The Sarpi border crossing - Goodbye Georgia, Hello Turkey

It was time to head west again and cross the border into our first non-ex-Soviet country since China 7 months ago. Marshrutka hopping, we were heading to the the Sarpi border crossing. The most striking thing about this particular border is the Georgian immigration building. A feat of engineering and striking modern design, it is as if the Georgians screaming 'Hello Europe, let us in!!' Although usually a big no-no at borders I just had to get my camera out and take a picture. No one seemed to mind, I am guessing they get it all the time, they can't build a building like that and not expect people to take photographs.

On getting to Turkish immigration they checked our passports and explained that we needed to buy the tourist visa before we could get stamped in. The official waved vaguely to a line of buildings. This was border crossing number 18 on this trip and by far the busiest border we had crossed so far. Trucks and cars waited patiently to cross and there were lots of people milling about. We were confronted with an array of buildings and went into random doors to ask about the visa. Eventually, at the very end of the line of buildings, we found a small booth where we handed over $20 each to get the visa. Why this booth wasn't at the immigration check at the point of entry I don't know.

Our next challenge was to get the visa stamped. We returned to several of the offices we had visited in our initial search but to no avail until I finally put my foot down and demanded that the poor unfortunate official behind one particular desk stamped our passports. He laughed, refusing to be drawn into any argument, happily giving us the stamps we needed and wished us a good trip.

We were on our way again, now all we needed was some form of transport into the local town where we could get a bus. And then it hit us, for 7 months we had been in the sphere of Russian influence and could communicate by speaking Russian, now, with just a few steps, we had left this sphere and with a jolt found that we couldn't communicate what we wanted. We were also sans guidebook so weren't even very sure where we had to go. We knew the next town was called Hopa but every time we asked the minibus drivers they pointed to the taxi rank. We were totally confused and couldn't work out how all the people coming across the border were continuing their journey. In the end an empty minibus agreed to take us to Hopa. When we got to a village called Kemalpasa he dropped us off and, for no extra cost, pointed us to a minibus to Hopa. The riddle was solved. Minibuses from the border only go to Kemalpasa, there you need to change to go to Hopa and beyond.

I am embarrassed to admit that we were quite excited at getting to the coach station in Hopa. The last time we had been on a big coach was the National Express we had taken to Heathrow. It was a sign that we were getting closer to home; closer to things more familiar. At the coach station there was an array of choice. We opted for the next bus to Trabzon and loaded our bags. Then, whilst nosy-ing around the station waiting for our coach to depart we spotted another coach that happened to be leaving for Cappadocia, the place we needed to get to, in 15 mins, no need for any changes! We quickly abandon the first coach and swapped onto the direct one. Welcome to coach travel in Turkey, they go everywhere, any time of day or night, amazing. Within 15 mins we pulled out of the station and settled down to our 16 hour over night journey.

Georgian immigration building, Sarpi border crossing

Crossing borders diplomatic style and more dental work

Steve, the British Defence Attache, offered us a lift from Yerevan back to Tbilisi. Needless to say we nearly bit his arm off and were perfectly happy to fit in with his work plans. His chauffeur picked us up, with our grubby backpacks, in his plush Range Rover, outside the British Embassy. It was sleeting as we left Yerevan and the low cloud was reducing visibility on the high passes. I was glad to be in a vehicle which would have passed an MOT, and sat back and relaxed in the leather seat. This was beyond doubt the most luxurious mode of transport we had experienced on our trip. But the best was yet to come.

At the Armenia/Georgia border we experienced border crossings diplomatic style. This consisted of driving to the front of the queue (a Range Rover has no problems mounting the curb and using the pavement), hand passports to the driver, wait for driver to get them stamped and then proceed whilst trying to avoid eye contact with those in the queue scowling at you - knowing full well that the next time I crossed the border I would the one scowling in the queue.

Back in Tbilisi I had to face yet another dental appointment. My dental 'episodes', as James liked to call them, had been numerous, and too long to transgress here. This particular episode had actually started in Nepal on Day 10 of our trek when I cracked a molar but then had been made worse by the Tajikistan episode and now I couldn't ignore it any longer. I knew I had found a good dentist to do the work in Georgia when I noticed that the American Ambassador had the appointment after mine - an American wouldn't just go to any dentist surely?

I needed another root canal and unfortunately this meant lots of injections. The dentist found it very difficult to inject the correct spot to numb the pain and I must have had over 20 injections. The reason for this difficulty was apparently due to me having elderly teeth! Something related to the location of the injection needing to be different for elderly people. I was not quite sure what was more annoying, the resultant bruise on my left jaw or being told that I had elderly teeth.

During the week of dental appointments I developed a sty on my left eye. This resulted in the eyelid swelling up all red. I now had a bruise on my left jaw and a swollen left eye. I looked in a terrible state, and James was embarrassed to be seen with me, thinking that people may have thought that he caused it. Luckily Steve had invited us to stay at his house so I could recover whilst watching the BBC. However, it did mean an emotional goodbye to the Why Not? Hostel cats who I had got a soft spot for.

In between dental appointments James and I managed to fit in a day trip out to Mtskheta (Georgians like strings consonants together). Just north of Tbilisi and a short marshrutka ride away, Mtskheta is one of the oldest town in Georgia and for this it became a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1994. At its centre is the Svetitskhoveli Cathedral, where I donned a headscarf to take a look around. Mtskheta is also famous its   lobio a hearty bean dish cooked in a clay pot. It was another bitterly cold day, although the sun was shining, and we were glad of the piping hot, filling meal before heading back to Tbilisi.

These were our last few days in Georgia and we were soon to head off on our last journey, west, towards Turkey.

Murky weather on the drive from Armenia to Georgia

Tbilisi in the sun

Mother Georgia - the statue overlooking Tbilisi

Inside the Svetitskhoveli Cathedral, Mtskheta

Woman waits outside the Svetitskhoveli Cathedral, Mtskheta

Georgia - first impressions

Everyone we had spoken to who had been to Georgia had raved about it, so we had high expectations when we crossed the border. Our first impressions of Georgia were fantastic. This was the first country we had travelled in that didn't require a visa. A quick glance at our passports, the satisfying sound of a stamp and we were on our way. As we entered Georgia we were surprised to see the EU flag flying. Throughout our journeys across Georgia we never saw a Georgian flag flying without the EU flag next to it. It was a strong signal that the Georgians considered themselves European and, despite the current crisis in the EU, still very much wanted to join. Some small print meant that they were able to fly the EU's flag.

Suddenly we were in a place where we couldn't read anything. The Georgian script (ქართული დამწერლობა in Georgian), as you can see, is totally unique, and completely baffling for a visitor. Catching a marshrutka from the border town to Tbilisi turned out to be equally baffling. Plenty of vehicles were heading for Tbilisi, that wasn't the problem. The problem was that the marshrutka driver didn't want to take us, or any of the other passengers, but mainly us (I think it was our bags which he was most offended by). He had a complete meltdown, stamping his feet, gesticulating and then refusing to get in the vehicle. Everyone was left bemused and another driver had to be drafted in to take us.

The drive took us through the vineyards of Eastern Georgia. It was harvest time, and lorry loads of grapes trundled down the road. We arrived in Tbilisi as the clouds blackened overhead. By the time we had emerged from the metro it was pouring with rain. Sheltering in the metro station until it had passed, we then headed out into the dark, sodden streets. The whole area was a building site and we picked our way around shaffolding and muddy puddles, disorientated. A student saw that we were lost and pointed us in the right direction of the hostel we were looking for. We found another lost Brit on our way and together eventually managed to find the hostel. Two motorbikes were parked in the courtyard, one of which was Morten's. We had first met Morten whilst queueing at the Turkmen embassy in Tajikistan. And then again he had been refused a Turkmen visa in Uzbekistan and this had resulted in an epically long ride through Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Russia, Ukraine, and then a ferry across the Black Sea to Georgia, where we met again. The hostel was pretty average, the temperamental white cat sat on the toe of my boot to avoid sitting on the freezing floor. However, it was great to see Morten again and we went out for a good meal and a few beers.

The next day we invested a bit of time in finding a better hostel. We got up early and wandered the deserted streets. We tried to find a coffee but nowhere was open - it was 1030 amd we wondered whether we'd missed changing our watches. Walking around the city we couldn't find any pedestrian crossings and nearly got run over several times trying to negotiate the roads. When we tried to use the metro there were queues out of the door to buy tickets. And then there was the dog poo - dog poo everywhere. But worse was to come. At lunch time James headed into an Internet cafe only to emerge an hour later to find police tape everywhere and a forensic team. A man had been shot dead in the street after being pursued down the road by two other men. This was our second day in Georgia and was not only no improvement on the first but it was worse. We were disappointed (and a little bit concerned that people got shot on the main road in the middle of the day).

That day we did, however, find a better hostel. Dima was slouched on a comfy sofa surfing the net as he read out a review of the hostel, 'This is the best hostel I have ever stayed in. The guy who runs this place is amazing. He is really the best guy EVER,' he read. 'Who would write this shit,' he continued, and then shouted over his shoulder, 'Misha did you write this yourself?'

Misha was a 6ft 6 Pole who had a relaxed attitude to hostel running and was helped by a German, Benjamen, and Dima, a Russian. Misha was incredibly knowledgeable about the area and passionate about Georgia. He explained a few things to us. Firstly, Georgians don't get up early, nothing happens before 10am and cafes only start to fill up after midday. Secondly, there were underpasses, just they are not well signposted, so there was no need to risk our lives every time we crossed the road. Next, shootings were unusual. And finally, the queues at the metro were due to the President trying to woo voters by giving out free credit on their metro cards. And as for the dog poo, you just had to watch where you were walking. After we understood this and had moved to Why Not? hostel, life in Tbilisi became a whole lot more enjoyable.

Flowers at the market

Looking over the baths in old town of Tbilisi

Turkmenistan - Did chickens or eggs come first?

Turkmenistan is one of the most autocratic and isolationist countries in the world, second only to North Korea, and therefore not easy to travel in. However, it is key to many overlanders as it connects Asia with Iran and the Southern Caucasus. Other routes would involve travelling through Afghanistan and/or Pakistan. Our Turkmen visas gave us 5 days to cross the country through the desert to the Caspian Sea where we would try to get a place on a cargo ship to Azerbaijan. We had to enter at the specified border crossing on a specified date and then the race was on to get the boat out within 5 days. This was travelling at its most stressful.

The border crossing at Konye Urgench turned out to be one of the more straight forward ones we had experienced, especially considering it was meant to be a restricted area. Although at one point a thermometer was thrust under our armpit and the reading carefully noted. On taking a taxi into the town we headed to the market. People wore traditional clothing here more than anywhere else in Central Asia. The women wore bright red or green dresses with embroidered collars and had their hair in long plaited pigtails. Everyone seemed friendly enough and no police bothered us.

We negotiated places in a shared taxi and jumped in with a father and son heading to Ashgabat for a wedding. The drive took us past cotton fields where the harvest was in full swing. Unlike in Uzbekistan, where the cotton was harvested by teams of people picking the cotton by hand, here the process seemed to be completely mechanised with large, new-looking combine harvester type vehicles. When the irrigation channels ran out the landscape abruptly turned into desert and camels roamed serenely by. Our fellow passengers kept the conversation going with a constant stream of questions. Did we grow cotton in England? Did we have camels? How much is a litre of petrol? How much?!?

After a lull the old man, entirely seriously, piped up with, "in England do people think the chicken or the egg came first?"

This threw James for a moment, before he could reply with, "well we are not sure".

"No, we are not sure yet either," he said.

Our intention was to get the taxi to drop us off at the Darvaza gas craters. This man-made phenomenon  was caused when the natural gas was accidentally set alight, creating a fiery spectacle akin to the gates of Hell. After the taxi driver had asked a few people at the roadside for directions we stopped at a ramshackle hut and asked about staying the night and visiting the craters, as well as getting a lift to Ashgabat the following day. Everyone there was drunk. They quoted us an outrageous price. We got back into the taxi and headed down the road to the next hut to see if we could find a better price. The drunks pursued us in a land cruiser. At the second hut the men were also drunk but less aggressive, quoting us a more reasonable price, however, once the men from the first hut protested, he withdrew his offer. Everyone was drunk, there wasn't a woman in sight and, now finely tuned, travel alarm bells were ringing. The taxi driver was now asking for more money than our initial agreement. We decided that the best thing to do was to miss out the gas craters and reluctantly get back in the taxi to continue on to Ashgabat.

We arrived into Ashgabat late. Wandering around the empty streets of this bizarre white marble city we tried to find a reasonably priced hotel room. In the end we gave up and paid $60 for a shabby Soviet era room - the most we had paid on our trip so far. That evening we scoured the streets for some food. We ended up in an area with some ex-pat bars, the first of which was full of prostitutes, the second, in which we ate, was empty. Walking back to the hotel we popped into a corner shop to buy some bread and jam for breakfast. The shopkeeper followed James around the shop as if he was about to steal something, then short changed us when we paid.

The following day we were determined explore the city. The streets were eerily quiet. Roads were lined with government buildings which had names such as the Ministry of Fairness and each of these white marble monuments had a soldier on duty outside. If we strayed too close to the building the soldier would come running over, blowing his whistle and order us to move away. There was nothing visible to mark the point at which one was too close, so as we walked down the street we were followed by a succession of frantically waving soldiers. Other misdemeanours that we found made the soldiers twitchy included getting our cameras out to take photos. We had read that the police didn't like tourists taking pictures of the Presidential Palace but only so much of a wave of a camera in its vicinity would send a soldier scurrying over. Walking through the deserted parks we tried to find the Arch of Neutrality, on top of which the famous gold statue of Turkmenbashi rotated to always face the sun, but as rumoured, it had been removed and just an empty concrete pit remained. The ridiculous statue which depicts the baby Turkmenbashi on a gold globe between the horns of a bull, sited above the Earthquake Museum (which was closed), does still happily exist.

As we explored the city on foot we were suddenly aware of the sound of thousands of voices all chanting together. Following the noise we came across a military parade on the parade square outside the Presidental Palace. We were not allowed to get too close and could not, of course, take any photos but the police did allow us to watch from a distance. Thousands of soldiers marched in perfect time, platoons and companies of men and women in military uniform. The most spectacular sight, however, was of the Akhal-Teke horses a Turkmen breed of horse. Rarely seen out of Turkmenistan, Akhal-Teke horses were brown, bay and grey but with the most incredible golden sheen, like nothing I'd ever seen before. Their riders were no horsemen, sitting on the animals like sacks of potatoes and flapping at their sides which sent them skittering across the parade square.

Leaving the parade square we were left wondering why a supposedly neutral country needs such a big army. As continued our walk towards Turkmenbashi's World of Fairy Tales we past rows of military trucks which prompted us to be trailed by a not particularly conspicuous army officer. The World of Fairy Tales is a large attraction in the middle of the city. To clear the space for it to be built hundreds of people were evicted from their homes. The day we visited it was closed, apparently it only opened on Tuesdays between 3-5 pm. The guard let us peek through the entrance, revealing a scruffy fairground.

International opinion is that Turkmens are fairly content with the political situation, they get free gas and an allocation of petrol free, supposedly appeasing them into tolerating the dictatorship. The system of free utilities leads to incredible waste. For example, whilst gas is free matches are not and this results in people lighting stoves and leaving them on to conserve matches. With respect to a contented society, we found this not to be true on several occasions. In Ashgabat a taxi driver spontaneously launched into a tirade of criticism about the government. On a second occasion, a driver in a 4 by 4 stopped to give us a lift so that he could tell us his thoughts about the government. "This is no better than Saddam or Gaddaffi," he said, "you must write about how bad it is in Turkmenistan when you get home."

Having seen the sights of Ashgabat we didn't feel like staying another night in an over-priced hotel so headed to the train station to try to buy a sleeper ticket west to Turkmenbashi on the Caspian Sea. The first three cashiers at the station all told us the train was full and the best we could hope for was a seated ticket for our 11 hour journey. Having resigned ourselves to not getting a bed, the forth cashier we spoke to decided that there were in fact sleeper tickets available and we snapped them up.

Turkmenbashi is a tiny town on the edge of Caspian. Hot and dusty it had little to offer the tourist apart from pleasant sea views, crystal clear waters and over-priced hotel rooms. Luckily the notoriously irregular ferry was leaving that evening, so after a day wandering around the town we boarded the ferry and continued west.

Turkmen desert

How to transport a sheep Turkmen style

Someone is watching you James!

Typical Ashgabat municipal building

Park in Ashgabat - note the absence of any people

Ashgabat - marble city, gold statues, empty streets

Me with some women in traditional dress

Oybek crossing into Uzbekistan

With no more days left on our Tajik visa we had to continue our journey to Uzbekistan. Driving north of Khujand, through the Fergana valley, we could see that the cotton harvest was in full swing. The roads were good now, and the landscape flat and open. The taxi dropped us at the border and we exited Tajikistan. We then had to drag our bags through the across an excessive amount of no-mans land to find that everyone was squeezed into a tiny building where the Uzbek passport control was located. Badly laid out and organised, queuing would have been intolerable if it hadn't been for the Tajiks who, always polite and gentle, insisted on queuing fairly. The Uzbek officials treated them terribly. A French tourist fainted and was let through. Passport control closed for a lunch break. Eventually we made it to customs where we had to fill out the form several times, our bags were searched and then we were finally in Uzbekistan.

Luckily we only had to do that crossing once. I pity the Tajiks who have to do it regularly. In Uzbekistan there are many ethnic Tajiks, with majority Tajik areas being in the famous cities of Samarkand and Bokhara, but the Uzbek authorities make life very difficult for them which has separated families and stifled trade. Uzbekistan is also rated by Transparency International as the 4th most corrupt country in the world and is one of the worst for Soviet bureaucracy, all of which we were about to experience a lot more of.

Across the Oxus

With two weeks of camping food bought in Khorog bazaar we headed south along the Oxus. We drove south, in a taxi, for about 10 minutes until we realised that we had forgotten all our money, having left it by accident at our homestay with the remainder of our belongs which we wouldn't need during the next 3 weeks. The now bad tempered taxi driver sped back and we collected several bundles of 50 dollar notes. We were heading to a place without a bank, post office or electricity beyond what generators could supply - so we really needed that cash.

We had got our visas in London within a week and without too much trouble. There wasn't a queue at the embassy for tourist visas. Afghanistan is not top on most people's holiday destination list.

The drive south follows the Oxus which acts as the border between Tajikistan and Afghanistan in this region. For 3 hours we gazed across the river, which looked wadable in parts, at a place where time had stood still for centuries. There were no vehicles on the other side of the river only men walking with donkeys and women in burqas. Half of Tajikistan's GDP (which is the equivalent of the average Hollywood film budget) is spent on security along its long border with Afghanistan and we passed several Tajik patrols on our drive.

 Afghan/Tajik border post - looking into Afghanistan

The border crossing at Ishkashim is simply made up of the Tajik and Afghan border posts either side of a small bridge. Entering the other side was like stepping out of Central Asia into a different world. A world a lot more Afghan than we were expecting. All of a sudden we were in a world of bearded men wearing shalwar kameez, turbans and women in blue burqas. Now  no one spoke Russian but a surprising amount of people knew some English. Empty shells of Russian armoured personnel carriers lay rusting around town and many people carried small arms. But with a smile and a 'A-salaam Aleykum' we quickly turned the cold stares into warm smiles. The women only seemed to wear their burqas when walking down the one dusty street which was the centre of town. Away from this road the face veil would be pushed up and the burqa balanced to cover only the head.

Typical scene in Ishkashim

We had prearranged being picked up from the border as it was a bit of a walk into town. Two young Afghans came to meet us; Adab who would become very usual indeed and the driver of the car, who was also a guide. He became very excited when we told him that we were English explaining that he had just guided an English man on a trek, his name was Mr John and did we know him? We did happen to meet Mr John later in Ishkashim and managed a brief chat where we did establish that we were in fact from the same home town.

 Dinner at our homestay

 James with a local man and his motorbike

 James meets the locals

 New and old modes of transport in Ishkashim - a donkey tethered to a Russian Armoured Personnel Carrier

Crossing the Kyzyl-Art Pass into Tajikistan

So, just as I had mastered the spelling of Kyrgyzstan we were on our way south to Tajikistan. We spent the day before the journey trying to source a suitable vehicle. Luckily we had become wise to making sure we viewed the vehicle before agreeing on the journey. James rejected one vehicle which was so old that it looked like it should be in a museum. It was a 40 year old Russian jeep known as a Uza and required a handle in the front grill to be turned rapidly to start it. Even then it needed more tweaking under the bonnet before the engine spluttered into life. Eventually, after waiting 4 hours for a jeep driver to show up, we found a suitable vehicle even if time keeping wasn't the drivers strong point.

The following day, after the driver was only an hour late, we headed south towards the Kyzyl-Art Pass. If international reports are to be believed this was the border crossing of choice for heroin smugglers. It didn't seem like a particularly busy heroin smuggling day when we crossed, however. We saw 3 other jeeps and a truck in total. Despite the lack of vehicles, and the absence of any searches, it still managed to take 2 1/2 hrs to have our passport passed from one office to the next (owner need not be present) and then drive the several kilometers of no man's land. I hate to think how long it would take had they had a rush on. On the Kyrgyz side a well bred spaniel ran ferral around the port-a-cabins. I imagined that it had once been a highly trained sniffer dog, donated by some western government. Now, like the wilded eyed border guards wearing a mix of army uniform, trainers and Kangol caps, the dog had returned to its pre-trained self. But both were harmless enough and we made it into Tajikistan without a problem.

Our jeep at the remote Kyzyl-Art Pass border crossing (still in Kyrgyzstan)

Made it to Tajikistan!

You will not be punished.......this time

Despite having a lovely weekend in Kashgar it was hard to fully relax knowing that we had overstayed our visa and were now in China illegally. After investigating the options it appeared that a relay of shared taxis across the border and beyond looked like the cheapest way to get from Kashgar to Osh in Kyrgyzstan. There was a bus twice a week but this was expensive and we didn't want to fork out for a ticket only to be turned back at the border. We teamed up with Tom an Israeli. He was a man of few words. We explained our visa predicament - his response 'we will fight them'. Well actually Tom I'm not sure if that will work. Best leave the negotiations to us.

There are two border crossings into Kyrgyzstan from China, the Irkeshtam Pass to Osh and the Tourgat Pass to Bishkek. We were travelling via the Irkeshtam pass as it did not need a special permit and pre-organised transport which was expensive and took time which we did not have. For those needing information on getting to the border by shared taxi this is how we did it:

We went to the taxi rank at the bus station in Kashgar and got a taxi to Ulugqat for 30 Yuan each.

In Ulugqat we were dropped in the centre of town. Walk back towards the main road and about halfway on the left is a taxi rank tucked away behind some buildings. Here take a shared taxi to Irkeshtam for 35 Yuan each.

When we arrived at the border it was closed for a 3 hour lunch break. We knew this in advance - the problem was we were not sure which time they were working on. Officially the whole of China is in one time zone. However in Xinjiang, being so far west, it often works two hours behind. To confuse matters further the clock on the immigration building was showing neither of these times. So although we knew that the border opened again at 4pm we had no idea which 4pm so we had an indeterminate wait of 1, 2 or 3 hours.

Waiting for the border to open

The border turned out to be working on Beijing time and we had a 2 hour wait. At precisely 4pm Beijing time a dozen soldiers marched out of the military compound and paraded in front of us - with riot shields. They were followed, with an equal degree of military order, by a dozen officials with briefcases. This seemed a little over the top for the sum total of 5 Westerners and one Kazakh woman who had were waiting patiently to cross the border and looked on bemused. The soldiers were dismissed to their posts and we were politely asked into the building.

Inside the official immediately identified the problem with our visas to which we presented the note a Chinese traveller had written for us explaining our visa/border closed predicament. A supervisor was summoned. Tom looked ready to fight. We looked on imploringly. The official looked at our passports, the note and the dog eared bit of paper which was our Tibetan Permit and said, 'ok, we will not punish you........this time.'

We could barely contain our elation and tried not to jump up and down. Another 4 checks later and we were at the final passport stamping desk were there was a 'rate your experience' gadget. Happy face for good, not fussed face for mediocre and sad face for bad. We rated our experience as a big happy face which pleased the official behind the desk.

The next hurdle of our border experience was crossing the 7 km of no mans land. Here the Chinese officials waved down trucks for us and ordered the drivers to take us to Kyrgyz immigration. Numerous passport checks later we were met by a smiling Kyrgyz who said 'welcome to Kyrgyzstan' and waved us to a shack, which was passport control, for a cursory glance over our passports and visas. We next had to go through health control where someone asked us how our health was. Giving the response 'good' was enough to be waved through. Against all the odds we'd made it to Central Asia overland. However, the taxi drivers at the border were a little more hard nosed than the Kyrgyz border officials. Tough negotiations ensued in Russian. With a flurry James finished with, 'well if that is your price then we will just have to walk.' At this point the men’s faces turned to concern, 'it is a long way', one said, 'and it isn't safe at night', another. It was over 200 km to Osh and we had barely been able to walk the 100 m to the taxi rank with all our bags but it seemed to help our cause and the price dropped a little more. Negotiations had come to a standstill and efforts to try to edge the price down further were going nowhere until James said 'how about $110 …and 10 Chinese Yuan, it is everything we have'. James isn't known for his mathematical skills and what he actually meant to offer was 100 Yuan (about $15). However after much discussion the 10 Yuan (about $1.50) appeared to sway it and we got our ride.

 Trucking across no mans land

The journey was jaw-droppingly spectacular, leaving the arid mountains of western China for the lush greenness of Kyrgyzstan. Yurts dotted the hill sides and snowy peaks touched the horizon. Still euphoric at not getting fined we initially didn't notice the pickup truck behaving suspiciously in front off us. We were near Sary Tash, an area known for opium smuggling from Afghanistan. The pickup stopped blocking our way. We asked Tom what he thought, 'we will fight them' he replied. Luckily the pickup moved on and we made it to Osh.

So to summarise our journey by shared taxi

Kashgar to Ulugqat - 30 Yuan each

Ulugqat to Irkeshtam - 35 Yuan each

Irkeshtam to Osh - $110 and 10 Yuan for 3 people

Crossing the Friendship Bridge

The border was finally open to budget travellers and the friendship bridge was the gateway from Nepal into Tibet. Our budget tour was the first to cross the bridge since February. Team Budget, as I called the motley collection of people, thrown together in a desire to see Tibet, was made up of 22 people of which 15 nationalities were represented. This included people from all the populated continents except North America.

We set off from Kathmandu on a rickety bus, bumping uncomfortably along the Nepalese road. By late morning we had arrived at the border where we left the Nepalese bus and walked through Nepali immigration, across the Friendship Bridge and on to the many Chinese checks. James and I soon realised that we'd hired the only drug addict in town to porter one of our three big bags the 800 m from the bus to the Chinese immigration. We closely supervised him as he tried to renegotiate the price. Whilst doing this we were also mobbed by a throng of money changers and everywhere we walked there was a chorus of “Change money?”

At Chinese immigration we had a long wait before searches of our bags commenced. We had been warned by our guide not to bring any books about Tibet (particularly the Lonely Planet). I, however, was more worried about what they would think of the GPS, walkie talkies and homemade maps I had. So, the night before I had done some careful packing. It was a difficult balance of not wanting to look like we'd deliberately concealed the items but make them difficult to find on a routine bag search. The GPS had been packed in the depths of the 4 season sleeping bag which had then been stuffed into a compression sack, then a dry bag and finally in the large holdall. The walkie talkies were placed in the toes of the mountaineering boots with socks stuffed on top of them. And the maps were placed in a document wallet with my emergency supply of tampons – an attempt to embarrass the inevitably male officials so they wouldn't through the wallet.

The first in the group to be searched had to remove everything in his bag and then repack. The Chinese officials scrutinised every book they found. When it came to our turn the officials started looking through the black holdall, inside were concealed the GPS and walkie talkies. We tried to act casually, when suddenly one official found something of great interest. He called over his superior and they crowded around the item. The superior was trying to say something to us, “Turtle”, he said, “Turtle”. We looked confused. “Churtel, Churtel” then “Premier”. He smiled and gave a thumbs up. What they had found was the Winston Churchill commemorative coins James had brought as gifts. More thumbs up and we were waved through. All in all it had taken about 4 hours to cross the border, with one Nepal Lonely Planet being the only casualty.

The Friendship Bridge - Inside Tibet looking across the border to Nepal