Storms in Kyrgyzstan

Cass writes…

'We arrive in Osh, just a few kilometres inside Kyrgyz border yet unexpectedly Uzbek in population. Amongst a profusion of 'dopis', the embroidered skullcap synonymous with the Uzbeks, a scattering of 'kalpaks' reassure us that we have indeed crossed the border into Kyrgyzstan. As tall as a top hat, shaped like a lampshade and fashioned in felt, kalpaks are the clothing identity of the Kyrgyz people - my favourite of all of Central Asia's millinery designs.

The sight of these two charismatic hats jostling for position belies the ethnic violence that scarred this region, the Fergana Valley, just a decade ago. Overriding the traditional system of clans, tribes and religions, Soviet instilled borders were conceived in 1924 to enclose claustrophobic pockets of rival ethnicities, necessitating control by a strong central government - Moscow. The result of these cultural intrusions was an area of continual tension. This culminated in widespread nationalist uprisings, spearheaded in the valley over June and July of 1990, across Central Asia, in the months preceding the break-up of the Union. Today, huge posters of the two countries' flags promote friendship between the peoples, though the very nature of their interwoven borders, the darkest shadow of the Soviet era, leaves this fragile region prone to dispute.

The tandem is soon stowed away in a hotel as we take to the streets, heading for Osh's bazaar, renowned as one of the liveliest outdoor markets in the area. Stooping under low coverways, we marvel at the eclectic variety of merchandise on offer - a flood of cheap Chinese stereos, clothes and shoes intermixed with finely crafted riding boots, the aromas of medicinal herbs and spices, garishly elaborate cakes and stockpiles of fruit as far as the eye can see. Old men shuffle by, perfectly noble in battered kalpaks, thick glasses, wispy beards and long overcoats. Soviet military badges fixed to their lapels are another testament to the country's colonial past. Rotund women chatter behind prams loaded with bread, their dark hair braided in long plaits and their ears elongated with heavy jewellery. 'Bosh! Bosh!' - I'm coming through! - shouts out an entourage of men pushing carts stacked high with grisly animal parts. We stop for a bowl of plov- buttery rice sprinkled with meat, raisins, chick peas and cloves of garlic- soaking up the atmosphere. Suddenly, a blood curdling scream resounds over the commotion. We needn't worry. It's just another sound effect from a nearby video saloon, serving a medley of Jean Claude van Damme films to a captivated countryside audience.

The dusty mountains that surround the city prompt us forward once more, towards the rolling plains and the summer pastures that we long for. Passing a string of villages, it's a peaceful scene; horses, calves, donkeys and cows all tethered before ramshackle homes with orchard gardens and rusty, creaking gates. 'Hoopa!' is the cry of surprise the kids call out as we pass. Beyond Jalal-Abad, the road turns to gravel and swivels east, facing a blockade of mountains, rising sheer and craggy in the distance. At just eight hundred metres in altitude, we can hardly imagine our trail will find its way through this natural wall to Kazarman. Lying on the other side of the Fergana Range, it's just one pass of many that links this crumpled country.

Dipping briefly into a gorge, we begin the first of an onslaught of climbs. The road deteriorates and makes for hard work on the tandem, loaded as we are with food for the days of rough camping ahead. Exhausted, we struggle through endless layers of foothills until the valley widens around a dried river bed where a stampede of muscular horses charge from one end to the other, a trail of dust and wild cries in their wake. We've stumbled across a game of 'o'lak', the macabre form of polo played with a severed and headless calf in lieu of a ball. A posse of horsemen, clad like cowboys and some fifty in number, chase the rider with the carcass, grappling roughly for the meat. With regular breaks made throughout the day for tea, a few riders trot over to investigate the tandem, the smell of horse-sweat mingling in the air. Held once or twice a year, today's bout carries fifty 'som' in prize money, around a dollar. Bigger games can fetch three times as much, as well as the honour bestowed upon the victor.

Ahead lies twenty kilometres of switchbacks, zigzagging their way ever higher. Here, the mountains loom larger and more rugged, offering an increasingly dramatic view with every hard fought kilometre. We pause regularly to refill our water bottles from streams fed by melted snow. Only a line of rusty electricity pylons, like skeletal sentinels, seem proof of man's existence. Pitching our tent below the pass, we cook up a huge bowl of pasta in readiness for the final push. That night, a storm lashes around our tent and we awaken to find ourselves lost in a swirl of cloud cover, our last few kilometres shrouded in mist. An old Russian signpost and a huge slab of ice mark the highest point of the pass, some three thousand metres in altitude; props for a triumphant photo.

Our rest is curtailed by darkening clouds and streaks of lightning that flicker across the sky, pummelling us with a torrent of hail and rain. Plummeting down the other side, I can barely see a few metres ahead, let alone the sheer drops that giddy us at every turn. Slipping our way over rocks and fording streams of gushing, murky water, my frozen fingers claw clumsily at the brakes as we negotiate the narrow track that unfolds haphazardly like a ball of string far below. Stopping to replace brake pads worn through to the metal, the cold sets in and Rosal, a tropical Australian at heart, hyperventilates and blacks out briefly. Feeding her our last few biscuits, we push on to lower altitudes in the hope of some respite.

At last, the clouds thin and a few beams of sun permeate through. After a nine hour day, we reach Kazarman, a sleepy town nestled on the valley floor, our bike and our bodies caked in mud. We head for the bazaar with hungry eyes, dining in a restaurant set in an old railway carriage. Steamed dumplings filled with potato and chives are gulped down and that night the owner invites us to his home, a chance to rest, dry off and drink tea. Tomorrow, another pass stands between here and the Naryn valley. It's our last hurdle to Son Kol, a high altitude lake that's home to shepherds, yurts - mushroom shaped homes - and the wild horses that gallop in this spectacular country.