l28.7.2001 - Burst tyres and muddy trails

Cass writes…

There's little to see as we ride our way around the Son Kol's muddy trail. Blizzard like conditions throw yurts into muffled silhouette; wild horses appear and disappear out of this thick, stinging mist. Occasionally we catch glimpses of craggy mountains heavy with snow, then it's just us and the few metres of road ahead. Ladas amble by, stopping regularly for engine tinkering, crammed with Kyrgyz kalpaks, tomatoes and children - is there nowhere these machines won't go? - and small fleets of tourist Niva jeeps bounce by, faces pressed to steamy windows.

With a loud bang, disrupting the silence and our thoughts, the rear tyre bursts - like an angry statement after hundreds of kilometres of relentless bumps. Pitching our tent for protection, we replace it with our spare - a treadless slick - then cook up some food, de-thawing our fingers and toes. A smart ex-pat Landcruiser thunders by, a lady waving encouragingly from the heated cabin. 'Thanks for stopping! I yell after it, my humour abandoning me. Reluctantly, I agree we must make quite a sight. I've adopted my Kyrgyz guise to keep warm - the top hat-like kalpak, it's felt insulation ideal for the surroundings - and Rosal's donned every layer to hand, a bundle of fleece and goretex.

Retracing the trail we rode last year, we skirt round the lake to it's northern shore. Our quest: to track down the Osmons, a family we stayed as part of the Shepherd's Life 'grass roots' tourism program. By now, our path is a succession of bogs which we wobble through. Up ahead, two jeeps of Finnish fishermen pull over, chat and offer us apricots. They' re in our good books.

But as we press on, we find last year's encampment disappointedly yurtless. Often these pastoral families return like migrating birds to the same location, pitching their summer retreat. But the Osmon's have moved. Looking out towards the open plains and steppe, their forwarding address is offered by a few conflicting conversations with locals. Just down the road!' one donkey rider insists, '60 kilometres away!' contradicts another. 'Bang!' another tyre bursts, our front, hastily patched up in Kortka. We're down to two slicks, slipping and sliding our way onwards, fording small rivers, a breathtaking sunset our backdrop.

But things are looking up as we soon hone in on their new location. A friendly horseman points towards a yurt on the horizon, nodding gamely to our meek and hopeful question - 'Osmon?!' It's doesn't seem to far - a kilometre or two - so we opt to break away from this looping, muddy trail and cut straight across the plain. It's a tactical mistake. As our tyres crack through layers of crusty ice, by half way through we're crossing what is more like a freezing Dartmour marsh, coated with snow and mogul-like mounds that we haul the limo over, one by one. Arguing, angry, exhausted, it's dark now and the yurt looks just as far away... not the triumphant return we had hoped for!

Our bitter curses are cut short as we do finally draw closer, until there we are, standing right beside it. Perfectly adapted, it looks magnificent silhouetted magnificently against a dark and brooding sky - a heavenly enclave of warmth and hospitality to our weary eyes. And sure enough, as soon as we haul back the heavy felt flap and peek inside, it's all worthwhile. Shrugging off our water logged clothes, we collapse onto thick shyrdaks and sheep skin rugs, gratefully slurping the hot tea that's offered. Pulling out our photos from last year, the moment we've long awaited, contentedly we watch the family happily pour over them. Everyone seems more than happy, especially grandpa. An ancient Tajik in riding breeches with tiny, pin size eyes and a rather splendid marine blue kalpak - fishing net repairer extraordinaire - he peers intently at his portrait in the half light. A radiant smile creeps over his cracked face and he offers me a spirited handshake, muttering away in Kyrgyz, before delightedly showing it off to the others.

Warming up on a bowl of noodles, we bed down in the yurt with the family. Like a sleepover, blankets, cover and pillows are everywhere. As we all curl up and say our goodnights, a wonderful feeling of inner warmth seeps through my body. On an journey that has been all about arriving, it's a wonderful feeling to have returned.