It’s Remarkable What You Find on the Road

My own company is becoming a rare thing in Kazakhstan. Every car that passes (and there are many that pass my heavily laden KLR 650) have smiling faces, waving hands and phones pointing at me. This friendliness, intrigue and the open willingness to convey a sense of humanity consistently turns into hospitality whenever I stop and take off my helmet.

It begun at a parched and arid border crossing, with an enterprising kid selling bottles of frozen water, for a perfectly reasonable price. Not that I'm in any position to haggle—I've paid more for things I've wanted less.

So, wet and sweaty all over but for a numb horizontal strip across my chest where the frozen water was stuffed inside my jacket, my introduction to Kazakhstan begins. I am instantly in a hostile desert, but hostility is limited only to the terrain.

The people are unassuming and have a generosity that raises my western warning levels of suspicion to avoid undesirable situations. It would appear that my self-preservation instinct is not needed in Kazakhstan—although that realization still doesn't make it easy to relax it.

With evidence of an increasing sense of security, I assess every situation for its falseness. There is none, the people here are as genuine as my momentary paranoia which slowly lapses into acceptance.

It would be easier not to but I know that staying with any native family, wherever I am, is a privileged insight into their everyday lives. A day in someone's home is far more enlightening that a week in a hotel with a conducted tour every day.

Sometimes it's awkward, occasionally embarrassing, often confusing and always exhausting from being on best behaviour… but despite these difficulties, I feel the pang of loss as I say goodbye five days later—it's like leaving home all over again. I was fed and trusted, treated not as a guest but as one of the family. The only thing I did to offend was to offer to pay my way.

I'm the new kid on the bike in this situation. The scruff, the second-hand rider. $3,000 and three months on eBay resulted in my bike, the panniers and everything in them. I own it, it doesn't own me. Of course I wanted to adorn it in shiny accessories—that's what you do when you love something, be it a house, a garden or a woman—you buy them shit to make them look even better. We can't help but display our western wealth in poorer countries… but we can play it down.

Poverty breeds ingenuity, poorer countries have improvisation and mine is recognized and appreciated. A well-placed hose clip through my front fender makes an ideal fastener for a chain oil bottle, it's practical, functional, it's good weight distribution, it's a little bit phallic… but mainly it's a conversation piece and interaction is a very significant part of the trip.

So, here I am the token Brit, I sit at the back of the group and try to take in this visual overload, six spare tyres, six aluminium panniers, three German bikes and three very different people riding them to one destination. I no longer have full control over my journey. Group meetings are needed, diplomatic solutions have to be reached and… compromises—my cynical definition of which is “now nobody gets what they want.â€

When choosing riding companions, destination should not be the only criteria—budget, riding style, language, objectives, and definitely time schedule are also important factors worth consideration.

There are people who travel to heal a broken heart; dumped or divorced they tour the earth taking with them the misery they were trying to leave behind. They tell their stories of dejection and unfairness to anyone who will listen, hoping that someone will magically cure their sadness and divert their constant stream of lonely longing thoughts. Then, there are the people who have left their loved ones behind and miss them like a lost limb.

Be it a lover or a complete family unit, the highlight of their trips will be the reuniting at the end of it. They wish to share every exciting moment with the ones they left behind, and all the dull time in-between would be so much better for them were they in the company of the ones they hold most dear.

I've done both those kinds of traveling and they are both shit. I'm not missing anyone; I'm looking forward and enjoying the moment. Well I was… but plans have changed without my knowledge, the common language is isolating me and I've gone from riding in ignorant bliss to riding with resentment, the insecurities start to rise. Am I even wanted here? Before I was modestly riding at the back, my self-imposed ranking, now I feel like I'm tagging along.

This is the worst of both worlds, in a group you are less approachable by others, you miss the opportunity to interact with the locals…. But hey, it's okay, I'm traveling with company, my interaction happens whenever neutral is selected but not in this situation, all neutral does is isolate me further—I am as excluded from group discussions as I am denied opportunities to indulge in my own unplanned schedule.

I don't think these friendships that are born on the road are shallow at all, they may be transitory but are no less sincere for that. Two like-minded strangers, whose paths cross, meeting each other's needs and heading on their way.

It's spontaneous; it may be some divine intervention beyond our comprehension, paths cross… albeit briefly. You tell your best stories and in return receive inspired wisdom and quotes to enhance your own life. It's genuine, it's passionate, it's real and then it's over.

But occasionally, just like albums, motorcycles and favourite places, one comes along that you know you'll keep going back to.

I suppose I'm not that easy to ride with, my own worst enemy. I ride alone a lot, whether it's a summer evening fling around familiar country lanes or a cross-country excursion. And, when I'm not alone I love to indulge in the fantasy of the gang—from childhood dreams inspired by photos in motorcycle magazines, an endless procession of motorcycles ahead of me, framed by fingerless gloves grabbing ape hangers. I want to live inside a Dave Mann centrefold.

My childhood bedroom's biker poster displayed the arrangement, but not the structure, the camaraderie it implied was my assumption. Individually my companions were good people, but together, in this case, there was bad chemistry.

Well, I've always shied away from anything that looked like commitment. The destination for me was reached, with a little more knowledge, experience and understanding, not just of Kazakhstan and its people but of riding in a group, and that it really isn't for me.