22.7.2001 One of those days... Storms in Kazarman

Cass writes…

Pushing on, the road from Jalal-Abad crumbles into rock and gravel, interspersed with the odd hundred metres of taunting asphalt. The tandem steers surprisingly well over this cratered surface - but really this is riding country. An old man in his well-worn kalpak, astride a hardy horse and with a leather binocular case slung over his shoulder, gently eases by on angular climbs, heading back to the pastures or who knows where.

Climbing, dipping, twisting, turning, we ride above a frothy river, gushing at the bottom of a corridor valley of grassy hillsides and thick alpine forests. The surrounding scenery more than makes up for the pounding we receive on the saddles. Picnic spots are perfect; quiet clearings linked by steep trails to the waterside, grass mown smooth by long haired goats, trees with shade and springs for water. Ascending steadily, the occasional yurt lies tucked in valley folds - mushroom shaped transportable homes, built from felt and sheep fat, perfect abodes for the summer months. Amongst almond trees and drying tobacco leaves, we notice tiny settlements, perched on rocky outcrops, where fraying UNHCR tents are pitched - United Nations Refugees - perhaps passed on from nearby Tajiskistan. Their dirt brown clearings, worn flat by trampling cows, are lively with scruffy kids, frantically waving to hail us down.

Eventually, the valley opens out into a large, dried river bed, a wide bowl of rocks and polished stones. Horsemen gallop from one end to the next, dust and wild cried in their wake. We've stumbled upon a game of ' o-luk', the Kyrgyz version of polo where puck is replaced by a gruesome severed calf. Clutched under the arm of the lead rider, we watch the carcass flapping limply this way and that as he gallops, trailed by a posse of cowboys swiping, sweeping and stooping athletically, grabbing roughly for the meat. We look on in awe and fascination at this crazed stampede, storming by right beside us, dust and horse sweat mingling in the air.

For such a remote location, our luck is really in. A young Kyrgyz girl on a majestic steed trots over - an English student, studying in the capital Bishkek - and explains the rules, in as much as they stand. Soon, a dozen kids converge, on donkeys and motley horses, dishevelled and smiley, eager to pose for photos and sporting an assortment of miniature kalpaks and baseball caps. Today's riders number 30, and the prize is 30 som - around 70 cents. The match is held once or twice a year; other more prestigious games attract some 60 riders and prizes can reach a dollar or two. In any case, we feel lucky to have witnessed this local melee, here in its mountainscape element.

Tempted to stay, a long climb awaits and after a test ride on the tandem with a local - in return, he offers to tow us to the peak on his Ural - we forge on, beginning a series of switchbacks, zigzaging from one side of the mountain to the next, looping ever higher. The climb is steep and the altimetre on my watch precis' our ascent. It's not long before we're overlooking the valley, the mountains around more rugged now, the polo players just tiny dots marked by wisps of dust. From eight hundred metres, we've already made it to 1500 metres, now 2000 metres, then 2500 metres. The climb goes on, the track forever turning to reveal another bend - just one more it seems - until we see a line of rusty pylons, standing like skeletal sentinels, pointing us further still towards a distant peak.

We stop and pitch camp on a lip below the road, rustling up a delicious bowl of pasta, garlic and sundried tomatoes - a dollar meal with a hundred dollar view. The ground is rocky so we make do with stones in lieu of tent pegs, adequate until a storm sets in, flapping the fly sheet maniacally like a sail, throwing down a torrent of rain. By morning, munching gloomily on left over pasta and bread, the trail is engulfed by mist, shrouding our last few kilometres of ascent into murkiness. We reach the pass, some 3100 metres high, marked by a giant cross - like a filmset graveyard - and a huge slab of ice, perfect props for an eery but triumphant photo.

There's little time to rest and enjoy the celebratory square of fudge we've saved. Standing still brings out the cold whilst overhead clouds are darkening and lighting flickers across the sky, uncomfortably close. A mountain pass is no place to linger when there's an impending storm on the horizon, so we clamber back on board, layered with thermals, waterproofs and half a dozen gloves between us. Fording rivers of gushing brown water, running at times along the entire width of the trail, we plummet down the other side of the range. Brief breaks in the clouds offer glimpses of the sheer drops that leave us giddy, until the rain, hail and even snow sets in and mask the landscape into oblivion. It's cold. Really cold. Climbing in a storm is tolerable, even enjoyable, when the blood is pumping and the feet are spinning. But a twenty kilometre descent in these extreme conditions leaves my fingers clawing numbly at the brakes and my feet like ice blocks. Despite the extra drag brake designed for the tandem, our standard V brakes are soon worn to the metal, so I pull over to change them for a new set. Miserably we stand there in the rain, my swollen fingers groping at the tools in slow motion. We're both shivering uncontrollably, teeth rattling away. 'I think I'm going to black out', pipes up Rosal, and promptly faints in my arms for a few seconds as I rush over to catch her, worrying me no end.

Hurriedly, as Rosal comes too, we finish work on the bike and push on, in the hope of some respite at lower altitudes. Eventually, the switch backs ease out into a lush new valley and as the clouds break, a few beams of sun tentatively permeate through. The road's no better though and by the time we arrive in Kazarman, we're caked in mud and exhausted, after a nine hour day. Honing in on the town's poxy bazaar with hungry eyes, we dine in a restaurant set in a railway carriage - steamed manti, dumplings packed with potato and chives, gallons of green tea and rounds of bread are gulped down speedily. The owner invites us to his home, so we walk through town to general stares - we must look quite a sight, let alone the tandem - and dry off in his house. Introduced to a small legion of kids, who see to our every need - fetching towels, soap and clean water - we admire his cow, take a visit to the pit loo and bed down gratefully in the living room. Snug under layers of thick blankets, I feel the tension in my muscles ease away.

It's certainly has been one of those days...