August 2009 Archives

The following day, I walk along Altyn Arashan river towards Peak Palatka (Mt. Tent – named so as it resembles a soviet tent).

Young shepherd, in a few more years, he’ll be old enough to find a wife.

Horses, chilling.

If you walk along the river without looking at your surroundings, you’ll miss this waterfall on your left.

I doubt you’ll miss this view though.

The peak to the right, tricky to capture due to the clouds obscuring it most of the time.

Peak Palatka to the left.

Bonsai.

The guesthouse where I’d spent the previous night.

Since it’s raining on and off for the whole day, I decide against spending another day in the mountains and slowly head back down, just missing the marshrutka to take me down the mountain.

Altyn-Arashan marshrutka, ex-soviet former military truck.

Along the way back down the mountain I meet Mikhail Mikhailevich a forty something hippie riding his 60’s era bike up towards Arashan. He tells me of the beauty of our mother, mother nature, shares some of his life’s philosophies and some of his moonshine with me and invites me to his place to smoke weed with him to open my mind to the beauty of the world. I tell him of my journey and some of the things I’ve seen and experienced and he congratulates me on living the life that’s worth living.

Returning from the Inylchek Geology Expedition, I speak with a couple of Aussies staying in our hotel to find out they’ve hired a car to take them to Altyn Arashan (Golden Springs). I decide to take it one way with them and after a day’s rest in town, a day involving a lot of drinking and cards, I bid farewell to Pasha and the geologist expedition, Yura, Euan and Vasya.

The driver has one of only a few types of cars that could make the drive, a former military jeep that he picked up for a couple of thousand. The suspension is non-existent, there is no air-conditioner and unfortunately, soldiers have no need for a stereo.

Driver engaging the 4wd mode for the final steep climb prior to arriving at Altyn Arashan, just outside of Karakol in Kyrgyzstan.

Overlooking the hot-springs and guesthouses in the valley of Altyn Arashan.

We arrive to find the first guesthouse booked out and when we’re driven to the second one, the driver demands the full sum of money 1800 som for the drive. The Australian couple are adamant that they’d negotiated for 1800 som for the return trip and refuse to pay the remainder saying they’d heard about this scam from other customers of Yak Tours in Karakol. Since I wasn’t present when they were negotiating the terms of the agreement, I eject myself from the heated argument and decide to go for a walk up into the mountains.

Along the way I come across a shepherd (Naibek) who offers to trade me one of his horses for my iPod. Since I don’t know whether or not I’ll need a carnet de passage for a horse when I cross into Kazakhstan, I politely decline the offer and accept his invitation to come in for a lunch of mutton.

Hiking in Altyn Arashan.

Pesky marmot avoided my rock by mere whiskers. Still an unsuccessful marmot hunter.

Moon rising over the mountains.

River next to Naibek’s house.

On the way back, I stop by Naibek’s place again to chat about life in the mountains and the way of the чабан (chaban - shepherd).

Naibek asks me if I know how to ride a horse. I reply that I’ve ridden a bit in my life and would love the privilege of riding his. I climb on the horse and have my first experience with a horse that doesn’t like being ridden, a true free spirit.

The horse starts bucking in attempt to get me off . In a split second the horse is about to dart off while bucking and I pull on the reins to stop him. The horses head comes up, followed by the front legs. Holding on for dear life, the horse collapses on its hind legs and we both come down, with the full weight of the horse landing on my left foot.

Not sure whether I’ve broken the foot or not, I stand on it to find it in excruciating pain, but rather than taking a break, I mount the horse once more, caressing it’s mane as it bucks. Having earned the horse’s trust, he decides to show me his immense power and we go for a fast paced gallop. The faster we go the less my foot hurts.

We return after a few minutes, to an applauding Naibek who did not think I’d have the guts to mount the horse after coming off it.

Rider and beast in the wilderness.

Naibek (right), his wife (centre) and good friend (left).

Two of Naibek’s dogs. He tells me if I return the following year, I can have a puppy just like the one on the left.

Altyn Arashan river, with snow capped Peak Palatka (Tent) on the left.

After our experience with the sneaky shepherd and Stas the psychotic, Yura and I decide that while the geologists are out in the mountains, we’ll catch a marmot ourselves.

Our plan of attack, after we spot one running into his burrow, to paraphrase Alice in Wonderland, is to “smoke the marmot out.” We start syphoning petrol out of the petrol tank into a bottle to find that one of the main tanks is empty, having been full the night before. It’s a very real possibility that a certain psychotic pseudo Geologist junkie by the name of Stas syphoned out petrol while we were sleeping. We curse and decide to use some of the fuel in the emergency canisters as we’re suffering a lack of meat emergency.

“I love the smell of napalm in the morning.” Yura casually pours in some petrol, lights a cigarette and throws in the match. Meanwhile, I’m standing over one of the other burrows with a big rock to greet the fleeing marmot.

Several minutes pass and no marmot emerges. Either the smoke killed him in his tunnels, never reached him or he escaped out of one of the other forty something burrows within a ten metre radius.

Our hunt is unsuccessful, we’re outsmarted by the pesky marmot and we return to a lunch of canned corn and tuna.

Sitting defeated, the unsuccessful hunters eat corn in silence trying to forget about the fact that their manhood has been challenged and their thirst for marmot blood has not been quenched.

We return from the glacial lakes in the evening to the GeoAsia cabins that we were invited to stay in by the head of the expedition.

Since the GeoAsia crew have moved on to survey another part of the Tian Shan range,  we speak with one of the guys (Stas) who look after the cabins in their absence.

To say that Stas is an interesting character would be an understatement. The guy comes off as a drunk and a junkie. He claims to be a geologist and talks about some of the work that goes on in the mountains, offering our geologists some samples (rocks) for their collection.

Yura, the Russian Kyrgyz driver, has a bad feeling from the start and in retrospect, we should have paid heed to his advice to not stop at the cabins and to keep on going. He warns us to look after all of our valuables and I heed the advice by locking all of my possessions in the car.

Stas tells us that their manager has gone off into the mountains and was supposed to return hours ago. If we don’t pick him up, he could die and he pleads with us to go after him.

After reluctantly agreeing, everyone had incredible doubts that the story was false, Yura, myself and two of Stas’ friends drive down in our car to find the lost manager. After ten minutes driving, we reach the first house where the two friends climb out and chat with the owners.

After a chat and a smoke, the guys return, saying that their manager is in the next house, a mere two kilometres away. Almost ten kilometres later, we’re told it’s five more minutes. Ten minutes later we arrive at the house and one of the guys goes in to get the manager. Five minutes later he returns from the shop (er… cabin) sans manager and with two bottle shaped bulges in his jacket. He tells us that the manager has gone to the town of Inylchek, twenty kilometres away and that he has a place to spend the night, we can return without him.

Along the way back we casually mention to the friends of our quest for meat during the trip and ask if they have any. They want to know how much we’re paying for it. I tell them that since we took them to search for their manager *cough* buy vodka *cough* maybe they can share some with us.

The guys mention that they have a marmot and say we can have it. Yura and I almost crack up laughing at the idea of being promised another marmot, we have low expectations of seeing the marmot materialise.

We return to find Euan, Pasha and Vasya standing outside, having waited almost an hour for us to return. They mention that Stas is borderline psychotic at which point he greets us by asking Yura for a cigarette.

We sit down in the cabin to some tea and mention to Stas that his friends offered to share some marmot meat with us. Stas says he can do better. Since they have so many sheep they’re always slaughtering sheep to sell in Karakol. Of course all of the meat they have has already been sold or promised to their waiting wives, but since we’re such good friends of his, he’ll share some of his personal stash of mutton with us, as a token of his generosity , so long as we don’t tell the others about it.

We’re deciding how we’re going to cook the meat when he adds something that puts us off eating the meat. Stas casually says, “You will eat the meat now, this evening… and tomorrow, I’ll tell you something about it.” Me “Tell us what about it.” Stas: “Nothing, just eat it now and I’ll tell you in the morning.”

We decide to not cook the meat right away, leaving it for the following day after we hear the story. In the morning, we ask him what the story was. He mentions that there was no story and that he was joking with us.

Having woken up early, we pack the car and leave without any breakfast as we’re all eager to get away from the weird situation we found ourselves in.

We stop for a late breakfast/lunch down the road and decide to cook a nice plov with the meat. We discover why Stas never sold this meat, why he was so happy to share it with us, why he didn’t want us to tell the others about the meat he gave us and the story he wanted to tell us. Hiding in the several kilograms of sheep meat, slowly devouring it is a large group of maggots.

We throw the meat away and decide that should we ever see again, we’ll personally thank him for his generosity.

As Pasha and I are about to leave to pick up some sleeping bags for our trip, we overhear a conversation between some of the other guests and the hotel staff.

Turns out they’re a couple of geologists and they’ve lost their GPS unit up in the mountains and they need to know where they can find another. Thinking we’re going to some tour company to rent our sleeping bags, I invite them along.

We stop at a random street in Karakol, to find a woman renting camping gear out of her garage. There is no signage to indicate that there is a shop here, and unfortunately for the geologists, there is no GPS unit to be found.

Thinking altruisticly, I offer my GPS unit to them for the next couple of days, then thinking it could be a fun trip, ask if we can join them. They have space in the car and tell us we can sleep in their kitchen tent.

We setup camp some 12km from the town of Inylchek, an abandoned town where they used to mine uranium. The evening is spent drinking and playing cards.

The first order of business is to try and recover the lost GPS unit. The following morning Yura (driver), Euan (Scottish geologist), Vasya (Ukranian geologist) and myself head out towards the area where they’d lost the unit. Along the way we run into a shepherd and tell him of our plight. He tells us he’ll join us in the search and will return for his horse (20min down the mountain and 20min back).

After searching for half an hour, the shepherd appears on horseback with his son. Vasya starts describing the unit, saying it’s roughly the size of a phone and in a black leather case. The shepherd replies with “I know.”.

After Euan offers a reward for the unit (a substantial sum of money, and for shits and giggles sake, a 200mL shot of vodka), the shepherd and his son move further ahead to continue the search. After we’ve given up the search and are sitting taking a break, the shepherd rides up to us on the horse with the unit. No one noticed him getting off the horse. We ask him where he found the unit, he points to a spot that both Vasya and I had walked past and searched thoroughly.

We return back down the mountain and give the man his drink. Euan watches in awe as the man downs it in one hit. Euan is even more surprised when the man patiently sits there asking for more.

Left to right: Sneaky shepherd, Euan, Pasha, myself and Sneaky shepherd’s sneaky son.

Sneaky shepherd tells us he has a marmot (pictured above for those that have never seen one before) at his house and will happily give it to us as a present. Liking the idea of marmot meat, we pour the shepherd another shot, give him the money and laugh as he almost falls on his face while climbing back on his horse for the five minute ride back home.

An hour passes and sneaky shepherd doesn’t return with the promised marmot. The geologists have more work to do, so we pack up camp and head closer to the Inylchek permit checkpoint.

We stop fifty metres from the checkpoint and decide to speak with the soldiers prior to setting up camp. When we ask the soldiers whether or not we can setup camp, they ask us what we’re doing, whether we have permits, where our passports are and who we’re working for. We’re told to clear out and if we don’t, we’ll be arrested.

We end up returning to where our camp had previously been setup and decide to pay our friend the sneaky shepherd a visit. Turns out he’s not home. Since he’s not home, we decide to wait. After an hour the sun sets and we decide we’re going to turn back. As we start walking, we find our friend sneaky shepherd trying to sneak back into his house.

We ask him where’s the marmot he promised us. Sneaky shepherd tells us that he saw that we’d left and set the marmot free, but it’s ok he has another one up in the mountains which he’ll fetch for us tomorrow. We tell him we can wait while he fetches it. He says it’s too dark and he could be lost. We offer to join him for the company. He says that he has the horse for company. With that he heads up the mountain for the supposed marmot. After half an hour’s waiting, he doesn’t arrive so we decide to leave, without any of the meat we’ve been promised.

I end up taking matters into my own hand and find us some meat.

Mortimer the mouse proves a hit with everyone so we set him up with a cage made from a plastic bottle. Since he’s still alive in the morning, I decide to set him free.

The following day we head further off the beaten path to search for more remote rocks.

Unfortunately our AWD’s 78hp engine doesn’t hold out at the first steep incline and we come flying back down in reverse almost crashing the van into the rock face and sending it hurtling down towards the river. After clearing the old path which is less steep, we’re able to continue the drive into the great unknown. After a few minutes, I ask Yura why he continues driving on such dangerous roads. He says that if Euan has been here last year, the road should be fine to drive on. At this point, I tell him Euan didn’t make it out this way on his last trip and Yura goes incredibly quiet.

After the clouds come out and it starts raining, we decide to pull over and setup camp with the wind almost blowing our tents away in the process.

The following morning after the previous day’s road dramas, we decide to walk to the glacier. Just around the corner from our camp, barely one hundred metres from where we’d setup camp in the middle of nowhere, we bump into a large group of geologists who offer us to stay in their cabins for the night.

We decide to take up the offer and head back to our camp to pack it up. We start driving to the glacier, along the road that none of the locals attempt to cross. We get stuck between a rock fall and a big drop. From there, we walk. It starts raining almost straightaway.

Left to Right: Euan, Vasya, myself and Pasha.

Along the way to the glacier.

We reach five lakes formed from glacial melt of two glaciers and the view is amazing. It stops raining and starts snowing.

Glacier melting into glacial lake.

We come down from the mountain, shoes and socks completely drenched, looking forward to not spending the night in tents and staying in a cabin instead.

I arrive in Karakol via marshrutka from Balykchy (220 som) and decide to head to the beach as soon as I arrive. I find the bus to the beach and a hotel located right next to it, decide that it’s good enough for me, drop my bags in the room and hop on the bus.

The bus is a nice relic from the fifties that’s rusted through in parts and has been repaired with sheets of cheap wood, the kind of material you find in the backs of cheap IKEA cupboards.

On the bus I meet an English speaking, German born Russian who’s lived his whole life in Karakol. His name’s Pasha, he’s just finished high school and we hit it off immediately.

Highlights of our conversation on the bus include Pasha saying something in German, translating it into English as “F*cking your mother in the a*hole”, and a little bit louder so the bus can hear the Russian translation. The old ladies on the bus turn and stare at him while I can barely contain my laughter. He pulls a pair of Calvin Klein boxers out of his bag, waves them around and says look at the quality underwear you can get in America (a present he was sent from a friend in the states) not like that Calvan Keleven (real brand, look out for it in China and Kyrgyzstan) stuff you find in Karakol.

Ducks near the dachas not far from the beach.

Russian Orthodox church in Karakol.

Dungan (Chinese Muslims) mosque built entirely of wood, including the nails.

Statue of some pirate looking fellow (the beach bus and the hotel I stayed in are to the left of the park this statue is located in).

Stuffed marmots found in the Karakol regional museum.

Memorial to one of the greatest explorer’s the world has ever known. Nikolai Mikhaylovich Przhevalsky at the museum dedicated to his travels. Located close to the dachas and the beach.

After Pasha and I visit the beach, we decide to spend the following couple of days up in the mountains hiking to Ala-Kol lake from the Karakol valley.

The hike to Song Kol is a pretty quick and straightforward four hour walk along the dirt road. Hitching can be very hit and miss along this route as it’s one for the sheepherders and illegal fisherman and tends to see at most two cars in each direction a day. If you want to hitch-hike into Song-Kol, you’re better off going from the eastern side of the lake, where the CBT yurts are setup.

Song-Kol alpine lake, from the northern side.

I end up staying in a yurt with Nurbek (right), his friend Ailan, his wife (far right) and four month old baby that keeps me up all night (had I seen the baby earlier, I would have made a break for it.

Ailan and most people in the surrounding group of yurts are involved in the illegal fishing business. It’s no longer possible to fish commercially in Song-Kol, however they all do, paying bribes to the inspectors when they come.

Some of Nurbek’s horses.

A chick.

I rent Nurbek’s horse for a day and decide I’m going to circumnavigate the lake. I give up after several hours have passed, with three quarters of the lake to go.

One of Nurbek’s dogs. Every shepherd has at least three dogs that aren’t particularly welcoming of foreigners, especially on horses.

The noble steed.

A butterfly that didn’t quite make it.

Large panorama shot of Song Kol lake. Full size image is 3.5Mb 10,009 x 3,268.

I come back down the mountain in a car with Zhenoura, a woman hauling several hundred kilos of fish to Balykchy for selling illegally in the Issyk-Kol region. I spend the night at her place in Kyzart and the following morning we load up a taxi with the fish. Her plan, should we be stopped by police is to say that I am a German tourist and that she is my interpreter. Never mind the fact that she barely remembers her high school German classes and that the only phrase I know is “Das ist mein bratwurst!”.

After finding that the price for a car to Song-Kol (alpine lake) is far too expensive, I decide to hitch and wing it. I end up catching a marshrutka to Kyzart (Jumgal area) and one of the passengers chatting with me (Aibek) decides he’ll make a quick buck off me. He says he’ll drive me up most of the way the following morning  for 300 som, petrol money. I agree and he goes off to fill up the car.

In the evening he says one of his mates (Ruslan) is going up to his yurt, which is most of the way to the lake. I tell him to return the money, he says he can’t since he’s filled the car up with petrol. I tell him that I’m not paying Ruslan for the lift, which they agree to. Aibek says he gave Ruslan the money and that I don’t have to pay. Something is not quite right but I don’t put my finger on it until we drive off.

The friend’s car is a people mover, something that won’t handle the drive up to the lake. After fifteen minutes of driving, we’re still at the bottom of the mountain that you need to cross to get to the lake. Ruslan says I’m free to stay in the yurt.

Meanwhile, I’m pissed off that I paid such a large sum of money for such a short lift and Ruslan and I have an argument for fifteen minutes until he returns the money. I still have no place to stay and Ruslan, having made no money from me doesn’t hesitate in the slightest in offering me to stay in his yurt.

Ruslan’s yurt.

The stockpile of meat inside the yurt.

Ruslan making mud bricks for building a stable.

Ruslan’s daughter carrying a bucket of water for making tea.

Ruslan’s wife making cream from the cow’s milk.

Ruslan’s son standing in the classic Oliver Twist, “Please sir, can I have some more?” pose.

Ruslan’s fowls. He uses them when his wife is milking their horses, seven to eight times a day.

Ruslan’s father barely speaks two words of Russian. All he says to me is pay money every time I get another cup of tea or eat some food. Ruslan tries to pretend that his father is joking.

I like Ruslan’s hospitality and family so much that I end up leaving his wife the money that I had paid for the fifteen minute lift.

I head down to Kochkor with Nazik’s Brazilian couchsurfers Angelica and Gustav and find a really cheap slum to stay in.

The view just outside of Kochkor.

Deciding against doing much hiking in the area, I spend a day wandering around the town’s outskirts, chatting with the locals.

Kyrgyz man cruising for chicks on his donkey. I try to chat with him but he’s far too busy and won’t speak with me.

I see a sheepherder in a suit and decide he’s definitely worth talking to. He tells me that the two men who did the most good for Kyrgyzstan are Vladimir Ilyich Lenin and Mikhail Vasilyevich Frunze. Prior to the collapse of the USSR, everyone in Kyrgyzstan had a job and a secure future. Several large manufacturing plants operated in the country, employing a large percentage of the population.

Since the USSR collapsed, there has been less cooperation between the former republics and as such the plants didn’t receive the required raw materials and were forced to shut down. A highly incompetent corrupt leader post USSR (Askar Akayevich Akayev) didn’t help much either.

Outskirts of Kochkor, Kyrgyzstan.

There's supposedly a very beautiful alpine lake in Arslanbob that goes by the name of Kyl-Mazar, Kol-Mazar or in English, Holy Lake. t's a slow paced two day walk for most tourists, and a one day walk for locals.

Given the absurd amount of snowfall that's occurred in recent times, the only safe way is to walk around Baba-Ata (the mountain standing between Arslanbob and the Holy Lake). Even though it's a full days walk, I set out at 10am, being used to walking faster than most people, having earned my stripes hiking in Tibet.

Many tourists take a guide with them from the CBT and all have a tent, sleeping bag, food and plenty of warm clothes.

I have a jacket and two pieces of bread in a plastic bag.

The plan is to rock up to the lake and sleep in the communal house where all the Uzbek pilgrims stay. Every Uzbek family that makes the trip up takes with them a sheep, which they slaughter and share with everyone.

The sky is clear, there's little chance of rain, and by now, most of yesterday's downpour has dried up, though the rivers are something fierce. Following the rough directions given to me by Israel, I soon partake in risky move #1, crossing the river. The rain has caused it to swell to a very large size, and I see people on both sides looking for a safe place to cross. I forge a path by walking across and dropping boulders in place, and, almost dropping my phone into the water in the process, make it across clumsily. As I follow the river upstream, I find a very easy place to cross.

Following the river into the mountains, I pass one Uzbek house and stop at the next. Asking the boys for directions, they tell me it's up over the first mountain, through the valley and over the next. As I'm about to set off, the eldest invites me for tea. I soon find out that the family consists of seven boys, mum (who makes the food and passes it to one of the sons while standing outside) and dad, currently in Arslanbob.

Noting that I have only a few hours left to reach the lake, I bid the family farewell and continue following the directions given by the eldest son, over the first mountain without any problems, reaching the second, to find that it's Baba-Ata, mostly covered in snow and that the way around involves a several kilometre detour.

The smart thing to do is to take the detour and the stubborn thing to do is to continue onward, trying to find a pass over the mountain. I choose the stubborn option and so begins the next adventure in this never ending saga of stupid ideas.

There's a narrow rocky path, skirted on both sides by snow which I choose as my means of assaulting the mountain. At the end of the path lie some rocks, which I clamber over. Then the rocks turn to boulders and get bigger and bigger and my walk turns into a climb. When I get to the top of the highest of these boulders, and over the mound of snow, a narrow precipice greets me, to the left, a several metre drop into a patch of snow that would send me all the way back down to the bottom, assuming I don't injure myself. To the right, a twenty metre drop. My only remaining option is the leap of faith, the route I took is far too difficult to backtrack.

The leap of faith, aptly named as it requires nerves of steel and a steady step involves a leap from the boulder where I'm currently standing, a distance of just over one metre, over the aforementioned 20m drop to another rocky outcrop.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous, I looked for alternate options, but found this to be the best option available to me, so I stood there for some time, took in the drop, thought for a second about whether or not I'd be found should I fall and injure myself, readied myself and leapt, or rather, slipped on the smooth surface, fell to my knees and momentum almost carried me over the edge. I had a great look at the spot where I would have landed had I not reflexively braced myself.

I didn't want to attempt the jump again as I might not be as lucky the second time. The leap of faith was no longer an option, the way I'd come proved difficult on the ascent, on the descent, close to impossible. With sunset only a couple of hours away and no one in sight or within hearing range, I was well and truly stuck up the mountain.

The view was really nice though. In the background, the peak of Bab-Ata. In the foreground, a similar leap of faith, only with a much larger gap.

Having no real safe way down, I began to search for the least dangerous option, which is not a good situation to be in when you're up a mountain alone.

The route I decide on is tricky for several reasons. It involves climbing down a few rock faces, at times descending between rocks. If I fall I either hit rocks or land on snow and tumble down the mountain. The riskiest thing of all though, is the fact that I can't see the entire way down and as such I don't know if it's possible to descend or if I'll end up stuck somewhere.

The descent is dangerous, I slip occasionally and rip my jacket in the process. Sitting in a perilous position, the way up impossible to backtrack, I'm faced with the following dilemma, how to get down the following.

The only way I can think of, apart from jumping down the side to certain death is to slide down on my ass and pray that I'm able to stop before I pick up too much speed, fall off the edge, or end up crashing into one of the walls.

After several of these descents, I miss one of the rocks that I'm aiming for in order to slow my descent and end up tumbling out of control. Bouncing (and bruising) off the walls, I throw my arms and legs out in desperate attempts at stopping, and through sheer luck get a grip against one of the walls, cutting my hands in the process but avoiding serious injury.

At this point, the sun has begun to set, I'm still hours from anywhere, drenched from the snow, cold and once again in trouble. There's still a steep slope between myself and the valley where I can walk away from this mess I'm in, and the only way to get down before the sun sets is to jump down a several metre drop, hoping the snow is thick enough to brace the fall and slide down the next hundred metres, bouncing over rocks.

Suffice to say, I make it down the slope alive and now face the next challenge getting out of the valley before sunset and finding somewhere to sleep for the night (town is still a several hour walk away for those that know the path).

The sun sets just before I leave the valley and I have to descend in darkness, with only the torch on my phone for light, following a different route to the way I ascended.

The story should end with a nice easy walk back to town, since I can see the lights, but in reality things aren't that easy. The lights I'd seen are the neighbouring town, the way I'm descending gets progressively steeper and steeper and after slipping and falling one too many times, I have no choice but to start walking the long way around to try and catch the path I followed up the mountain.

After several dead ends and lots of climbing back up the mountain to try and find a safe route down, I finally stumble across a path and within several hours reach water. Rehydrated and with newfound energy, glad to be alive, I put Daft Punk's latest album, Alive on the iPod, will my legs to fight against fatigue and continue walking in the dead of night, stumbling and falling several times as I once more cross the river. I finally reach a road, only to have my phone battery die and continue the final two hours walking in complete darkness.

Walking past Israel's house initially, I finally make it back, dead tired, sore, hungry and a little bit cold and wet, at 3am in the morning just over 17 hours after I'd set out on my trek.

After spending a day in the rain seeing Ala-Archa as a Kyrgyz, I proceed to see it as a foreigner, by hiking out into the wilderness.

The view as you begin the trek to the waterfall. Heading away from the photo into the valley is the Ala-Archa river, to the left, the waterfall.

Lower portion of the waterfall, simply breathtaking.

After reaching the waterfall, I continue onwards towards some hut at the top of the mountain as I've heard it has an amazing view from some Russian mountaineers I'd met at the waterfall.

Unfortunately for me, it starts to sprinkle when I'm mere metres shy of the top, and, sensing the impending downpour I turn back and break out into a sprint.

Half an hour into my run, the downpour begins and I'm very quickly drenched. The rain turns the trail into mud and soon I'm falling again and again as I descend from the mountain.

By the time I reach the main road, I'm drenched, cold, covered in mud and sporting a few nice scratches to add to my collection. I walk past a group of five Kyrgyz, each clutching a bottle of Kyrgyzstan's finest vodka and overhear them saying "Crazy foreigners, what the hell do they see in those mountains anyway."

Some horses eating and chilling as there's a pause in the rain.

Washing off in the river, I hitch a lift back (after an hour's walking) with a couple of Kyrgyz working for a hydroelectric company. I promise Aibek (the man in charge) that I'll say hi to Australia when I return. Given that it won't happen for a while, hi Australia, from one Kyrgyz working in the mountains in Ala-Archa.

I spend the night in a cheap guesthouse and in the evening chat with the two Kyrgyz girls who work there. At 16 and 17 years old, they're close to marrying age and Baktugal (the elder) has already avoided one attempted kidnapped wedding. In Kyrgyz culture, it's still common for a man to marry a woman by kidnapping her.

Reciting Baktugal's story, she was at her sister's house and was spotted by a male friend of the sister's who took a fancy to her. She saw him again while visiting the house a few days later. Having seen her twice, the man decided that this is the girl he wants to marry, have children with and spend the rest of his life with. So one day he gets in his car with four of his buddies, who by the way all enjoy a good kidnapping and drives up her street, parking the car in a spot where he can see the door.

Having seen the car through the window, our unfortunate target spends the entire day inside and thus thwarts her suitors kidnap attempt. Had she not seen him, the following would happen, as both girls confirmed happened to friends of theirs. Our friend would walk outside and the car would pull up, the guys would get out and drag her into the car and drive her to the suitors house. There the suitor would hold her captive until the wedding ceremony.

On the day of the wedding, a woman comes to perform the ceremony and the girl's parents come to witness. Depending on whether the kidnapper (aside from his kidnapping) is good husband material or not, they would give their blessing, or take the girl home with them.

Once the parents have given their consent to the wedding, the girl respects their wishes and marries the man, living with him and having children as he decides. He has all right to give her children whether she wants them or not.

I arrive at the Ala-Archa gates just as a heavy downpour starts. A privately rented marshrutka stops and picks me up as I'm hiking the 7km to the guesthouse. The Kyrgyz inside invite me to join them for tea. They are prepared for some serious eating having brought with them one sheep, several kilos of pasta and potatoes, a propane tank and a large kazan (think wok but bigger). There's also a case of vodka.

Tea leads to vodka. Vodka leads to lunch, kurdaak, mutton and potatoes. Lunch leads to drunken football in the rain. My surprising sobriety, given that everyone took a Kyrgyz shot (50-100mL) with me leads to three blistering goals and I contemplate playing as star striker for the Kyrgyz national team. Given their record, it can't hurt.

Football leads to more vodka, which leads to dinner, beshbarmak (five fingers in Kyrgyz), an entre of the broth in which the sheep is stewed and a main course of pasta and sheep, eaten with, you guessed it, your five fingers. Yum!

The mountains from a path barely fifty metres away from the road, when you hang out with Kyrgyz, hiking is out of the option. Only drinking, eating and football are allowed.

Left to right, driver (only sobre one), Chenghis, myself, Tilik, Salaam and Aibek who organised and paid for the day. In front with football, cool guy who's name I forget. Absent from photo, wives/girlfriends and children who I never spoke with as it seemed inappropriate and the biggest drunk of all who spent the whole day talking shit to me about climbing in the mountains and how he'd bury me there or something to that effect, his masterful use of Russian swear words had me confused half the time as to whether he's complaining or stirring. He didn't cop a beating because his friends were so nice and the food was so good.

After Jalal-Abad, I travel directly to Bishkek, forgoing Lake Sary Chelek since I'm still tired from hiking around Arslanbob and couchsurf in Kyrgyzstan, the first time in my trip. My most amazing host is Nazik, who signed up in part because she's keen to practice her English. We don't speak English until after I return from Ala-Archa as other couch surfers come to stay and they don't speak Russian.

Nazik's mum is a chess superstar and coach, her younger sister is the Kyrgyzstan champion and her mum's star pupil, Diana, at 10 years old beats me without breaking a sweat. I redeem myself the following day and am smiling from ear to ear knowing I beat the future world chess champion.

I make plans to visit the museum of fine arts and end up in the museum of Lenin. If you decide to go there, make sure to look up, the ceiling of the entire Lenin exhibition is painted in the most amazing murals, though I'm told to pay for photos and can thus only snap one.

Part of the ceiling of the second floor of the Lenin museum in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan.

I bump into a Lithuanian tourist, Arturas, in the museum. We grab lunch and bump into two Kyrgyz kick-boxers, Johnny and Aibek, who offer me a lift to Song-Kol to join them in their training/fighting/drinking/hunting holiday. We drink beers together, a lot.

After beers we head to play ping pong. I lose embarrassingly, so we return for more beers. Then we're joined by a couple of beauties...

... and all is good again.

Couch surfing at Nazik's - Angelica and Gustav from Brasil, myself and Nazik. Angelica and Gustav are two months into a ten month trip. They're travelling in part for pleasure, but also to shoot a documentary film on microlending/microfinance around the world.

After getting up to scratch on what exactly microfinance is, I'm very excited about seeing it succeed as it helps the poor help themselves make a better living for themselves. The socialist in me likes this a lot. To learn more about their work, check out their site Human Development in Focus.

After a day's rest at Israel's, I decide to leave Arslanbob without going to the lake and decide to pay my friend Mohammed-Sadi a visit. The share taxis all want far too much money for the trip, so I decide to hitch.

The first car I ask for a lift happily offers me a lift for half the trip. When I get in, I realise I've hitched a lift with the police. We chat back and forth about life, money and their line of work and eventually I have to get out and find a lift for the rest of the way.

Instead of letting me hitch a lift, the officers tell me to wait in the car. Bulat, the one in uniform gets out of the car and waves down the first car that passes, tells the driver that he will drive me to Jalal-Abad because I have no money and tells me to get in. We get as far as Bazaar-Korgon (roughly halfway but on the main highway) before I'm kicked out of the car. I finish the trip in a mashrutka and am charged twice the price I paid to get to Jalal-Abad.

I'm picked up in Jalal-Abad by Mohammed Sadi's older brother and cousin, and we stop by their plot of land en-route to Sadi's house. The family owns a small plot of land where they grow onions.

The beauty in Sadi's backyard.

The beauty in Sadi's front yard.

The beauty who was too shy to talk to me, probably because someone decapitated her chicken (between us) and she's still in shock.

The beauty (Gulya) that Sadi couldn't stop looking at all throughout lunch. Despite being Kyrgyz and Sadi Uzbek, he still spent most of lunch either watching her or taking photos of her. Her T-Shirt reads "Some girls do. Some girls don't. I might..."

There's also a thermal spring in Jalal-Abad, supposedly with healing waters, so of course we make the trip. The water is salty and won't even cure your thirst, though the surrounding park is beautiful.

I take on a job for a half a day, free of charge just to see whether or not it's tough being a Kyrgyz farmer. The task is to clear a field of corn stalks, without machinery, using a sickle, the poster tool for the communist movement. It's tiring work but nothing I can't handle. Grandpa Lenin would be proud of me.

Leaving Osh, I head for Arslanbob via Marshrutka and shared taxi, spending the night at a CBT house after starting to chat with a French couple and hearing of how great the experience is.

Israel, the Uzbek owner (the whole town is Uzbek), speaks great Russian having spent five years in Moscow, and is the most gracious host, having already adopted Louis and Marianne as son and daughter. To him everything is клас (class, translates as super) and I enjoy his enthusiasm for life, part of it due to the fact that he’s slightly inebriated as he talks. Nevertheless, the man loves to high five, smile and shake hands.

With myself acting as translator, the French couple, myself and Israel have a great conversation over dinner about travelling, the region and some of his knowledge. For example, French is the most romantic language, Russian comes third, but second place, that’s a secret. He asks Marianne and Louis if they’re getting married any time soon. When they reply in the affirmative, he’s handshakes and high fives all around.

Israel tells Marianne that her face, her entire expression indicates that she’s ready to have a boy, a mighty tiger who she will name Arslan (after the region) and that Louis must give her the gift of a son tonight. Afterwards, Israel tells Louis if he wants to take Marianne as his wife, they will have to engage in some friendly combat (with myself as referee), Louis can pick fighting style as Israel claims to be the local karate instructor. Should Louis win, he wins Marianne, 100 hectares of land and a 16m x 9m apartment, if Israel wins, Louis will do whatever he says.

With laughs and giggles had by all, we call it a night.

The following day I take a tour of the local sights, bumping into an Uzbek tourist by the name of Mohammed-Sadi (Misha) at the small twin waterfalls.

We head up to the discotheque to take in a view of the town and proceed to the large waterfall, taking a less than direct route and still beating everyone that goes the quick way.

The walk to the big waterfall.

The view from one of the mountains we climb taking the long way to the waterfall.

The big waterfall.

The following day while Johnnybek nurses his hangover, I go walkabout in Aviogorod (literally Aviation town), where all residents work in the nearby airport. Soon enough, I stumble upon the old airport, and decide to walk inside and explore.

This place is by far the coolest place in Osh and is littered with old single-engine planes, helicopters and a collection of no longer working Yak-40 jets.

Part of the collection of old Aeroflot single engine planes

One of the old Aeroflot planes has a broken window so we can peek inside at the controls.

Old Aeroflot helicopters, the broken window once again lets us take a peek inside.

Flight controls of the old helicopter

Another Aeroflot helicopter rusting at Osh’s old airport

Body of an old Yak-40, sans cockpit, tail and wings.

Part of the fleet of aging Yak-40 jets at Osh’s old airport.

Look what we have here, an old Kyrghyzstan airlines Yak-40 without a cabin door, let’s go inside and look around.

Yak-40 cabin

Yak-40 cockpit

Yak-40 pilot, or is that co-pilot?

Support vehicles for the old airport at Osh in Kyrgyzstan.

How did Kyrgyzstan airlines obtain such a large collection of Yak-40 jets? It so happens that they were Aeroflot jets during the time of the USSR, however once it collapsed and all the republics declared independence, any Aeroflot plane on the tarmac at a Kyrgyz airport became the property of Kyrgyzstan and their new airline Kyrgyzstan Airlines.

Narim, the Kyrgyz soldier drops me off just outside of Osh where he makes his final final delivery, a bag of rice, to his dad. I meet his dad, Johnnybek, who agrees to give me a lift into town. We get talking and within two minutes he’s asking me if I want cocaine, opium, dope, girls and anything else he can think of.

I politely decline and he invites me to stay at his place. After a bit of back and forth in Kyrgyz between Jonnybek and the woman sitting in the back of the car (Tonic), we stop at a block of apartments. As I walk outside with Jonnybek, he tells me I can’t stay with him tonight, he’s going to be f*cking the woman sitting in the back of the car, but he’s driven me to a very cheap hotel where I can spend the night.

I wait outside while Johnnybek speaks with the Russian women running the hotel about the rate for the night, he tells me if they get a whiff of the fact that I’m not a local, the price will skyrocket. He comes back out, tells me it’s 200som and that he’ll pick me up in the morning at 8 and tells me to leave the bag in the car. I don’t even hesitate in trusting someone I’d only met ten minutes earlier with the majority of my possessions and bid him farewell. The last thing he says before I leave is to not go out after dark, it’s a dangerous neighbourhood. In fact I shouldn’t go out at all and he asks the woman at the hotel to escort me to the shop to buy some food for dinner, and to return to the hotel straight away.

Once he’s gone, I go outside to find somewhere to eat, on my way out, the hotel owner tells me to not be outside after dark. After I finish dinner and chat with the owner of the cafe, he also tells me that it’s dangerous after dark. Third time’s the charm and I decide to return to the hotel, unharmed.

I encounter Soviet era toilet paper for the first time. It looks and feels just like sandpaper, be warned should you journey to this fine land.

At some point in the middle of the night, some drunk idiot bangs on my door for five minutes asking me if I have a lighter, I reply that I don’t and fall back to sleep. Two minutes later he’s banging on the door again, asking me if I have matches. I string together enough cuss words to make a sailor blush. Mistaking me for an authentic Russian, he invites me to drink with him. I tell him to piss off and he finally takes the hint, leaving me to spend the night battling Osh’s mosquitoes.

The following morning Johnnybek wakes me at 8, as agreed and takes me to see the town’s sights. Before we leave, he recounts the previous night’s shenanigans to me. While I wait in the car, he chats with the woman running the hotel, and afterwards tells me she offered to sleep with him for 100 som, he said he’ll take her up on it later. She is over fifty and incredibly overweight, as was the woman sitting in the car the previous evening, I think I know his preference.

We climb Solomon’s Throne, a small mountain smack bang in the middle of Osh, visiting the museum at the top. For once, I pay the local price and am glad I speak Russian.

The view from atop Solomon’s Throne, Osh sprawls out into the distance in all directions.

Making a stop by the bazaar, where fruits and berries are incredibly cheap, I devour a couple of kilos of cherries and raspberries. Following the rather lazy day, we head over to Johnnybek’s, drink copious amounts of Vodka and eat kebabs.

Johnnybek’s place of residence is no ordinary house or apartment. He’s retired from the military and has taken up a job as nightwatchman at a childcare centre out near Osh’s airport. There’s a couch set up in the administrators office and a hard bed outside, I choose the outside bed wanting to sleep under the stars. Osh’s mosquitoes return at night and I’m back at war.

Sunset in Osh, Kyrgyzstan

Having cleared the checkpoints, I continue travelling in the truck towards Osh. I know realistically there’s no way we’ll reach Osh given the quality of the road and the speed of the truck, however we have more than enough time to reach Sary Tash, a town at the cross roads of Osh, China and Tajikistan.

As the sun begins to set, our truck becomes stuck in the mud. The next hour and a half is spent digging and adding rocks to the road for a new passage. Fifteen people in total are working together to tow the truck out of the ditch. Several tow cables are snapped, but finally we are freed from the ditch and are able to resume the trip.

Unfortunately, barely half an hour passes and we’re stuck again, only this time everyone else has gone on ahead. The driver doesn’t seem too fussed, while I’m thinking I should have packed some food/water for the trip. Fortunately for us, another truck driver breaks down 20m behind us, has a honeydew melon, tea and lots of pastries, problem solved.

After the feast, we head back to our truck to get some much needed kip. The night provides little sleep due to the extreme cold (all the water in the puddles around the truck freezes at some point in the night). To add to the experience, there’s an earthquake in the morning.

Waking up in the morning, I find there’s now three trucks here, us stuck in the mud, the truck behind us broken down and now sitting next to us, at an angle so steep that a strong gust of wind would blow it over, with some wheels in the air, a truck that tried to pass us in the middle of the night.

The guys seem to be in no real rush to work on freeing/repairing the trucks; several hours pass and another comes past, with a Niva 4wd escorting it. Two men in camouflage gear hop out of the Niva, inspect the dirt road next to our truck (we’re stuck in a wide patch of road) and decide it’s safe for their truck to cross. Another truck travelling in the opposite direction ignores their requests to stop and wait and comes flying past. One of the men in camo articulates his opinions so colourfully in Russian “Rushing you c*nt, can’t wait a f*cking second, I’ll f*cking chase you down and bludgeon you to death, f*ck your mother you gay c*nt” I decide to not try and ask the soldiers for a lift, lest they turn their anger on me. I find out later they’re not soldiers, just armed guards escorting their truck and its cargo to Osh.

The amazing landscape where our truck breaks down at over 4000m altitude.

The truck drivers, having all taken small naps now tell me we’ve been invited for tea in a yurt, not far down the mountain. We make the trip down and have a small feast of Naan bread, tea and cream; the farmers up in the mountains may not be rich, but like the many Tibetans I met, show only the best hospitality.

After breakfast, we return to the road and spend the next several hours waiting, the drivers for machinery to get them out of their predicament, myself for a new lift to Osh.

My salvation comes in the form of Narim and his military truck heading to Osh from the border post at Irkeshtan. I wonder what sort of military cargo he’s carrying as I climb in the truck.

We make the first of two stops to deliver the cargo shortly after he picks me up. To the farmers in this yurt, we deliver the majority of the highly sensitive military cargo, firewood and charcoal. The final piece of cargo, one sheep, we deliver later to another yurt.

Sary Tash, where I’d intended to spend the night on the way to Osh.

The ride is uneventful all the way to Osh, we make a stop for the driver (Narim) to introduce me to the wonderful taste of кымыз (Kheuh-Meuz), bitter tasting horse milk. It’s supposed to be very good for you, but like salted yak butter-milk tea from Tibet, it’ll take some getting used to.

Arriving at the Chinese border at Irkeshtan - after being sent away at the Torugart Pass, they wanted me to go back to Kashgar, organise a guide, permit and driver - I walk past a long line of waiting trucks to the Chinese immigration point. After putting my bag through the checkpoint, one of the soldiers asks to see my laptop. I turn it on for him and watch as he fumbles around and opens up a random document. Satisfied he tells me I can put it away. Thankfully he’s not a trained cryptanalyst and doesn’t discover the cache of forbidden materials stored on the laptop.

As I’m putting away the laptop, he notices my Lonely Planet China and Central Asia guidebooks and takes them for closer inspection. Finding the map of China in the guidebook, he tells me it’s illegal, Taiwan is not a country, it’s a province. I’m thinking the guy is not a genius, but a douche, I’m leaving the country within four minutes and he should just mind his own business. He rips out the map and lets me keep the book. I in turn keep my mouth shut.

After finally clearing the Chinese border checkpoint, I’m free to enter Kyrgyzstan, however I cannot walk across the small stretch of no man’s land and I have no means of transport. Normally this would be a problem, however the Chinese soldier in charge of guarding the exit gate salutes me as I walk out, follows me out and flags down a truck.

Ordering the truck driver to take me as a passenger, we make the drive down the stretch of no man’s land, only to reach a Chinese checkpoint. Here the driver gets rid of me, and now I’m stuck in no man’s land with no valid Chinese visa and no onward transport to Kyrgyzstan.

Oh, and there’s a small drama with my passports that’s upsetting the Chinese soldier inspecting it, he decides he doesn’t want me to pass. Never mind him, I clear it all up with his commanding officer who speaks great English by telling him how beautiful the country is and how I can’t wait to visit again. In return, he lets me pass and organises another truck to take me to the Kyrgyz border post.

Landmark marking the China/Kyrgyzstan border.

Arriving at the first Kyrgyz border post I’m greeted by two soldiers sitting in a small shed. On seeing my Russian passport, the commanding officer breaks out in a huge smile, “Ivan Alexandrovich, welcome to Kyrgyzstan”, shaking my hand enthusiastically, “How is it in China?”, “Beautiful, how is it in Kyrgyzstan?”, I reply. “What kind of a question is that?”, he asks, looking at me like I’m an idiot. That ends our conversation.

The truck continues onward to the next checkpoint where we wait for over an hour while other trucks go through immigration/customs. The quick thing to do would be to get out, walk and hitch another lift, but I’m in no real rush.

When it’s our turn to clear customs, one of the soldiers points me to the checkpoint (a little wooden shed) where a solder takes my passport, asking me why it wasn’t stamped earlier. I tell him I didn’t know it had to be, and that I’m sorry. He asks me why the passport is in such poor condition and if it’s a forgery. I explain to him how I came into Laos and was drenched on the final day of Laos New Year.

After some back and forth, I’m finally allowed to pass to the final checkpoint where again, the guard is less than pleasant. However finally, after a several hour ordeal, I’m in Kyrgyzstan.

Leaving Kashgar (temporarily), I head to Karakul Lake, to find they want to sell me a ticket to see the lake. I tell them where to stick their ticket and head on down to the lake anyway.

After a really cold swim in the lake, I take a nap. I awaken to the sight of five stark naked Kyrgyz boys bathing in the water. One of them takes this as the perfect opportunity to offer me a home-stay in his yurt. If he’d at least covered his package while he spoke, I would have thought about it.

I find a guy with a tourist horse and he offers me a great rate, 2 hours, 20 Yuan. Only catch is that he wants me to ride the horse to his village (it’s the end of the day and the horse needs rest). I don’t mind and take off into the mountains, with the poor boy left to chase us. After a few kilometres I stop and wait for the now exhausted boy to catch up. He asks if he can ride on the back of the horse, I tell him he can for 10 Yuan. He doesn’t get the joke.

With him on the back, we start heading back to his village. His friends catch up and they decide to make some more money.

Boy: To the village is two hours, 20 Yuan.

Me: Yes, two hours, 20 Yuan.

Boy: You will come back by motorbike.

Me: Great.

Boy: For 50 Yuan.

Me: Go f*ck yourself buddy, two hours I’m paying 20 Yuan, you can give me a lift back for free or we ride around here and you get off the horse.

Boy: Please motorbike for 20 Yuan.

Me (turning the horse around): Get off the horse, I’m getting my money’s worth.

Boy: No please, I stay on.

The horse at this point is exhausted and is barely moving, despite my `encouragement`.

Me: Your horse is dying, I’m getting off.

I get off the horse.

Boy: No look (hits the horse), see so much energy, let’s go two hours.

The horse will die if I ride it for two hours and he goes to take it home afterwards. I tell him no thanks and since it’s been under an hour, give him 10 Yuan for his pathetic business skills and out of pity.

He gives me a green rock and tells me I can have it as a present. I give him a sarcastic thanks since I can see where this is going. One minute later he points to my iPod and says present. I tell him he can have a smack upside the head instead, bid him farewell and hope the horse doesn’t die on the way home.

World’s worst businessman.

I spend the night in a concrete yurt (Kyrgyz tent) by the lake.

In the morning, I try and hitch a lift back. I offer 30 Yuan, the guy says 70. I tell him I paid 50 to get here. He tells me the local price is 50, but for me 70, I tell him to bugger off and start walking down the highway, the view is nice and the weather amazing. I’m picked up five minutes later by a jeep and meet some really cool people.

Greg is in Kashgar as part of the crew for a TV show that will have a group of British teens retracing the steps of Marco Polo by crossing the Taklamakan Desert, climbing a mountain and partaking in other fun activities. He’s a mountaineer and adventurer and shares some really cool stories.

Ali Tash is one of the translators/guides/geniuses that make things work and as I sit in the jeep he points out some landmarks, a former caravanserai (camp for the camel caravans that used to move along the Silk Road) and also handles a few fires that tend to arise from needing things done yesterday. He runs a tour company Uighur Tour, speaks fluent English, Chinese and Uighur (being Uighur himself) and is an incredibly likeable guy. If you’re looking to do a tour anywhere in Xinjiang (Kashgar, Urumqi, Taklamakan Desert, Muztag Ata etc), I’d recommend him as your first point of contact.

After arriving back at Kashgar, we catch up for dinner, Greg, Polly (also part of the team) and a woman who’s name escapes me (from CCTV and I hear is absolutely amazing getting past Chinese red tape). We chat about travels, mountain climbing and sailing. These guys are seriously adventurous, having climbed Everest and a half dozen other mountains between them. I plan on taking up climbing in Canada and now have the dream of one day buying a small sail boat and sailing the world.

Experiences like this make me recommend hitch hiking as a means of travel, even if it ends up costing the same as buses/trains.