The Moment Collectors ASIA – Excerpts
Twenty Travellers’ Tales From The Most Diverse Continent On Earth
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Chapter 1: Maria Schumacher — When Life gives you Lemons, make Shikanji
… The small shops selling henna tattoos, hippie clothing and handmade bracelets do not disturb the local life. It is the end of the season, and the village is preparing for winter. Hay and herbs are drying on the corrugated iron rooftops, smoke is rising from cooking fires and women in several layers of colourful skirts are milking woolly yaks in the streets. A friendly shop owner recommends a homely family-run guest house where we can safely park the bikes in the backyard. It gets cold at night, but we are cosy under a pile of blankets. In the morning, the young daughter is sitting on our bikes while mum grooms her hair with a simple comb …
Chapter 2: Jeffrey Franz — Lady Preggers and The Hero of Mongolia
… The powerful current was all too eager to help. I took another step in the waist-high water, and my motocross boot slipped forward on a large boulder. Except there was nothing on the other side of the rock; it was a massive drop-off in depth. Now on only one leg, the current nonchalantly picked me up and pulled me into the pool that was much deeper than I am tall. Head to toe, I was fully submerged and unmercifully baptized in the Mongolian wilderness. My head and helmet resurfaced and I took a quick gulp of air. Just like that, I was treading water in full moto gear while being swept down a rapid river. Curiously, the first thought that popped into my head was: “Should I switch on the helmet cam?” Appropriately, a stream of consciousness came next. Nope, can’t turn it on, jacket and arms waterlogged and heavy. Stay calm, breathe. Crap, it’s hard to tread water with motocross boots …
Chapter 3: Heike Fania — Opening Borders into Burma
… It’s 6.30am, and the first hazy yellows and greys of dawn followed Filippo and me as we rode towards the Thai-Burmese border in the sprawling city of Mae Sot. Our motorcycles hummed beneath us, and our hearts were full of a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Our thoughts were fuelled by the uncertainty of what lay ahead. We were poised to be the first foreign motorcyclists allowed to take their bikes overland into Burma for decades. Burma, or the Republic of the Union of Myanmar, as it’s officially known, had long been an uncharted territory for overlanders — a missing puzzle piece nestling between India and Thailand …
Chapter 4: Chris Donaldson — Adventure before Dementia
… As I reached the outskirts of Kathmandu, the road evened out, and I stopped for a photo. Disaster! My iPhone should’ve been in my back pocket, but the pocket was empty. My phone, camera, GPS – all gone. It must have bounced out one of the times I went airborne. Now most likely flattened by a truck. Then, a lorry parked up next to me. The young Nepalese driver wanted to know if I had lost my phone. “Yes,” I said as I climbed up into the cab. The driver and his two mates were all smiling. The cab was decorated like a 1970s brothel, with garish green carpet on the ceiling and fluffy toys hanging in the windscreen. “Is this it?” he said, showing me a Samsung. “No,” I said. They laughed and held up another phone. “Is this it?” The three guys were in stitches, at this joke. They were playing a game with me, finally taking my phone out of his pocket. Now I laughed, too. They explained they were driving behind me when they saw the phone flying out of my pocket. They managed to stop and rescue it. I couldn’t believe it. I had the luckiest iPhone in the world …
Chapter 5: Fern Hume — The Taxi Driver of Tabriz
… Then, I heard yelling. There was a commotion to my right. I looked up and saw two stacks of sandbags, barbed wire, a barrier gate, and two guns trained on me. I slowly raise my hands away from my bike and into the air. Quivering, I felt sicker than I ever had. My stomach was doing somersaults. Luckily, due to the heat, my candy-pink headscarf was around my neck, and as my black jacket was not done up, my Barbie-pink manteau was visible, hanging down from under my jacket. Ordinarily, I absolutely despise pink and hardly ever wear it. On this occasion I was praying that it may work in my favour. The end of one gun gesticulated ‘Move … move … over towards the grass’. I slid precariously off the bike (if there was ever a moment not to drop the bike dismounting, this was it) and onto the grass. I stood with my hands up for what felt like an age. A decorated officer marched over in a mid-green uniform, with gold epaulettes. He looked me up and down …
Chapter 6: Anatoly Chernyavskiy — The White Deserts of Chukotka
… In the far north-east of Siberia, there is a vast, largely uninhabited land which stretches to the Arctic Ocean for thousands of kilometres. A land of cutting winds and seas of ice. In this land, the few humans and animals that live there endure conditions unimaginable to most of us. For eight months of the year, winter and darkness reigns, coating the ground, trees and hills with a thick white coat and turning the lakes and rivers into sheets of ice. Most of this land is accessible in summer only by air or boat, but in the winter, roads of ice and frozen lakes provide a route that can be driven. This is the story of a crazy dream: to ride a motorcycle through the coldest places on the planet, and to meet the rugged people who live in the incredible White Deserts of Chukotka …
Chapter 7: Sheonagh Ravensdale — Riding through History
… Groups of tiny children in identical striped shirts and yellow hats were being shepherded around the site, learning about their history at an early age. The young army conscripts in fatigues were more interested in posing for photos and inspecting our Altberg motorcycle boots than their heritage! All of us had come to visit the famous Bulguksa Buddhist temple complex, which dates from the 8th Century AD. It had been built as a series of buildings on raised stone terraces, on the slopes of Tohamsan Mountain. The wooden buildings with their curved and upswept tiled roofs were built as a wish for peace and prosperity for all. Despite the crowds, there were moments where quiet reflection was possible – across a pond from us, a monk sat alone, motionless on a bench and quite oblivious to the hubbub around him …
Chapter 8: Sherri Jo Wilkins — The Old Road of Bones
… Cruising on the rutted but compact mud of the morning’s first section of road, I was enjoying my new skills. Then I fell into a deep water hole. I rode on, grumpy at having to start the day fully soaked inside my riding suit and boots. Next, a river crossing. Luckily it was shallow, and its pebbly bottom was easy to manage, even for me. I stopped to fill up my water bottle with the most refreshing water. It was the epitome of the pristine mountain taste you’d expect to see on water bottle advertising. I couldn’t get enough of it. Walter always rode well ahead of me. On a short easy section of road, I looked up briefly to see his silhouette on the forest track. It looked mystical. I wished there was a way to tell him to stop for a photo, but he was too far away. Then I realized it was smoke. The smell of bushfire crept into my helmet …
Chapter 9: Heather Ellis — Timeless in Kyrgyzstan
… There is a bed for you,’ she said, and sat back on the stool to finish milking. Her name was Rachel. ‘I grew up in Moscow, but the Soviets moved us here to work in the gold mines. My husband is dead, and my three children are all grown. It is now only me.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. She shrugged as though it no longer mattered, and I got the feeling she had lived alone for many years. After leading the cow out of the barn and releasing it into a paddock, she ushered me to the house and into her kitchen, where she decanted the milk into several large glass bottles, the thick cream settling on top. Rachel placed the bottles in an old refrigerator, retrieved one that was chilled, and poured two large glasses. I sat down at an oversized wooden table that I expected had seen many family celebrations. She then prepared a simple meal of cheese, boiled eggs, salad and fresh bread, which we ate with a delicious blackcurrant jam and thick dollops of cream. After the meal, I retrieved my things from the TT and showed her my photo album. ‘Your family are farmers,’ she said, smiling her approval at the photos of my parents at work on their banana plantation. ‘Oh, you ride horses too? Don’t show this to the Kyrgyz men. They will see you as a good wife.’ …
Chapter 10: Paul Stewart — Unexpected Mongolian Adventures
… If you don’t want to be the center of attention, because you are one of very few non-Russians, and you don’t enjoy being asked loads of questions, or being surrounded by big heavily tattooed bikers, with loads of alcohol being knocked back, half naked women, loud music, and flies, then stay away in your comfort zone! Somehow, I ended up being a guest of honor and was announced on stage; there were only three non-Russians out of around 5,000 attendees. My trip, with minimal input from me, was starting to liven up. Next, an interview on camera! I’d thought that the interview was for an event video, but it turned out to be an interview for national television. For a few brief minutes on Russia 1, Russia’s largest TV channel, my face appeared before the nation, with me dubbed into Russian. This was a fact I wasn’t aware of until a friend contacted me the following day. “The World Cup was moved from Channel 1 to Channel 2 while the news came on. I went to the bar to get a beer and when I returned there you were!” he told me. During the rally, people kept asking where I was headed after the event. When I proclaimed Magadan, each of them told me “NO!” …
Chapter 11: Candida Louis — A Dance of Temples, Trails, and Transformative Journeys
… Embarking on the journey through Cambodia, my friends and I were filled with excitement and anticipation for the adventures that awaited us. Amidst the dust of the trails, the road held not just miles, but stories waiting to be uncovered. The ride started with navigating the bustling streets of the capital city, Phnom Penh, and then Siem Reap. Phnom Penh, a bustling metropolis, presented a stark contrast to the anticipated serenity of rural Cambodia. French colonial architecture stood alongside modern skyscrapers, embodying the city’s evolving narrative. Navigating through the chaotic streets, I felt the heartbeat of Cambodia in the laughter of children playing by the Mekong River—a reminder that amidst the urban hustle, life’s true beauty often lies in the simple joys. As we travelled, exploring the iconic Angkor Wat and the hidden historic gems that are scattered across the countryside, we knew nothing of the curveball that the first day would throw our way …
Chapter 12: Simon Roberts — The Dusty Highway
… KKERRUNCHH!!! The gearbox? Shaft-drive failure? That was it. I slumped to the ground and lit a cigarette. Was this the end of the road for our Gritty Biker? At this moment I thought of Ted Simon, author of Jupiter’s Travels. The opening chapter had begun with him running out of petrol on a small back road in India. He’d simply rolled to a halt, climbed off and waited for fate to take its course. As the bike cooled down, the silence grew. There was no traffic on this stretch of desert road. Earlier on the trip I’d had one or two breakdowns and had wrestled with the quandary of a total bike failure. Would I carry on without the bike? Back then I’d said, ‘No. It’s such a big part of the trip.’ But now, here in Baluchistan, I felt that if the bike was irreparable, I would carry on with local transport or hitch-hiking. Then slowly, a mirage on the horizon grew and two armed men pulled up on a moped. They were officers of the Baluchistan frontier police. I was saved! Or was I? They flicked out the side stand and came to inspect the scene. They were both dressed in dark grey, knee-length cotton shirts and wide pyjama trousers (and yes, this part of the world is where we got our word pyjamas from) …
Chapter 13: Anita Yusof — Tales from Indochina
… The Thais’ driving attitude is not to be taken lightly. It’s a complete contrast to driving in Malaysia. They turn without giving a signal, and driving against traffic flow on the wrong side of the road is the norm. Apart from that, locals cross the road without looking left and right: they just step out! The road is also shared with livestock. It fast becomes a disaster if one is not careful enough; you must open your eyes big and ride with caution. I still had 200km more to reach my destination, but I wasn’t worried; I still had plenty of time. After a quick snack and drink at a 7-Eleven convenience store, I continued riding on Phetkasem Road, the main road through Dannok. The slightly uneven, well-worn, double-laned road looked shiny in the sunlight. It would have been slippery and dangerous to ride on in the rain of a few hours ago. Alongside the road were businesses that focused on serving the needs of the passing traffic: mainly food stalls and restaurants and convenience stores. There were also banks, budget hotels, and a variety of shops and markets with plenty of bargains garishly advertised …
Chapter 14: Carl Parker — Do you Believe in Magic?
… The mechanic lived with his family in a canvas tent in the middle of the desert, hundreds of kilometers away from anything you would call civilization. Their tent home was a long, once cream-colored structure with a blackened chimney stack pointing through the roof at one end. One of the canvas walls, battered by time and weather, was decorated with faded red Chinese lettering. The mechanic’s workshop was another long tent, and around it was laid out various parts of vehicles, old oil drums, gas cylinders, random lengths of metal, water tanks and discarded worn-out truck tires. He was a good man who took pride in his work despite the circumstances, and even managed to crack a smile on his sun-darkened face from time to time. Sparks flew as he welded extra support braces into the rack to make sure it didn’t break again. By now, Cannonball’s rack had been re-welded so many times that the surrounding plastics were charred and deformed, and mostly held together by duct tape …
Chapter 15: Simon McCarthy — Monday is a Meat-free Day: Would You Like the Chicken?
… A small, slim figure of a middle-aged Mongolian dressed in a traditional long green deel coat, orange silk belt and cowboy-styled trilby, approached us from a yurt about a mile away. We beckoned him to join us and sit down, and out of the lining of his coat came a slab of soft home-made cheese and a pot with clotted yak’s cream. He shook the long sleeve of his coat and a 2-litre Fanta bottle full of milk appeared. I retrieved a jar of jam from the panniers and the three of us gorged on a Mongolian/Devonian-style cream tea feast. With apologies to any Cornish readers, the cream went on first. Later that day we found a market that did have eggs, as well as apples and transmission oil. That evening Georgie baked an apple sponge in a pan over the Coleman petrol stove: apples stewed to a runny paste in a pan, pour a cake batter (flour, bicarb of soda and eggs) over the top, put a pan lid on and heat over a VERY low flame: easy! While she cooked, I changed the creamy oil out of the bike’s rear wheel bevel drive. In Bayankhongor, one of the drunken locals had spotted that our bike seemed to be leaking “benzine” from the paralever swinging arm. Investigation revealed that a stone had got jammed in the spokes during a river crossing and had ripped the rubber gaiter, letting in water which then bypassed the seal into the rear drive, turning oil into yoghurt. No worries – change the oil and carry on! The apple cake was eaten as we watched a glowing sunset over the Gobi Desert …
Chapter 16: Zebb Penman — Chasing Alexander’s Shadow
… Waiting. I’m useless at waiting. Doing is what I am good at. Planning? Yes, I can do planning; it’s waiting that drives me mad. But if you have to wait, Samarkand is about as good as it gets. Sitting in the old centre of the city facing the Registan Square, watching the sun go down, the light reflecting off the deep blue and green tiles and the Fan mountains with their snow hats on at my back? Maybe waiting wasn’t too bad. I’d cocked up, so me and my travel buddy, H (Henry Mawson) had a four-day wait in Uzbekistan for Tajikistan visas. We’ve been friends for more than 45 years and have done many trips together, but this was by far the biggest, and it was H’s idea. I was literally going out of the door to start an Eastern Block trip when I got a phone call. “How do you fancy riding the roof of the world next year? “Where the hell’s that?” I asked. “Where all roofs are. At the top ya nob!’’ came the reply …
Chapter 17: Leigh Wilkins — The Light in Me Recognises the Light in You
… The shaman was suddenly up on all fours and reaching into the fire. He’d grabbed an iron stand and thrown it in my direction. I’m not sure what shocked me more, the fact that it came my way, or that he had grabbed a blisteringly hot iron that had been in the fire, as if it were at room temperature. I swear I heard his flesh hiss as he did so and yet there was no sign that his flesh had been burnt or scarred. Almost as quickly, he seized a burning log and lofted it skyward. The crowd scattered as it came falling to the earth, showering embers in all directions. People screamed and tried to avoid the burning timber and its smoke as it seemed to whirl around the crowd like it was rounding up cattle. No one spoke. The air felt changed; a hush had fallen over the landscape. The shaman had returned to his feet and begun a slow rhythmic dance, hands held high above his head, his feet shuffling in circles. A warming smile was across his face. The crowd remained silent, as if in their own trance or simply being respectful of what was happening. It was infectious. A feeling of contented safety had swept over me, and I’d felt as if I were ready for any challenge. I’d felt an inner strength …
Chapter 18: Jacqui Furneaux — Indian Summer
… I see in the distance what looks like a stack of sticks alongside a wheel. It’s an important part of the day to look out for these, another reason for keeping speed low. Those in the know will stop because this is the sugar-cane juice seller. The sticks are sugar cane, and the wheel is what drives the mangle. The cane is fed through the rollers twice or thrice (that word is still commonly used in India). A trickle of muddy-grey-green liquid runs down a chute into a jug. He adds lemon juice and for about fifty pence, you are handed pure, unadulterated sugar-cane juice. It’s refreshing, totally delicious and not highly processed with additives. There’s a gathering (not a queue!) of thirsty customers. Amongst them is a street dog. Before anyone else is served, the vendor fills a paper cup with juice and puts it down for the dog who laps up every drop and continues on its merry way. It is a touching scene. We leave the next town and take a side-turn to see where it goes. Everything is glorious and then, just as I begin to relax, I hit a hidden speed bump. These accursed things lie in wait for the unwary, mostly on country roads. They are unmarked and steep. The local people know where they are, but I don’t and nearly come a cropper. I hate them. I swear, recover, and notice the colours around me. Newly painted village temples are bright with blues, pinks, oranges and reds. We stop to look at a bright roadside shrine. A twice human-sized concrete goddess with four arms is enrobed in a red sari. She sits gracefully on a concrete plinth beneath a tree …
Chapter 19: Heather Lea — Come for the Horsemeat. Stay for the People
… Dear God, here we go again. I just want a shower and bed; I’ll even forgo the beer, just get me off this bike! There are other people in the lot—all well dressed and reaching into trunks for food plates and booze bottles. Ugh, a wedding. We’ll never get any sleep here. “I’m Darkhan.” The thirty-something man offers his hand to Dave, then comes over to shake mine. “Heather,” I smile. “It is pleasant to meet you, Hayser.” Darkhan gets straight to the point. “We want you guys at our party.” Dave and I laugh at the direct order. We’re both still balanced atop our steeds, trying to decide if we even want to stay here. “Are you hungry?” Darkhan asks, speaking our language. And I don’t just mean English. “Very,” Dave replies, and I know I’ve lost him. “Great, do you eat horsemeat?” “We do now,” I answer, the promise of free food overruling my need for anything else at that moment. Darkhan tells us to leave everything on the bikes, saying our stuff will be safe, and whisks us inside. I’m immediately energized by a thumping bass and people jumping around on the dance floor. I think about shaking a leg, too. “I love the music,” I yell into Darkhan’s ear. “Is this Kazakh techno?”…
Chapter 20: Sam Manicom — Windows of Opportunity
… The first hours of dawn were my favourite part of the day. Dawn sees a multi-coloured tide of market stallholders riding the dusty, misty roads into town from the countryside. Their bikes loaded impossibly high with lush green, just-picked vegetables, incredibly vibrant collections of exotic tropical fruits, and those that have been shipped down from the mountains. It wasn’t unusual to see the reds of mangos, the yellows and pinks of papayas, spiky green jackfruit, and vivid yellow bananas on display next to furry-coated apricots, rich red apples and giant grapes that looked as if each one would be a taste bud sensation. Later in the day, with the heat in full force on the fruit, walking through those sections of the markets can be scent overload. Other motorbikes were loaded high with vast bowls of fresh fish, or cages of squealing pigs. All were dodging each other, the potholes and the collections of rubbish that had been put out overnight. The loudest were those bikes with racks of squawking, honking white geese, which had been tied by their ankles to hang upside down for the journey. Many riders travelled through the cool gloom with their headlights off, as if they were trying to prolong the cool and friendly darkness. In amongst this tide were those on rickety old black bicycles which were stacked high with breads, or eclectic collections of plastic household goods. Some carried enough copper-coloured chicken feather dusters to fill a duvet. Others had their bicycles loaded so completely …
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