Eventually, we were waived through and into the new looking immigration building where we handed our passports over to the polite English speaking inspection guard. Past him we filled in entry declaration papers and then handed those to the guy outside who’d been inspecting our bikes. With that we were done.

It had taken a bloody age but pretty easy.

And so here we are in country 61, Kazakhstan.

Rough asphalt lead us all the way down to the city of Semey, where we easily found the hotel Semey that we’d been told about by other travelers. This will be home for a few nights, whilst we get more Visa’s

The Hotel cemey is clean with secure parking and cost us $30 for a private room for two with a bathroom. For a hotel inside a major city, we figure that's’s pretty cheap.

Now, nice as Semey is we’re not going to linger and for good reason. Back in the Soviet days Russia figured the landscape and it’s people were disposable and so chose it as a testing ground for the Nuclear development program. To that end they let off 498 nuclear detonations. The radiation fallout effects the whole area to date. Every book we read suggest 'strongl'y that we don’t eat locally grown produce and drinking the water is a bad idea. Bloody hell, a couple of nukes is awful, but c’mon…498 separate nuclear detonations. Good God! Yeah we’ll be leaving pretty soon.

Up early we’ve spent the entire day working, sending out 57 seperte emails, finishing writings that need to be sent and compiling and sending the report to BMW Motorrad on the Trailguard bike suit we’d been sponsored with.

It took an age to update our own website and then post our mongilian experiences on a number of biker forums. It all just takes os much time.

We stopped for gas in a small town and then kept a steady pace heading south.

We’d hoped to stop early in daylight, find a nice little camp spot, get out the Kermit chairs and enjoy a quite night. As dusk set in we’d seen no camping possibilities. I’d already taken half a dozen small tracks off into the surrounding landscape in the hope of finding somewhere out of sight. Each track either lead to a small holding or simply didn’t give us shelter from the eyes on the road.

Both Lisa and I were now taking our frustrations out on one another. Tired bitter words were hurled and stung.

Finally we’d pulled off the road and rode around 2-miles down a track, several gullies and even a riverbed and pulled up in the dark behind a small knoll. We’d unloaded the bikes and set up the tent when out of the hills a silhouetted walking figure walked down towards us. In my head I was thikning “shit, here we go, he’s going to ask us to pay something or tell us to leave”.

I couldn’t have been more mistaken. Our new friend came down and after confirming that camping on his land was absolutely no problem, he shook my hand firmly and kissed Lisa on both cheeks. Our campanion was all of 5ft 5 with dark swarthy skin and forearms like popeye. “chi, chi” he asked keenly. This was an invitation to his home for tea. We had no idea where he’d walked from but accepting seemed like the right thing to do. Leaving our belongings behind us the three of us walked into the black night, round a small hill and quickly found ourselves amongst ancient but huge farming equipment. 3 large dogs launched themselves at us, from the shadows created by the half moon. Lisa and I are taken by surprise and jumped back. Each of the dogs aggresivley yanked backwards as the chains around their necks reach their full length. Fanged teeth still snap the air as we pass, our new friend doesn’t try to hide his amusement at our starlted reaction.

Inside the tiny mud brick hut we are met by his young looking wife and his 3-year old son. Sat at a wooden hand cut table the straw rood almost touches my head. The log roof beams bow in the centre uner the weight of the rotten and stinking straw roof. The dark room is lit by a single storm light, holding a small wax candle. The warmth is suprising. In the corner the mud brick stove glows red inside as timber crackles and burns. His wife looks no more than about 15-19. His young son is fascinated by Lisa.

The invitation of Chi is repeated. A tall blue plastic oil sized drum sits against the wall. At the drum our new freind grabs the wooden paddle and pumps and stirs the liquid inside vigourelsy. I already knew what was to come. A small plastic tap is turned and the white liquid is poured into small cute white bowls, which are then laid on the table. He gesture us to drink. We both already know what this is, the smell is unmistakeable…fermented camels milk. Lisa’s already tucking in as I lift the bowl to my mouth and sip gently. “Oh my God, this is fucking awfull, OK, don’t gag, don’t gag, oh the smell. I can’t finish this”. This is what went through my head. The fizzy sour taste is absolutely foul. Lisa’s still sipping. “Can you drink it” I asked Lisa. To my horror and even disgust she replies…”yeah, I actually quite like it”!

I make a few noises suggesting that I’m loving it and make sure our host can hear me. I force a smile and go back for a second sip. I am genuenily convinced that I’ve as little chance of finishing the foul liquid as ‘Torvile and Dean’ making a comeback. My gag reflex is working over time. All the while our hosts are watching me smileing through the struggle and are looking for signs of my approval. I find it rather ironic that I make it through Mongolia without tasting the milk only to be drinking it in Kazakhastan.

By some miracle I down the lot and politely decline the offer of a fill up.

From the corner fire the young women bings a small rusting and chipped enamel tea pot and pours hot dark liquid ito 4 small cups. Again in myhead…”thank god”, this actually is tea. On her second trip back to the table she palces a dark and heavy pan filled to the brim with rice that has been cooked in mutton fat. The gestures to eat are emphatic. Both the tea and the rice taste bloody fantastic and the four of us talk with words and hand movement well ito the night as the small room gets warmer and warmer. I'm truly not sure who was more fascinated with who. By the nights end, our tired eyes were getting the better of us and saying our goodnights felt a little sad, in this intimate and friendly atmosphere. Outside the nights air felt bitter cold, in comparison to the warmth we'd left. Our new friend walked us all the way back to our tent. Lisa had already made it clear that we had a gift for his wife and using the torch she’d routed around in one of the panniers and found one of her south American hand made necklaces. Our new friend received it with surprise and obvious excitement. We’re pretty sure his wife will enjoy wearing it. I thought it was a great gesture on Lisa’s behalf.

We’re now inside the tent and marveling at what had been a completey suprising but wonderful evening, when Lisa mentions her concern regarding being trampled to death by the cows. The following conversation has me seriously wondering about her mental health. Here goes…

“Lisa, it’s fine, they’re just cows”. “SIMON!…more people die in England from cows than anything else”!!!!! I look at Lisa and tilt my head as say “what”. I can already feel a smile make its way across my face and I’m not going to try and hide it. “WHAT”! Lisa demands. Bloody hell, where do I begin?

I continue, because I have too. “So you’re telling me that you thnk that cows kill more people in the UK than anything else”? Now at this point Lisa probably knows she’s misspoken, but she’s sure as hell not going to admit it. I continue. “Hang on, I can believe that there are more deaths from cows than say, lightening strikes, but I’m pretty sure that If cows were the number 1 cuase of death in the UK, not only would I have heard about it, but we’d all be bloody vegetarians.

“No it’s true”, Lisa barks, digging her heels in and making the hole she’s now in just ever so much slightly deeper. I’m now giggling. I’ve already got a Monty Python news sketch running through my head, as John cleese looks into the camera in a news flash kinda way and states…”todays breaking news….36 people were wildly savaged and killed today in the sleepy town of windsor bringing this months death toll to 525. The highest toll in 3-months. The goverment has gone into emergency session hopeing to find a way of controlling the gorilla style attacks of the freasens, their black and white camaflouge making them bloody hard to spot. You get the idea and you can see how my mind works.

Evntually even Lisa’s smilling, especially when I’ve told her what’s in my head. Bloody hell she can be so blond sometimes. If we don’t make too the morning and someone finds our trampled bodies and this journal, it’ll just prove Lisa right, how ironic would that be?

OK, enough typing, sat up in my bag my back is now killing me.

Night, night.

The click, click…click sound sent my heart plummeting. “Fuck no”, I uttered to myself. Lisa had heard the same soul destroying noise. “How can your battery be flat?” she asked “It’s brand new”. All I could do was shrug my shoulders. Without the clever little adaptions we’d made to the power harness which allowed us to jump start easily, we had to strip both bikes to get to the batteries. After 45 minutes of pratting around the big GS barked to life, a thick belch of gas shooting out from the exhaust into the cold morning air. We think we have a problem with the rinky dink electrical switch that turns on the Xenon lights. I’ll have to check it later.

The day has been longer than we’d thought -a mixture of good and down right horrible tar made the going slow. By late evening we’d hit the outskirts of the regional capital of Taldyqorghan, which we affectionalty renamed ‘Tadpole’….well its alitte easier isn’t it? Well at least we’re 300 miles closer to Almaty than we were this morning.

At a set of lights we’d crossed twice already we pulled over and checked the LP maps again. “Can I help you” asked John in his good but heavily accented English. He knew the 3rd Dorm and after some chat arranged to guide us. “how fast can you peddle that thing” I asked, pointing at his bycicle. “The returned grin seemed confident enough. “I wait for you, yes, but keep up” John joked. He was no more than 20.

A few blocks farther North and we’d parked in the car park of a local supermarket and were inside the 3rd Dorm. A somber, if not creepy looking building with dimly lit halls and 20 years of grizzly green gloss leaded paint peeling from the walls. The metal gates that ran floor to ceiling and sealed one floor from the next were also a bit disconcerting. 1000 Kazah Som per person for a shared dorm on the 4th floor or a private room for two people for 2,500. We just have too much gear to bring off the bikes to risk leaving amongst a bunch of back packers we don’t know.

With our bags now in the room and legs tired from climbing 4 floors, 5 times we sat on the edge of the sagging bed and looked about. We’d initially thought It not so bad. Who were we kidding! Now alone we could see this place for what it really was…’a shit hole”. John had kept saying “are you sure? Its not a nice place”….we had assured him we had had worse….but now looking around…had we..Im sure we had but this place in this moment was getting to us. The bed and sad blanket stank, there was old food and matted hair on the floor and a thick layer of bird shit and cigeratte butts on the window sill, inside and out. The shared toilet at the end of the hall was like a set from the Texas Chainsaw massacre. Old dark brown tiles on the wall and nicotine yellow paint on the roof and door. Broken mirror pieces were scattered on the floor, ruby red rust stains dripped down both sides of the only sink in the room, and as for the ‘bog’ in the corner. “Oh Christ’ I said out loud. Someone had recently rushed to the loo, ‘dropped trous’s’ and let go before actually getting their arse on the porcelain. It was like a shit gun had been fired across the back wall. The only thing worse than the sight was contemplating how ill this poor bastard must have felt before he let rip. Lisa’s toilet was worse she stated pretty firmly with a horrified look on her face.

By late afternoon neither of us was feeling good and a dark mood had taken us both. Lisa just lay on the bed and closed her eyes hoping it would all go away. I needed to leave ths depressing place and so jumping on the bike I sped off to get my bearings and find the Kyrgyzstan Embassy.

We ended up eating at a small but clean cafeteria used by the students of the local university.

The 3rd dorm has a weird atmosphere and is giving us both the spooks.

We’d been in contact with Kazak Dan, an English lad with a passion for bikes who posted a few times on Horizons Unlimited and who we’d arranged to meet at 7:00pm for coffee.

After an entire day of web work, checking photos, writing diary and prepping for the next leg. Meeting up with Dan was breath of fresh air. Dan’s cheerful outlook and easy going nature was just what the doctor had ordered. Dan had picked up a teaching contract in Almaty whilst his fiancé worked a high powered job dealing with property. Conversation soon turned to bike trips and adventures and before we knew it we were chatting like old friends.

As the evening darkened and the Almaty lights twinkled to life we saw out the evening at one of Dan’s favourite eateries, the 3 of us chugging ice cold beers in tall elegant glasses and slurping delicious bowls of spaghetti Cabanara. We wanted to carry on talking as much because of how much we were enjoying Dan’s company as putting off going back to the 3rd Dorm.

We climbed into bed with our thermals still on as much for protection from the cold air as from whatever else was occupying the bed with us.

The biggest job ahead was fixing Lisa’s F650’s cockpit frame which had badly cracked and needed welding. We’d had the same problem with her old cockpit which had simply cracked and fallen off whilst riding out of the Amazon I disassembled the screen and electrics and easily found the complete break in the metal frame that holds the entire cockpit and instrument cluster together.

To my delight and complete surprise, Dennis ordered one of his tech’s to drop what he was doing, grab the welding gear and then he repaired and strengthened the frame. It was all done in two hours. I then spent the rest of the day servicing and sorting Lisa’s bike. Light bulbs, oil change and trying to fix Lisa’s headlight in place. It had fallen out weeks ago.

By 5pm I’d got to most of the jobs but hadn’t touched the 1100 at all.

Before leaving we were introduced to Patryk the regional boss from Germay BMW who looks after Central Asia and East Africa. We felt it best to turn down the kind invite to dinner as we wanted to spend time with good friends with whom we were staying. No names…;-)