Amongst Glaciers, Yak and Yurts: Cycling Kyrgyzstan

Rosal writes…

It was skirting Tajikistan by a mere 3 kilometres that made me realize how fragile Central Asia can be. Well, of course, I knew it was no picnic, but this was really something else.

Around us, soldiers reminiscent of Khmer Rouge guerrilla fighters, were everywhere - running around like some B-grade boot camp movie scene. Some had assembled around our tandem, one soldier nonchalantly eating an ice-cream in one hand, with a Kalashnikov in the other. A few more were peering closely at brakes, gears, cassette and drive-train with bazookas casually slung across a shoulder and a breastful of grenades.

Recently there have been annual 'summer' insurgencies from Tajikistan across into Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan. In fact, our next destination, Osh, was witness to over 300 deaths due to fighting between the Uzbek and Kyrgyz peoples in 1991. However, after a lot of effort to reconcile the two ethnic groups, the troubles seem to be stemmed. At least for now.

On entering Kyrgyzstan, with the least immigration control we had experienced so far - the landscape changed dramatically. Gone was the ambivalent expanse of the Uzbek cotton-fields. Instead, rolling hills grew into stupendous peaks, the horizon a jagged silhouette like the spine of a sleeping dinosaur.

Disappearing into the labyrinth of Osh's immense open bazaar, we lost ourselves amongst a maze of succulent fruits and colourful vegetables farmed in the surrounding Ferghana Valley. Further in, a blacksmith's forge rang out with the sound of steel upon steel as the Kyrgyz led their horses through for a shoe fitting.

Back on the road, the mountains rose before us - our first task, to cross a pass out of the valley at 3200 metres. Our unconventional route, to slice through Central Kyrgyzstan on gravel jeep tracks to our final destination, the stunning Song Kol lake, sitting amongst ragged mountains and rolling pasture at 3000 metres.

Doing this by tandem was tough, but as we slowly made our way through narrow, winding valleys we rose to the challenge. After a few days of this, while both of us were lost in our own thoughts, we rounded a bend where a cloud of dust obscured the valley before us. A mob of horses, 30 or 40 at least, with riders astride were bolting toward us. That we had stumbled on some sort of tribal trouble was my first thought, as UNHCR tents dotted the surrounding hillsides. But no, by chance we had come across the Kyrgyz national game of 'Oluk'.

Like a similar 'sport' in Pakistan and Xinjiang China, the severed body of a sheep or calf is used in lieu of a ball in a macabre form of 'Polo'. In each summer season, only one or two games are played. Today's game lasted for six hours!

Behind the 'field', the real climb started. A series of long, sweeping switchbacks to a ridge amongst the clouds. In the mid-afternoon heat, we began.

A few hours later, exhausted and cold, we pitched camp only 200 metres below the peak. Here we settled in for a storm-ridden night as the clouds swallowed us and the tent shuddered. By morning we woke to a cloud of mist. Visibility: 10 metres.

Bunkers of snow and ice encrusted the pass. Ravaged by the elements, the road was little but a track of shale, slipping down at times to a black abyss below. I tried not to look down.

Posing quickly for a photo and a square of Russian fudge before the hail set in, we made for the descent. Dodging torrents of water that streamed off the cliff-like verge like a waterfall - we began to bump our way down. But given now weeks of muddy, gritty conditions, the rear brakes had worn down to metal. Given no choice, we stop and Cass bravely gets on with changing the brake pads with frozen fingers.

This is the essence of Central Kyrgyzstan, where the mountain's and their moods reign. From sweeping plains, rolling hills and a sheet of crisp, blue sky, to jagged mountain ranges capped with snow set against a bruised-black sky. The people too are hardy, like cowboys of old they gallop through deserted expanses herding sheep or throng together in townships downing vodka at the bar whilst their horses are tethered to a tree, or even a car, outside.

Past kids laughing at the tandem, flocks of sheep and yurts with spirals of smoke that disappear into the thin air as women prepare the daily bread, Kyrgyzstan is an awesomely beautiful country. And so we made it to our destination, after yet another pass, to Song Kol.

Our final day is a blur of snow, frozen feet, numb hands and blown tyres which had finally succumbed to the rugged terrain. Covering the last 3 kilometres by foot we dragged the tandem, by moonlight , across a marsh of icy slush. At 9.30 pm we opened the flap of the Osman families' yurt. Giving them our photos from our previous year's visit - carried all the way from London - their smiles suddenly made it all worthwhile.

Bedding down in the snug warmth of the yurt, we slept easily knowing that after three and a half months, we had arrived.

Post Script:

I'd just like to add, in light of the tragic events in the United States, that in all the countries we cycled through on this trip - all being primarily Muslim by religion: Turkey, Iran, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan - that we were overwhelmed by the people's generosity and hospitality. Even if they had little, they were prepared to share what little they had. My understanding through my travels in Islamic countries (9 months of the last 16), is that the feelings and much less actions of a few, are not shared by the vast majority.