Fresh air, fresh water, green grass and alpine flowers. Friendly shepherds, spectacular lakes, nightly storms and hot springs. High altitudes and glaciers. And a seemingly inexhaustible supply of delicious chocolate.
Switzerland?
Kyrgyzstan. Pronounced with a hard “g”, as we discovered on our first day.
A little slice of God’s own country (they call him Allah) wedged between China’s imposing Heavenly Mountains and the vast steppes to the north.
Kyrgyzstan declared independence from the USSR in 1991 and has had troubled politics ever since. But its people have a long and proud culture going back to before the establishment of Islam, a strong nomadic tradition as part of the Mongol Empire and a historic legacy as a waypoint on the Silk Road.
Bishkek
Summer 2013: We arrived in the capital in typical fashion: late. Almost missing our flight out of Beijing because I took us to Terminal 3 instead of Terminal 2, we’d have been running down the tarmac to leap onto a moving plane had we cut it any finer. An overnight in Urumqi and a very early start meant we landed at Bishkek’s tiny airport quite early. A USAF tanker was taxi-ing out for a mission over Afghanistan to support combat operations there – a sobre reminder that not everyone in the world gets to enjoy a summer holiday (the citizens of that hapless land, suffering under the Taliban, may not even know what one is). The Russians have an airbase down the road from Bishkek airport, and the Chinese president is visiting as I write. Anyone would think it was the Great Game Redux.
Like an idiot I left my pocket camera on a bus, so the lovely photos I have of Bishkek are gone forever. But we had a wonderful experience there. We visited the home of the Kyrgyz couchsurfers we’d hosted in Beijing a few years back – a lovely fellow now studying in Japan, and his mother. Mirlan, the young guy, had very kindly arranged for his friend Gylnissa to show us round town and act as interpreter when we all had dinner at Mirlan’s mum’s. Gylnissa’s mum made up the five, and what a feast it was. Plov, fresh bread, homemade jams, the most amazing juicy peaches and apricots either of us had ever tasted, a huge fresh watermelon, and seemingly bottomless cups of tea. As we chatted and reminisced about mum’s visit to Beijing, Mirlan skyped us and we passed around the cellphone to talk to him. I had a great shot of him on the little screen, with his mum and Gylnissa smiling either side of the phone. Oh well! It was a great evening following a great tour of the capital, which reminded me very much of Chisinau, Moldova. We met in a quirky Soviet style apartment, spotlessly clean, and the evening sun streamed yellow over the kitchen table as we became friends.
 Lake Son-kul |
 Tash Rabat |
 Western Mongolia |
The next day we took a marshrutka, or collective mini-bus (generally driven by lunatics), to Tamchy on the shore of Lake Issyk-Kol.
Issyk-Kol to Karakol
Some think that St Matthew died here, after what must have been a long journey from Palestine. These days, the lake serves mostly as a cheap holiday destination for Russians and Kazakhs, something of a come-down from its days as a stop-off on the Silk Road from where the Black Death is thought to have made its way to Europe in the mid-1300s (and that’s no joke: a poor Kyrgyz boy died not far from here just after we returned. He’s thought to have caught the bubonic plague from a bite from a flea on a marmot he was preparing for dinner, the first to die of plague here in three decades).
We stayed in the first of many “Community Based Tourism” (CBT) homestay guesthouses. An enormous meal prepared by a welcoming grandmother left us almost unable to walk, it was so filling. But we didn’t linger. Kyrgyzstan might be small but we only had three weeks, and we wanted to hit some big mountains. We moved on to the small city of Karakol, and while we waited for our main trek to be organised, we did a little hike on our own.
Jeti-Ögüz
Yuri Gagarin stayed at an exclusive sanatorium in this little valley after his historic first spaceflight in 1961.
Our most recent aerospace achievement was less glamorous – the best we could say was we managed to actually catch a plane, and then only just – so we only rated a yurt.
Jeti-Ögüz was famous for that and also for these red cliffs, but the best part about it was up the valley and in the higher meadows. After the customary enormous meal at our yurt, we hiked up through the pine forest and onto a wide open meadow.
To the west we could see the huge expanse of Lake Issyk-Kol; to the east, the higher peaks where our trek would shortly take us. By night, there was some rain, but the morning dawned as clear and blue as it could. We were already feeling very happy.
Yurts turn out to be rather comfortable places. We had a bit of rain and wind that first night but didn’t notice it a bit. Nor did we feel the cold under the huge pile of blankets.
Trekking in the Mountains above Karakol
The next day after returning from Jeti-Ögüz, we teamed up with a veritable expedition of support crew. Our simple trek involved a guide, a cook, and two porters. All of them were young kids, the oldest about 23 and the youngest still in his teens. It seemed like overkill, but we weren’t too fussed, and it was a locally run outfit so our money and the jobs it created went directly to the local community. We carried our own gear, bar the tent, so in the end the porters were mostly there to carry each others’ food.
Climbing up the first valley through fir trees and beside a gushing river, we ran into a few horsemen and some loggers with the most amazing ex-Soviet truck – that thing could drive up steep, rocky hills as though it were a mountain goat. The guys driving it pulled over to replenish the radiator and our porters and cook (who was already struggling) hitched a ride. Stubborn mountain goat that I am, I insisted on walking, and with my pack.
Wild Horses at Camp One
Camp One was glorious, possibly one of the most perfect campsites we’d ever had up to then. At over 3,000m altitude, it lay in a flat valley beside a beautiful clear alpine stream which swept around to a tall, snow-covered peak that literally shone in the evening light. A herd of horses, fit, strong specimens, grazed a little away and alpine cows roamed back and forth.
I walked towards the horses to catch a photo of them grazing. A big black one, apparently the alpha male, didn’t like that one bit. He saw me, and started running towards me. He wasn’t charging, but it was obvious he meant business. Not wanting to run (I read somewhere you’re not meant to do that, but was it if chased by a horse, a dog, a hippo? Who knew?), I backed off as swiftly as I could. Yon had seen the whole episode and we stood together watching from a distance.
That night, a few cows did their best to raid our dinner. Between us we spent a lot of time shooing them off gently. Later, once we were inside our tents, the horses ran back and forth up the valley. The noise was impressive – they were very close to our camp – the thunder of hooves worthy of the soundtrack to The Man from Snowy River; the whinnying and snorting mixing with the occasional moo from the cows. A thunderstorm topped it off, for a very auditory night.
Drinking Horse Milk with the Herder’s Wife
A river crossing and some steep climbing brought us over two passes to the next major valley. There was some glorious high mountain scenery, including views of lakes and glaciers. The sun tried its best, but we had rain and cold wind for some of the day as well. Classic changing mountain weather.
On the way down the valley opposite the glacier, we heard yelling and saw waving from a small yurt camp nearby. Our guide said “Let’s go drink some tea with them”. When we arrived, a very jolly man – the head of the family – welcomed us as we all exchanged greetings. We took off our boots and went inside the tent, where a small iron stove sat in front of a low platform where we sat down. A vast pile of bread lay on the table. Through the guide, we exchanged small talk. The man left us to his wife, so she explained that they worked there through the summer, looking after other villagers’ horses and cows, about a hundred head. Never lost one yet! She had two boys, whose names meant “Strong” and “Intelligent”. They were shy but friendly.
Kyrgyz people are famous for their hospitality, especially up in the mountains, and we were certainly experiencing that now. But they are particularly renowned for their love of kumis, a traditional, slightly alcoholic drink made from fermented horse milk. And when I say “made from”, I really mean “which is”. It’s literally just horse milk left to curdle.
A couple of older people from Germany were trekking along our route, a bit behind us. They arrived at the shepherd camp just as we were offered a cup of kumis. “Oh no, I have tried this”, the man said. “I will not drink that again”. Neither would his wife. So it was up to Yon and I to respond appropriately to the welcoming gesture. I ribbed the Germans about this, but they didn’t pick it up, and just sat there helping themselves to the bread and delicious fresh cream and contributing approximately nothing to the cultural exchange.
I sipped the kumis. It has a powerful smell, not unlike very strong natural yoghurt, but not as bad as sour milk (which is actually what it is). It certainly didn’t make me recoil, but my brain sent strong signals to the effect that “this is not for human consumption”. Because I struggled, the whole trip, with the fear of offending by refusing offers of food and drink, I resolved to drink as much as I could. With each sip, the initial sensory impact was just as powerful. But half way through, even as I felt I couldn’t drink another drop, I could start to understand how one could acquire a taste for kumis. Slightly alcoholic, it leaves a bit of a buzz alongside its “distinctive aftertaste”. Still, two thirds through, I conceded defeat. I’d done better than the Germans, and Yon and I had maintained a conversation with the lady, through our guide, at the same time. It was a good experience.
The jolly father offered to show us the milking of the mare, so, in the beginnings of a rainstorm, we huddled around as the wife and her son got to work. The father pulled a foal to the mare, and as soon as it started suckling, he wrenched it away (to its evident dismay) and the mother quickly started milking the mare. The son held the mare still. Before long, mother showed us a wooden pail full of fresh mare’s milk, steaming in the cold air.
Camp Two was simply stunning – probably the most perfect place we have ever camped. Green grass, a bubbling alpine stream running right past our tent, and a glorious view.
From beautiful camp two we climbed steeply over a double pass to reach the next valley and the small settlement at Altynarasan.
Lake Ala-kol
Lake Ala-kol is one the jewels of Kyrgyzstan’s mountains. Not to be confused with Kazakhstan’s similarly named salt lake, this one is a 2km x 0.7km glacial lake at about 3,500 m above sea level. It is famous for its stunning blue water and, less so, for being a bit tricky to reach.
A steep slope of unstable scree covered in drifts of snow made this a very difficult ascent. Not a big fan of such terrain, Yon elected not to join me, so I went up behind our guide. I soon decided I preferred my own judgement (honed by many rough ascents near the Great Wall) and struck out on my own. It was tough – at any moment it felt like a small landslide could start, and even decent sized rocks couldn’t bear any weight without starting to slip. Crunching diagonally across a 35 degree pitch of snow covered scree was just about at the edge of my comfort zone. It was not something I wanted to do again any time soon.
The lake was certainly spectacular. A vibrant blue, it sat there in a valley of red rock and grey cliffs, a sapphire in a setting of rose gold and titanium. Beautiful beyond question. I stood for a while on an outcrop further up from the pass, and took in all the 5,000+ m peaks and the big glacier. A breeze blew cool across the lake and drowned out the babble of the large party below.
And then it was time to return to camp. There was a large party of young Brits, late teens or early 20s, who’d climbed up the path from the lake. It wasn’t as steep as the route we’d used, which we were all about to go down. As the Brits’ leader made a big show of preparing a rope for them to lower themselves down on, one by one, their porters slung enormous packs and simply ran down in torn sneakers.
It was a steep pitch, with about 3 or 4 feet of snow covering it. One or two of the porters threw their packs down, creating a small avalanche of equipment and causing a bit of concern for the party working their way uphill. My guide took a few steps and threw himself down the slope, tobogganing on his butt with a banshee scream that even shocked the porters. As all this went on, I watched the first Brit clumsily reversing down to our left, one very slow step at a time. A guy in their party – the awkward one (there’s always an awkward one) – kept calling out in a loud voice with its own echo: “See you on the other si-i-i-i-de!”.
The porters had got to the bottom one way or the other and it was my window of opportunity. I leapt out onto the drift and took big moon-landing steps into the prints of the porter I thought made the smartest descent. It was pretty straightforward as long as you didn’t topple forwards, and in about three or four minutes I was back at the sandy lower slope. The first Brit was still labouring down that rope, less than a third of the way down. There were 15 to 20 of those kids milling around on the top. I looked back up and thought “See you on the other si-i-i-i-i-de”. The lower slopes were fine if you kept up a rhythm, like on a sand dune. I found Yon, but not before we’d eaten her lunch because the two dudes we had as porters told me she’d eaten hers (she hadn’t).
Before long, we were back at the mountain cabin, which had some primitive, Soviet-style hot spring bath houses. Beside the river, they were made of crude concrete but had a real rustic charm. We soaked off four days of sweat and trekking, soothing our calves and backs. The next day we hiked out the last stretch of the valley, back to Karakol. It was a great trek, one of the best we’ve done.
In summary: Feel the need for some mountain trekking? Forget Switzerland. Go to Kyrgyzstan.
They even have edelweiss.
Back at Karakol we ate as though we hadn’t been on a very well catered trek. And why not? At Kalinka, we had goulash, stroganoff, pelmeni, and Baltika 7.
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*I thoroughly deserve this enormous beer.
