Wandering and wondering

Kyrgyzstan

Arriving at Bishkek airport was a bit of a pain, mainly because we let ourselves get into a bargaining session with local taxi drivers. One said he was willing to match the Yandex price. We were shown to a car with another driver so it seemed that the guy we had been talking to was just a tout. We had packed our things in the back but there was no sign of it moving. Then we were asked for the whole fare in advance. I went through with the standard terms and conditions with the tout that taxi drivers were paid at the end of the ride when they actually delivered. He then asked for half the fare to “cover parking”. At this point we abandoned this and summoned up a Yandex ride with no hassles. It was a fair distance from the centre.

Bishkek was pleasant enough. Bustling and lively in the evening compared with some more sedate cities in Uzbekistan. We had a spacious apartment booked but was very Soviet era in it’s fittings and content with vicious overhead lighting that never made it a particularly good space to relax. We ventured out to a Georgian restaurant that had quite a good reputation. The traffic out there was nightmarishly slow. On the way back we gave up trying to get a cab and walked. I wasn’t in the greatest form for this as my stomach had not been very happy the last few days. We both had cold symptoms of sorts so it wasn’t the greatest time to relax and enjoy.

Max was intent on doing a three day horse trek up to Lake Song-Kul which is an alpine lake renowned for its scenic beauty in the middle of the country. I was reticent but it was clear he wasn’t going to do it without me so I wasn’t going to play the role of spoilsport on that one. The first day we got up early in Bishkek and went to the bus station to try and find the best way to get there. There was some confusion as to what bus went there and how we would get on it. In the end Max was able to get more precise information from the tour guide and we were on the madrushka and on our way. We were running late for the start but Max managed again to get in touch and the guide said he wouldn’t leave without us. Madrushkas are shared minibuses that ply certain routes. They don’t really have a timetable but wait until they are full before they set off. We were waiting a long time before we got the last seat filled.  It must be said the driver was a bit of a prick and was quite rude and arrogant and couldn’t care less about his passengers. It took us nearly five hours to go a fairly moderate distance to the village of Kyzart where the tour was due to start. This time the road wasn’t bad, in fact it was in good repair but every time we appeared to be on track, something would happen. There was a stoppage at one point because workers were up in the hills loosening rocks – I don’t know why – and there was some danger that these might fall onto passing traffic. When we did get past that obstacle the driver decided that two and a half hours on the road was long enough so we would stop for a lunch break. Annoying. Any attempt to get any information about where the madrushka would stop was met with bluster and disregard. We were eventually dropped off some distance outside the village and I was contemplating a long walk but we had managed to let the guide know we were there and he came and got us. We apologised profusely to the other four people on the trek but they seemed happy we had finally got there. There was time for a very carb-heavy lunch of loads of potatoes in a thin broth before we proceeded to get everyone set on their horses. This was the diet we would live off for the next three days. It was hardly an ideal start with an anxiety ridden ride to the village and we were faced with at least four hours in the saddle before the first camp.

The guides all deferred to me as the old man of the team. They brought out the largest things for me as I was “so big”. Although I am not small, the other two males in the group were both over 190cm and one of them I knew had a head the size of a small planet. I needed to be pushed over the horse the first time as my badly smashed left knee did not at that stage have the requisite pushing power. The women in the group all had varying degrees of horse-riding experience, all the males had very little, if any. My experience amounted to a very sedate ride in France on my honeymoon some thirty years previously. My horse clearly hated me from the outset. But I had expected this. The poor thing was lumbered with 100kg and snorted and huffed his disapproval. I felt sorry for him and tried to give him comforting pats and encouragement. It didn’t change his attitude the whole time. These horses were relatively small but I guess they were used to this.  Still, they clearly had a hard life and I wondered if I had backed up on my resolve to do nothing in my travels that involved cruelty to animals. I’m still not sure where I stood with this. I’ll never visit sea world style parks as I have learnt how distressed the animals are and I would think carefully about visiting any animal related places. Max’s horse seemed to tolerate his similar weight a bit differently but constantly farted as it trotted. This caused much hilarity but we all tried to avoid being stuck behind it as we rode.

The first hours were certainly hard and every bit of me ached. We rode to a yurt camp and spent the first night there. I did a lot of stretching exercises which seemed to pay off the next day as I wasn’t as stiff as I would have thought. Everyone else was sore however so I had stood up to it reasonably well. All my travel companions were in their twenties so I was definitely by far the old man of the group. Tough as they were, the Kygyz guides were gentle souls in their own way. They turned out to be fun companions in nightly card games as we huddled in the yurt as the wind howled outside. They continued to treat me with a deference that we don’t see in our society. I was always served first at dinner and accorded some respect for actually being there. They playfully wrestled with the others on their horses but left me in peaceful dignity.

The second day was the hardest. It was a tough climb to the lake which meant going up to over 3,500m before ascending the lake itself at 3,000m. The wind was bitingly cold and we were lashed by snow. When we reached the lake, the weather was still grey and hostile. But it was a beautiful scene. I almost had to be crowbarred off my horse as I had stiffened up so much in the ride. It took a bit of walking around to get the circulation back in my feet. Luckily, I had enough layers to keep out the cold by my gloves were inadequate for the task. Max’s equipment was really lacking but he at least got one of our friendly companions to lend him a ski mask.

The following morning the weather had cleared and the lake was spectacular in the sunshine. It was still bloody cold. The snow-capped mountains in the distance behind it were quite mesmerising. I had had a rough night. The heating system in the yurt was loaded up with wood so it was as hot as a furnace. This idea being that it would cool down in the night. My throat ached and I was dehydrated to a point where water just didn’t seem to work. I had to get up and pee about four times which is no fun when six of you are sleeping in a tight row in one yurt.  I also had to avoid the red hot stove at the foot of my bed.

On the last day again my stretching exercise regime had paid off a bit as I actually felt reasonably ok and not full of aches. I was starting to feel more at home in the saddle when I remounted but my horse’s hatred now included a large helping of disrespect. When I got on, he marched off in the opposite direction to everyone else. No amount of ordering him with the standard Kyrgyz commands of Chu! to go forward and Drrrr! to stop, worked at all. It took the guides to get him going. He seethed with palpable resentment and loathing.

The next bit was hard. There wasn’t so much of a climb but a steep descent. Some of the track was at a 45 degree slope and the horses slipped in the snow, ice and mud on the ground. That was the scariest part of the whole trip but luckily was relatively short and we went back to gentle rolling countryside. The grassy hills and mountain backdrop reminded me a lot of the South Island of New Zealand. Breathtaking scenery in both places.

While I had felt more comfortable in the saddle, I became aware of a graze on my backside that would take some time to go away. The quite gentle rubbing against the saddle began to take its toll. We sighted the village of Kyzart in the distance but it seemed to move ahead of us constantly and it was with relief as we rode through the streets towards the house we had set out from. At our final lunch together one of the guides who didn’t speak English, clutched my hand bro style and simply said “Brett!” while staring into my eyes. I’d like to think this was some sign of respect for someone a week out from their 67^th birthday had taken this trek on. One of the Frenchwomen insisted a I posed in a group in a photo as I was “iconic”.  Although it was a modest achievement, I was so pleased to have done it and felt a twang of pride.

We managed to get back to the nearby town of Kochkor where we had long hot showers and spent a comfortable night. It was a small town and finding an open restaurant took some walking. The following day we caught a taxi to the town of Balychky where buses left for Karakol in the east of the country. The taxi driver drove the way everyone does in these parts with his foot flat to the floor and only part of the time on the right hand side of the road. This guy was intent on telling us about a wolf he had shot that had attacked sheep. While we were used to people driving with a mobile phone in one hand as is customary, this guy went looking for his Facebook album that had the wolf pictures. That was a bit unsettling when done at 120kmh and road full of drivers desperate to get everywhere as fast as possible.

At Balychky we were very lucky to get on a madrushka that was close to full and ready to go. We had marvelled at how good the roads had been so far in Kyrgyzstan but 50km further east we were brought back to reality as these disappeared for good. That made for a very bumpy and slow ride but we were rewarded by the lovely autumnal colours of the trees as we travelled along the north shore of the huge Lake Issyk Kul. Again, it was hard not to be reminded of the South Island with its similar scenery with its autumnal splendour. It was a welcome distraction from the stuffy and uncomfortable ride. By the time we reached Karakol we were pretty tired. The town was probably better known as a jumping off point to alpine hikes but we were here more just to have a look and to cross the border to Kazakhstan. It was a pleasant town with a vibe reminiscent of the Himalayas in India or Nepal. Some of the houses were built in an interesting style and there was a beautiful old wooden church that stood near the centre that was wonderfully photogenic.

We had arranged for someone to take us across the border. This had been something that I thought might have been a challenge but in the end, this joined the list of straightforward processes on this journey. Even if we hadn’t arranged for our driver, it wouldn’t have been too hard. It was easy to take a taxi to the border and there was a taxi on the other side touting for rides to the nearby town of Kegen. Much of the road was terrible but had its scenic parts. The border was the usual walk in a quite short no man’s land but the guards were quite friendly despite the obligatory passport snatcher and checker on both sides.

Kazakhstan

We had scaled back any ambitions to go to the scenic lakes at Kolsay. Our driver in Kyrgyzstan had poured cold water on this originally as he said conditions would make it risky. As it was there was a relatively warm autumn so it would have been possible but fatigue was taking over a bit. In retrospect it would have been a worthwhile diversion but we took the simpler and cheaper option of going through to Almaty in one day with a couple of hours spent at the spectacular Charyn Canyon on the way.

The driver on the Kazakh side was taciturn and silent. Our feeble attempts at communication in Russian were not really welcomed. We stopped at a roadside gas station and I was trying to get cash to pay for the accommodation in Almaty. Not much luck there. We bought a few sweets for the trip there where the embattled woman behind the cash register dealt smilingly with a line of grumpy, complaining people. She smiled and said “Welcome to Kazakhstan!” in English to us. I admired her calm and lovely spirit.

Again, I had gone for a private apartment in Almaty. It was the usual shemozzle trying to find it and get in. It was with great relief that we finally did. We were a bit flattened by tiredness at this end of the trip. The apartment, despite being in a common ratty Soviet era block, had modern fittings and a lot of space albeit with an eccentric design. It had an armoured front door that would have taken a team of commandos and explosive experts to break in.

Almaty itself was modern and had a nice vibe to it. We went to one of the restaurants – Sandyq – that Max’s Russian tutor (an Almaty native) had recommended. It was somewhat more flash and pricier than I had expected but at around US$40 a head was hardly pricey by Australian standards. The service and the food were excellent. Traditional Kazakh fare of horsemeat beautifully cooked and followed by a fancy dessert.

Central Asia generally does pretty well on desserts which was a great boon to a dedicated sweet tooth like me. We spent a bit on dining out in Almaty which had a lot to offer. This was a break from the samey food in the other Stans. It will be a long time before I have another kebab and despite all the local hype, plov will never be a culinary treat. Breakfast next day at the Jumping Goat Cafe brought home what it was like to have a decent cup of coffee for the first time in a month.

On the morning of my birthday the grey skies cleared and I could see the mountains behind the city from my bedroom window. I had a lovely birthday lunch at the Auyl restaurant in the hills outside the city. The snow hung in the trees to give it a Christmas feel. The food and service were at a high standard. They can do these things well in Kazakhstan and the modern takes on their traditional cuisine are outstanding. Almaty is a very nice city that probably would never have been on my travel list and wouldn’t enter the consciousness of most tourists who couldn’t conceive of any country ending in “stan” to be sleek and modern.

And so that’s where it ended. A sleepless flight to Kuala Lupur where we foolishly squandered good sleep time at an airport hotel to venture into the city. Not to disparage the place but it should have been seen in more detail another time. By 11 that night we were on another plane back to Sydney. Malaysian Airlines aren’t quite the carrier they once were with their rather tired aircraft. We arrived in Sydney feeling sticky and drained. We were picked up Max’s flatmate who dropped me at Central Station. He went straight back to the party circuit; I had a rather more demanding trip to the Central Coast as they had decided to do trackwork and put us on buses. Nonetheless it didn’t really bother me. The whole trip had been great and seemed far longer than a month.