a repaired Rohloff bearing and a new rocket sprocket that gives me lower gears on hills.

It has been a week and ½ since the ferry boats have not run. It is the coldest and rainiest winter that Cyprus has had in 25 years. I am told by a curious British expat as he peers at a wet magic bicycle circling the port town of Girne hoping for a ferry boat. The roads lack drainage, dirt puddle sloshing has become my new past time. An awful lot of fun not counting the wet car door I skidded into this afternoon.

Love this guy, he sits grinning on his sinking boat. He probably realizes there isn’t anything he can do about it so he might as well smile.

As dark rain/snow clouds take up residence over the ocean between Turkey and Cyprus, the temperatures in the Sahara desert up ahead continue to climb. My legs soften from the lack of daily long cycling distances as the plan morphs itself into new phases of halted indecision.

Cyprus is an island divided by two countries, Turkish, Cyprus and Greece, Cyprus. So pedal off I do in a thunderous down pour of winter rain from Girne to Nicosia then Larnaca on the Greek side of Cyprus. Larnaca is my last stop in the search for an island escape. Decisions of east verses west Africa still preoccupy my thoughts as reality sinks in that I can either wait possibly for weeks for a boat to Turkey then cycle Europe to the west of Africa or take the aviation express over Syria to Amman, Jordan pedal the dead sea down the infamous King George Highway and ferry into Egypt.

Also, crossing the Atlantic and pedaling ocean to ocean across Canada has been ever present on my mind. This would complete my cycling line that rounds the world, that I began many experiences ago in 2009. Fresh thoughts of completion have crept into newly discovered spaces of my, got nothing to prove, could it be time to finish this mind. After all, world peace has changed a fair bit in the last few years since I pedaled out the door.

Egypt…..Egypt….Sudan….Sudan…..halted indecision. Grandiose media reports flood my vacillation as cyclists friends on the ground continue to share good reports and pedal on through the E Africa region. However, one news worthy report has captured my curiosity, “Cyclist robbed at machine gunpoint mid-day on the desert road in Egypt”. He reports he is fine and still pedaling towards Sudan, lightened only of some money and his bank cards. For now, I will just pedal my rocket sprocket over the mountains to the rainy south side of Cyprus looking for clear skies, beach camping, ferry boats, a little bit of logistical magic and/or a decisive onward plan.

Waiting On A Man, Rohloff, Where Are You?

Perched high in a round balcony, a widow peers out into the distance Mediterranean oceans waiting on a sailor who left for the hospital in Germany a long time ago. Since the early 1800’s, when the first widows perch was built women have sat patiently and waited for the return of a life they once knew. It is now 2012, I find myself in camaraderie with the women of history as I sit halted from my world bicycle tour waiting on a man, my hubby Rohloff.

The other day, I came across the rules for women cyclists in the 1800’s. Times have changed for WOW women on wheels for we are now not so rare. For instance in 1895, Annie Londonderry became the first women to cycle the world. Motivated by the suffragist movement, dared in a public courtyard, Annie set off by bicycle to show the world she could indeed take care of herself, and with a derailleur she probably did. Annie Londonderry certainly wasn’t waiting on a man to start or finish her world bicycle tour.

Fast forwards a few hundred years and unlike Annie Londonderry, I find myself waiting on a man, my hubby Mr. Rohloff Wheel. He has been a steady companion proving to be unstoppable in any condition through 18 countries. Never a tool have I ever held to his adjustments. As anyone who has read Top 5 Reasons Why Rohloff Makes The Perfect Hubby, I am firm believer in the modernization of too clog-able often replaced derailleur.

However, it is most important to remember that people have been pedaling up mountains wearing nothing but flip flops for a very long time. And going with what you got truly takes the Rohloff verses derailleur debate by any vote. Even so, I will never complain about my modern expensive hubby Rohloff’s reliability on mountain, desert and ocean roads. Mud, rust and clog free, his no maintenance style has softened my heart and turned me into a committed partner.

Regrettably, there had to be a trial separation recently between me and my hubby. He was sent off to Germany for repairs. Roadside assistance, he will not bear for he had busted his bearing, a not too common issue for his age. However, when his bearing blew he needed to be shipped to the Rohloff hospital in Germany, so I detoured my route and ventured to Greece, Cyprus from the Iran/Turkey border because EU Cyprus garnishes the EU data post mailing service.

So what is the story on how long a woman should wait for a man?

December 30^th I sent my wheel to Rohloff Germany expecting an “expedited” repair, my hubby arrives 5 days later to Germany with the EU Data Post mailing service.

January 4^th received by Rohloff and than a 5 days wait for the arrival of a tire I ordered from England sent to Rohloff. The Rohloff hospital in Germany indeed serviced my hubby very promptly and he left the shop for his return voyage with a new tire (1/11).

January 11^th Rohloff’s return shipping of an expedited repair EU to the EU?,13 plus days and still no hubby. Apparently, he must have been sent by mule. By the time I get back on tour perhaps even my hubby Mr Rohloff Wheel will have joined the camp of cyclists who are and will always be derailleur fans.

January 18^th The post office here in Greece EU Cyprus said that if Rohloff had of been sent as certified, registered and/or express mail, the same service that I utilized for my delivery of my hubby Rohloff, I could have been back in my wheels in 1-3 days.

January 24^th 26 days later, Rohloff lingers longer then a widow at her perch longing for a life she once knew, and I still sit like my sisters of history not yet back on tour pondering the word “expedited repair” waiting on a man.

photo credit