After Almaty, which was a very welcome oasis of Western comfort we were centrifuged into the gramadoelas again. That is the word we use in Afrikaans for vast areas of absolutely nothing. We cycled for three days to end up in the town of Karakol which brings us to Kyrgyzstan. The cycling distance is slowly creeping up to 6000km and we have entered the fifth country of the Silk route.
The Gramadoelas with a road.
The gramadoelas is not completely empty but contains some aspects of nature like low flowing rivers. This is the paradise for the cousin of the Siberian mosquito, the Kazakstan mosquito. They are quite alike and it would be difficult to point out the difference between them. The Kazakstan mosquito is very good at performing Brahms third racket around your ears whenever you are forced to leave your tent. Leaving your tent would be for urget activities like powdering your nose and maybe cycling. During these activities the places where the sun doesn't shine is very attractive to these mosquitoes.
It looks very idyllic but don't zoom in to see the mosquitoes.
In hindsight the mosquito was the least of irritants that the Kazakstan gramadoelas had to offer. One morning when I woke up and packed up my tent I included an unwelcome guest. This was a snake that spent the night under my ground sheet seeking the warmth of my body. Luckily I was completely oblivious of this otherwise I would have woken the entire camp and the adjacent village with my screams. Not that I have anything against a snake in my tent but only the type with two legs.
The snake did not travel well and died over the day in my bag.
The border crossing to Kyrgyzstan went surprisingly well and the only thing of note was that Erwin's heart beat went up when he saw an Edelweiss on the road near where the border guards were patrolling. He was probably scared that they would march on it.
The Edelweisses through Erwin's bike.
In Karakol we went to a restaurant and in the menu was a price list for paying when you do things wrong in the restaurant like breaking the plates, destroying the furniture or swearing.
The price list on the menu. It didn't state how much it will cost to say "Jou ma se #%*+".
Stronger things on the menu.
A Georgian pancake
A sad thing on the rest day was that Steve, one of the favourites on the trip announced that it was too hard and that he was leaving. Now we will not learn anything more about ice. Maybe I should hold lessons on the art of flirting. Maybe that would make us survive the seven days of bush camps, mountain passes over 3000m, gravel and other nice luxuries.
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