From coast to coast

Four and half months and we've made it to the edge of the Pacific. Standing on Shanghai's Bund a couple of nights ago, the stone buildings of the old foreign concession behind us, the bustling river and neon-lit skyscrapers ahead, we at once felt close to London and a million miles away.

Much of our route through China has been decided for us. In the far west and the Tibetan areas it was impossible to go anywhere but the major towns without an expensive escort; no one would sell us a bus ticket and foreigners are not allowed to hire cars. Sichuan is also partially closed because of the earthquake.

But as with the rest of the trip our best experiences have often been in places where we had few expectations. Urumqi is a bland modern city but wandering the main park watching local people move between spontaneously formed choirs, waltz beneath small pagodas or play chess we noticed more and more had stopped to look up at the sun. We'd been told we wouldn't be able to see anything of the solar eclipse so far east but half an hour later we were in dusk surrounded by people holding up an odd array of used photographic films and X-ray plates.

Later we went for dinner at the huge night market. At ten to six there was nothing there. Five minutes later the police waved forward the hundred or more wheeled carts thronged in a cloud of charcoal at the end of the street and by seven there were rows of brightly lit stands prepared to grill anything that once moved, plastic chairs lining the pavement and armies of beer vendors. Tom tried the small strips of rubbery sheep's oesophagus but we both drew the line at still wriggling insect larvae.

Further west in Xi'an and Beijing normal service was resumed and we joined throngs of Chinese tourists at the government's clearly delineated range of sites. Most were none the worse for their touristification but it's odd to climb a mountain without once leaving a paved staircases and to find hordes of hand-bag wielding tourists at the top disgorged from not one but three cable cars. Even the tranquil waterfalls and bamboo forests where they filmed parts of crounching tiger, hidden dragon were not immune. Boring stretches of the path were equipped with little fairy-light covered pavillions and the final waterfall was acessorised by a string of unicycle and motorbike riding trapeze artists.

Olympic-crazy Beijing was especially busy but we loved it nonetheless from the swanky peking duck restaurant to the murky old alleyways and the misty grandeur of the summer palace to the bustling counterfeit clothing market. There's something a little disallusioning about seeing olympians bartering for fake gucci watches but the main olympic park which we managed to sneak into for the first day of the athletics was much more impressive than I'd expected. Finally there was dinner with mysterious "frances the diplomat" at the beautiful old courtyard house of his "entrepreneur" friend. The entrepreneur spent much of the time painting calligraphy onto huge scrolls while Frances held court at a table with an automatically revolving central section and a range of "big" and "medium-sized" bosses none of whom ever let on what business they worked in. I put a fair amount of my energy to avoiding the deep-fried chick carcasses revolving past in a nest of fried noodles.

We were only given a 30-day visa so have decided to extend the overlanding further west. Final destination: Tokyo.

Chatyr-Kol

Tom testing a traditional Kyrgyz hat (yes they really do wear them...)

Over the mountains to China

The end of the Soviet Union! No more Ladas piled with furniture, crumbling Soviet concrete or forlorn statues of Lenin. Instead we've stepped forward in time to huge supermarkets with automated lockers, solar-powered mobile phone masts and spookily silent electric mopeds. There's still the odd yurt, but it's likely to be made of concrete.

Uzbekistan might have the key silk road cities but the last couple of weeks have been better for conjuring up camel caravans of the mind. Osh bazaar in the southwest of Kyrgyzstan is said to be "older than Rome" and seems completely out of proportion with the size of the town. Among the mass of stalls we found the fatty bottoms of the local sheep hanging opaque and rubbery like actors' prosthetics and jars full of wriggling leeches.

A few days later we were in a taxi winding deep into the mountains along a secretive valley to Tash Rabat, a 15th century caravanserai. The equivalent of an old coaching inn in England but built around a big domed roof, it's still surrounded by horses and yurts, as well as the occasional party of picnicking Kyrgyz. After a night in a palatial yurt with glowing stove we stomped our way up and over the pass, close to 4000m, to Chatyr-Kol, a long icy lake where the shepherds' children used up our camera batteries photographing themselves and their donkey and I helped milk a yak.

The next morning while we were eating (a very dairy-based) breakfast it started to snow. The traders of the past would have trekked round to the mountain passes on the other side of the lake but border politics meant we had to hike back and get a car. It was probably for the best; it's 70km from the border to the official Chinese immigration post at the foot of the hills and we ended up waiting for hours while men in masks searched every inch of Tom's bag.

The Uighurs who live in this part of China are muslim like other central Asians and their traditional lifestyle is pretty similar with mud-walled houses, old men with wispy white beards and funny hats, countless mutton kebabs and bustling bazaars. Nonetheless the march of modern China seems pretty relentless and much of Kashgar's "old town" is a living museum with ticket offices and explanatory signs.

We've spent our time resting aching muscles and meandering the streets. I've also got a new and possibly mis-judged Chinese hair cut. Don't think they were very used to wavy hair (see photo on Tom's page).

Visa joys

Somehow, much to our surprise, we've managed to get Chinese visas. In fact, they were so easy to arrange from Tashkent that it felt like a bit of an anti-climax.

We felt rather less smug when we got back to the Kyrgyz border yesterday and discovered our visas for here were not multiple entry ones as we'd though, leaving us stuck in no-mans land. Luckily the Kyrgyz border guards are pretty accomodating and sent out a consulate from the next town to fit us out with brand new visas for a small 'emergency fee'/bribe.

Ala-Kol lake

Tom in front of a glacier

A very small yurt-dweller

In which our brave(ish) heros head for the hills and face some difficult decisions

Feeling rather sore today after realising I've spent nine of the past ten days walking. Kyrgyzstan is a hiker's paradise, crammed with unfeasibly scenic hills and mountains and with guides for hire for less than a tenner. Its tourism industry is apparently growing fast but we've seen no more than a couple of foreigners a day and they're still outnumbered by the old men in tall felt hats and left-over statues of Lenin.

We spent the first four days in the mountains in the east of the country where turquoise lakes lurk among the peaks and there's barely enough oxygen for the groundhogs let along two panting 'angliski's. Luckily we'd taken the precaution of hiring a porter so were slightly surprised when he didn't offer to carry any of our stuff. All became clear on the first evening when a full Kyrgyz meal appeared complete with paper napkins, ketchup and a jar of nutella.

The walk ended at some hot springs where we soaked away some of the aches before jumping on a bus to the jailoos (high meadows) in the centre of the country where families of shepherds still spend the summer. Unfortunately a vital part of the minibus fell off along the way leaving petrol gushing from its innards. The driver eventually plugged the hole with a piece of cloth and replaced some of the lost fuel (chain-smoking all the while) and Tom became part of the push-start crew, expected to leap out and push the bus after every stop.

The hills were just as stunning as the mountain, mile upon mile of rolling green velvet interrupted only by groups of yurts, the odd patch of edelweiss and some lakes. We spent the first night camping (lighting a dung fire to liven up the evening) and then walked from yurt to yurt. The only hazard was the fermented mare's milk forced on us at every stage but I think I'm acquiring a taste for it. It's sour and slightly fizzy with a smoky aftertaste which comes from the barrels it's made in but somehow not as bad as that description would suggest.

We're now back in the capital, Bishkek, missing the hills and trying to decide whether it's worth making a final attempt at the elusive Chinese visas or cutting our losses and flying to Malaysia instead. Both options require an Uzbek visa so we'll be at their embassy tomorrow clutching letters of introduction and a pet translator. Fingers crossed...