27.7 to 28.7.2000 Arrival in Son Kol

Cass writes…

From the outset our journey, it's perhaps Son Kol that's been in our minds the strongest - the driving force when times have been hardest, the desert hottest, our bodies weariest. Set at 3000 metres and wrapped by mountains, this high altitude lake is home to a scattering of 'bosuy' all along it's shores - settlements of shepherds who have come to pitch their yurts, graze their stock and unwind after the hard winter months.

Having first visited last year, it's here that I first sensed the deep- rooted traditions of this country. Invited into a yurt, we rested on a sheepskin blanket, watching horsemen gallop across the plains - their long coats flapping in the wind. Gamely working our way through a sheep' s head banquet, this one night embodied everything what I was hoping to find as I headed out into the world on a bicycle. The fact that I had made it there on my own steam seemed to fit into the surrounding contours of the Kyrgyz' own lifestyle.

So as hard as the climb is that leads us towards the lake from the village of Kortka, we know a little of what awaits. Winding through a series of interlocking valleys, looking up to rocky outcrops, slowly we climb our way up a trail of switchbacks etched into the mountainside. And when we crest the pass, 3200 metres high, even the storms that swirl across the sky, blotting out the light and soaking up the clouds, cannot temper the feeling of having arrived. An old Russian truck pulls over and a gang of bawdy Kyrgyz invite us to kumys, the local speciality of fermented mare's milk. Known as Kyrgyz champagne and loosely described by Marco Polo as tasting like white wine, this particularly pungent home-brew, each as individual as the next, is almost as thick as yoghurt. Served into a generous bowl from a large plastic oil container, gulped down with a huge chunk of bread, it makes an appropriately Kyrgyz reward for our hours of toil, here at the very top of the pass.

Dropping down the other side, it's colder now so we ease to a stop and hike away from the road to pitch our tent on a huge, rolling hill, affording a fantastic view of lake in the distance, reflecting the light like a giant mirror. Three curious kids from a nearby yurt soon run over, oblivious to the biting wind in their makeshift woollens, and help with the tent and the cooking; camping is in their blood. As the shadow of rain draws closer, tinging the sky with brooding black and blue, we hurriedly boil up a few bags of instant noodles and retreat to the cocooned comfort of our sleeping bags, promising to visit them the next morning for breakfast.

Peering out of our own nomadic home at the turbulent sky, I can't help but feel incredibly warm. We've made it, at last. It's not the blue skies of last year; we're seeing another side of this high altitude lake, experiencing just a tiny taste of what the shepherds have to contend with. Sleeping deeply, a storm sets in and by the following morning the land is coated by a layer of snow, the tent crackling with frozen ice. Sure enough, our friendly neighbours bound over to escort us to to their own home, where a feast of fresh apricot jam, thick cream and warm bread are laid out before us, and bottomless cups of tea heated over the kazan - an iron stove. I look around me. The architecture and furnishings are simply mesmerising. Thick shyrdaks - colourful felt carpets - horse bags, perfect lattice walls, decorative hangings and tasseled ropes that adjust the 'tyndyk' - the roof that slides across this multi-layered felt structure like a perfect skylight, letting shafts of light in, smoke out, or protecting from the rain. Like a habitat that has almost evolved with it's surroundings, it seems so perfectly adapted.

As we sit cross legged, the whole family pile in, kalpaks, fur coats, patched up overtrousers, a miniature 2 month baby and all. We tuck in to breakfast; even the baby takes a few gulps of kumys to general applause. No wonder everyone's cheeks are so rosy! Soon, the yurt is filled with smiles and laughter - 3 generations living under one roof. It's a simple life in these summer months; no electricity and the trappings that go with it, a life ruled by day and night. But undoubtedly there's a great harmony within the family. I can't help but wander if families at home would get on this well for months in the confines of the tent - no TV, videos or internet!

Ending breakfast with the incantation 'Omi' - the traditional word said at the close of a meal when hands are placed over the face - we're proffered the largest disk of bread I've seen for our onward journey. Out in the snowstorm, we take photos - kids snugly wrapped in bundles of fur - and promise to return with them next year, which I have every intention of doing. Helping us to pack up as a flurry of snow whirls around us, we load up the limo and wheel her down from our sublime camping spot to the track, bid farewell to our new-found friends, their donkey and their yurt, pushing on once more.

Snowstorm or sunshine, this encounter has reminded me of the incredible draw I first felt when I experienced Kyrgyz jailoo culture. I've no fairytale illusions that it's all idyllic - it's a tough and basic life. But the beauty of the people who live it year by year, and the open allure of their surroundings, have definitely made some kind of connection - as distant as we are in so many ways. For sure, I'll be back.