Blog de Kaz IX

Though there were twists and turns, clouds and silver linings the Tour de Kaz was in essence a fairly straight-forward, highly enjoyable operation - put a bike on a train in London, get off in Astrakhan and pedal like hell for a month. Simple. However, like any high-octane Hillier house party, the hard part was always going to be clearing up. And this time there is no army of Eastern Europeans to do the heavy lifting.

Perhaps for that reason, perhaps because I was feeling lazy, perhaps because I feared the consequences, I decided to leave the big mess for a bit. In any city there are always better things to do than dismantle and pack up bicycles and alert the police to the fact that you have overstayed your visa. Why spoil my convalescence with such trifles? I did the mature thing and left the difficult stuff to the last day. Besides, thanks to a contact of Yana's, I had my picture in this week's Almaty Time Out so I was practically a local celebrity. It was not time for doing the Tour de Kaz washing up.

So I made my way as planned to the local SOS Children's Centre. This is the centre that is the beneficiary of half of the Tour de Kaz charity pot and to which many of you have given so generously. It is an incredible place. As I climbed the hill that leads out of the city there was no mistaking the village's bright painted gates and the happy sound of children playing. I steered the Duchess in and was immediately surrounded by a kaleidoscope of excited faces. As usual the Duchess and Bob were the main event and I was soon relieved of them both for wild speculation about the origin and cost of such a machine and races around the village with Bob now turned sidecar for the smaller kids. Health and Safety wouldn't have liked it, and neither did Bob but they are both good reasons to continue in my book.

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The Village comprises of a series of houses where 5-6 children per house live with a foster mum. The Almaty village is ten years old and during my tour I was shown the village buildings which are first class and kitted out with facilities that the street kids who live there could never otherwise dream of. The only blot on the landscape is the playground which the money I have raised will go towards upgrading. It currently has a rusted Soviet feel and the hope is to have a modern safe play area in time for a new intake of orphans this time next year. It is a big moment for the village as they look after the children from the very youngest ages up until they are 16 and so only take new children rarely. It is satisfying to know that the money raised will put a playground in place that will make the transition for the new gang all the happier.

My big moment came when all the children were gathered in the hall for a Q&A sesion with the visitor, who had quickly become known alternately as Father Christmas and Uncle Alex. The children kindly stayed off banana skins like "will the effects of the the credit crunch be felt in Kazakhstan?" and I was left with more sensible questions like "do you know David Beckham" which my rudimentary Russian was well equipped to lie about. It was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon with some lively, happy and incredibly talented children who have been given a chance by SOS. A feeling that my cycling had in some small way gone to further this excellent cause released the stiffness in the legs a little further as I headed back to face the clear up.

I will save the true extent of the pain I went through on 25 July 2008 for an oral account, as to set it out here in full so soon afterwards may lead to a seizure of some kind. All I needed to do was pack up the bike and send it home with Fed Ex, and get to the Migration Police to extend my visa before I flew off at 23:00. A shave and some shopping were on the possibles list if I got through the main events quickly. However waking at dawn on 25th racked by fever as the effect of the tour began to catch up with me, I had a feeling that even the compulsories might be a struggle, and I was right.

Doing an involuntary impression of a wounded Crimean war veteran (with a ginger beard), I presented myself at the Fed Ex desk and though they would take the Duchess and Bob off my hands (along with $800) and deliver them home safely, they would not pack them nor would they provide boxes. As temperatures soared to 35 degrees I headed into downtown Almaty to find some packaging. It was a painful mission, that ended with me 2 hours later, shivering and retching, sifting through the bins of Almaty's Green Bazaar trying to bribe the local beggars to help my search of cardboard. This tour just keeps throwing up those Kodak moments, but this was not one I was inclined to record.

3 hours of pain later and I had four boxes containing a bike, a trailer, my wheels and my non-essential stuff winging its way to London. Stage one of the clean up was complete. I went back to my hotel room to chin some painkillers and try to muster some energy for stage two.

Stage two was necessary because I had booked a flight out of Almaty two days after my visa expired. I was therefore officially illegal, but so far no one seemed to mind. The only problem was that passport control at airports tend to get a bit uppity about these technicalities so I needed to get some kind of excemption before my flight at 23:00. It was now 15:00.

I put my troubles to the hotel reception and they helpfully suggested I get the in house travel agents to sort it out as they regularly dealt with visa registration. Grasping this opportunity to aviod dragging my weary carcass into the city again I went to see Max. It was his pursed lips and little know-it-all shake of the head after everything he said that made me take an instant dislike to Max. It was the fact that he phoned around his contacts for half an hour and then pronounced that I was going to be arrested at the airport if I tried to catch my flight that really made me hate him. No amount of waving the Time Out article in his face would change his mind. I had broken the law and would be treated as such. Tempers flared.

The result was that by 17:00 I was marching, sweat pouring, throat as dry as the steppe dust, and fear drawing any colour left from my cheeks to the British Embassy. After a wild goose chase of another half an hour I found the recently relocated British Embassy, which had helpfully closed at three. An imaginary clock was ticking like a time bomb in my head. Panic was setting in.

I decided the last throw of the dice should be to present myself at the Migration Police and plead or bribe my way out of the mess. I set off on a tense taxi ride, Time Out in hand and a scheme the A Team would have been proud of to win a visa extension.

Thankfully the scheme paid off, and with only a $80 fine. The process took 3 more hours of Soviet admin but with the help of an angel called Marina finally the officer brought the ubiquitous circular stamp down on my passport and I emerged at 21:00 with the right to leave.

There were a few more blips on the path to seat 25B of the 23:10 Asiana flight to Seoul but I made it and took my place next to the head coach of the Korean Volleyball team for a thankfully interesting and painless flight. Sadly it was also delayed and due to the size of Seoul airport ("Tour de Incheon" would seem to be a rival to Tour de Kaz in length) I missed my connection. Given the chaos of the last 24 hours, I was almost releived.

That relief has been compounded by the discovery of the massage and relaxation facilities for transit passengers. Despite the Tom Hanks element of being trapped in the terminal, I have had a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon. My unscheduled stay has also allowed me to begin the rapid weight gain programme that illness in Almaty had delayed. I have regressed to toddler levels of lying around sleeping only to wake every three hours to feed and gurgle occasionally. Fortunately there are enough of every western fast food joint to keep me occupied in this vein for at least the 24 hours I am here.

Health restored, walking a little less like I am performing a dance routine and burger in hand, the Tour de Kaz therefore goes out, not with a bang, but with a Wimpey. Adieu.

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