I had never seen roses like the ones I saw in Sergei’s yard in the Yak Tours guesthouse in Karakol. Brilliant velvet red blooms and pale roses with petals edged in pink cascaded over doorways and roofs, filling garden beds and exuding the most delicate relaxing odour. I had pitched my tent late, and so it was only waking to a sunny morning that I could fully appreciate the rambling garden that surrounded me. Bishkek was already a green relief from the chaos and urbanity of China, but the smells and visual sensation of the yard felt portentous of the landscape I was about to witness.
After acquiring some supplies from the local supermarket in the morning I took the bus to the end of a road, the houses thinning as we went farther out of town. Eventually I was the only passenger left and the driver U-turned on his way back along the route. I hopped off, heaved pack and set off towards the hills. My heart skipped a beat as I walked along that dusty road in the midday sun towards the mountains that sprouted into view around the bends of the hills. It felt good to be alone, heading into wilderness. My journey was soon waylaid, however, by good old Kyrgyz amicability. About an hour into the walk I crossed a bridge and passed a clearing along the river where a large group of locals had gathered. As I made my way along the road a group of young men, in their late teens, approached me. I began to pass with trepidation but gave them a few smiles as I went. They closed in and called out salam aleykum in greeting. I decided I should stop and held out my hand to return the greeting, unsure of their motives. As I stopped they were overtly friendly and asked a few questions like where I was from and whether I could speak Russian.
They pulled me away from the track to the clearing to rest. I came to a huge mat that had been spread on the grass. Around it sat some older folks. On the mat itself was an array of plates of salad and fried dough and sweets and biscuits, and at the end of the mat was a huge urn of tea. It became apparent that they were a class of school leavers, celebrating together with their families the conclusion of school for the summer. I sat and tried to talk for a while with the help of a girl who spoke some English. They insisted that I stay for some shashylik, having recognised the remains of a sheep on my way into the clearing, but I explained I had to be on my way as I had only just commenced my walk and I needed to get to the camping spot before dark. It was a shame that I couldn’t have stayed. I drank a few cups of tea and ate a little of what was on the mat. We took a few photos and then I decided I had to keep walking. They handed me a plastic bag of fried dough and some sweets as I left, and wished me a safe journey. This was my first taste of Kyrgyz hospitality.
I had never navigated in such mountainous surroundings before, and from the topographic trekking map I still found it difficult to figure out exactly where I was. I didn’t know my rate of movement, so after a few hours I couldn’t tell how far I had come. I was trying to get to the Sirota Base Camp, a flat area along the Karakol River that served as a stopover for the trek over to Ala Kol – a lake positioned at 3500m that was the feature of the journey – and for the longer trek to Jeti-Oghuz, a town west of Karakol. It began to become a little late and dark clouds rolled in over the mountains. The wind picked up and the temperature dropped. A storm was approaching. I crossed a brook of crystal clear cold water that had spilled out over the track and came to a flat area in the valley where the river meandered and changed course. A few flatter spots occurred higher up before the treeline leading up to the high mountains. The clouds and mountains blocked the sunshine and though it was still early for sunset, dark began to descend. I decided to pitch my tent for the night as there was some cleaner water nearby that I could boil, and flat areas to camp away from the river.
It was a lonely, eerie evening. The storm that I saw on the horizon dissipated at the mountain before my campsite, and there was even dusk as the setting sun peeped beneath the clouds to illuminate the tops of the mountains and tinge the underside of the sky red. The area I had chosen to spend the night had a wild, desolate feel to it. High rocky crags appeared shear out of the forest on either side of the river. Except for the stony four-wheel-drive track that scampered amongst the boggy grass there was no indication of humans. Noises in the forest reminded me that there were wild animals in the area: wolves, leopards and big game, though these were usually found further into the mountains away from the yurts and livestock of the locals who forayed into the valleys in summer. As soon as I had eaten some dinner and darkness finally fell I retreated to my tent and fell asleep listening to the sounds of the river and the valley around me. It was a restless night. Livestock wandered passed the tent at one point, stamping and sniffing around. There was a massive rockfall somewhere across the valley. I awoke to the cracking of boulders off a cliff-face and the tumble of rocks down the mountainside. This left me dozing with the thought of a boulder suddenly careening through my tent in the night. Finally the storm that had been brewing around the peaks hit my camp. I huddled in my tent, the new purchase being severely tested as the wind picked up, lightening and thunder pounded around me and the rain bucketed down. The storm was brief, and I managed to get some more sleep before sunrise.
The sun dawned on the mountaintops, though their height prevented dawn from sunning the valley floor. This meant I unfortunately had to pack a wet tent. I finally made it to the timber bridge that people had informed me signalled the turn-off east up to the lake. It took some confusion to figure out that this was the way. The path disappeared beneath a thick forest as the bridge crossed the river. I found the Sirota Base Camp just passed the bridge not an hour’s walk form my campsite. It was a much better camping spot where I would have spent a less lonely night. I stopped and asked some other Westerners whether the bridge led to the correct valley. It did. I retraced my steps, hesitated at which direction I should take, and plunged into the forest. There was a faint path that snaked its way through the undergrowth, which in places was so thick that I had to push my way through, getting soaked with the remnant wetness from the previous night’s storm. The ground was damp and mossy, and there was a complete canopy of some kind of fir or spruce. I couldn’t see the direction in which I was travelling. Faint glimpses of mountain tops through the trees and a general feeling of travelling uphill told me that I was probably heading the correct way. I felt I was in some fairytale forest, about to be led into the depths to be lost amongst the trees eternally. The path then steepened and I began to climb through thinning trees. I eventually appeared into a clear area amongst thick flowering herbs with bees and wasps humming in the sunshine.
The path went on and on and on. The climb was steep and steady and tiring, and every new bend looked as if it might be the end and reveal the mouth of the lake. It did not. Eventually the trees stopped, and the path wound through brambles and other small bushes and summer herbs. I came to a small pond where I stopped to have some lunch. The scenery took on a distinctive barren feel, as if any life here had a very temporary foothold. There was a cascade that fed the lake farther on; I swore that it had to be the mouth of the lake. Snow-capped mountains peeked around the corner. I climbed, and found yet another valley with the river tumbling over rocks from a cascade at its end. I sighed. Eventually I came to a point where there was a cascade pouring over a chunk of remnant ice. I had given up hope of coming to the lake anytime soon, and staring at this icy waterfall I felt as if I was climbing to the roof of the world. I scrambled up the slope beside the noisy stream.
Finally my heart jumped as I glimpsed glinting blue water between some rocks. The path levelled and I strode to a vantage point. The scene below took my breath away. I had never witnessed a body of water like it. The lake was not huge, but it sat in such desolately beautiful surroundings. It sat in a bowl formed by two rows of mountains. The side on which I stood had rocky peaks and scree slopes that stepped down to some greener slopes leading to the water’s edge. The end from which I had appeared was the mouth of the lake where the lake’s icy waters spilled down the valley on their way to Karakol and eventually Issyk Kol. At the head of the lake at the far end was a flat white glacier retreating up the slope, feeding the lake. The far side, however, was the most spectacular. A ridge of jagged peaks sunk shear into the water, their snowy tops like the jaws of a shark. More peaks could be seen behind these. The scene was beautiful, and like many landscapes no photograph could do it justice. There is nothing like standing in a landscape like this, particularly after a long and tiring hike, feeling the icy wind on your cheek, your heart pounding from the exertion, adrenalin feeding into your system at the sight of a panorama that reminds you how truly small you are compared to the timelessness and expanse of the world.
The most magnificent feeling was the solitude and silence as I drifted to sleep that night, camping alone at 3600m amongst the mountains, and then waking in the morning to a crystal clear blue sky cold against the rocks and snow of the mountains, and the sun spreading its rays across the lake. I packed up, took a deep breath, and then started for the pass. It was hard going, as the path was nothing more than a faint line through the scree slope. Each step lost power as loose rocks varying in size from pebbles to boulders slipped under my feet. The climb to the lake made my heart skip, the view from the pass at 3860m made it palpatate. It wasn’t a wide vista stretching into the distance. What made it special was that at the height of the pass, you could see the peaks disappearing beyond the line of mountains beside the lake. It gave me a tingling feeling, to see summit after summit, knowing from maps that these mountains were some of the highest in the world, the tallest of the peaks being beyond 7000m, and that the range was massive, extending pretty well unbroken through to the Pamir all the way to the Hindu Kush and eventually to the Himalayas. Peaks capped with snow protruded along the ridge to my left and right. The valley leading down to Arashan opened behind me.
Reluctantly I descended down the other side of the pass, slipping and sliding down the scree until I got to firm ground not far down the other side of the mountain. I paused for a break on a rock, looking down the valley, the sun shining on my back. Suddenly, I felt the air go cold. The sun disappeared, and the air became heavy and still. I looked up. A black cloud sped over the pass. I swore, packing up the food and rushed to put on thermals and wet weather gear. Within ten minutes sleet began to fall. I just managed to get my things packed before the precipitation appeared. The wind picked up, frigid and wet with sleet. I strode down the valley. The sleet began falling thick and fast, and the valley became white: I couldn’t see the mountains around me and could only see a couple of hundred metres ahead. Eventually, between gusts of wind, the air was still and the sleet transformed into small flakes of snow, falling thick but almost in slow motion, crystalline structures disappearing into patches of wetness against my jacket and on the ground around me. The ground began to become patches of white amongst the grasses and rocks. Despite the cold and wet, and the prospect of perhaps having to walk the rest of the way in this weather, the storm had a serenity that was tantalising.
It wasn’t long, however, before the clouds rolled on and the sun appeared, forcing me to strip once again in the summer warmth. The storm hung for a while around the lower valley, the clouds releasing some lightening and thunder, and the sleet and snow transforming into heavy rain. Whilst the climb up felt long because it was steep, the descent was just long. The way down to Altyn Arashan was a long slow drop from 3500m along the floors of two valleys down to 2500m. Unfortunately the maps I had were not clear as to where to cross the Arashan River. It appeared that I had to cross back over the stream coming down the valley from the pass, then somehow cross the Arashan before reaching the village. I was puzzled, as I presumed there would have to be decent bridge in the village. After a little wandering I found a small bridge to cross the first stream, now swollen with the rain of the recent storms. I followed the Arashan along the valley, looking out for somewhere to cross. The river was tumultuous and muddy, foaming dirty white as it swiftly flowed between the mountains.
I came to a small bridge across the river: nothing more than a couple of logs with a few cross bars perched across two boulders on either side of the river. It looked precarious to say the least, and once again I wondered at the absence of something more sturdy. It occurred at about the point that the path on the map indicated to cross. Not wanting to have to spend time back tracking to the bridge, I decided to try it. The logs were not too thick, and flexed under the weight of me and my pack. It was nerve racking as I tried to keep steady, knowing that I was top heavy and the slightest flex in the bridge could send me into the river, and probably halfway back to Karakol, alive if I was lucky. With a last couple of steps I crossed the river. My heart sank. The river was so swollen that the remaining gap of about five metres, usually crossed by stepping on a couple of smaller boulders, was now under some fast flowing water. There was nothing for it, but to try and gain a footing on the boulder and hope to only get my ankles wet as I crossed. The jump from the bridge was too high, so I crabbed down low wedging myself across the gap between the boulders. The boulder between the bridge and the bank was slippery. I crossed my fingers and hoped that as I transferred my weight my boots would find a purchase and I could launch myself across to the bank. They didn’t, and I slipped thigh-deep into the frigid water. I jumped up to the bank. Looking down at my soaked pants and boots the hot springs of Altyn Arashan would be very welcome. I glanced back at the river. It was only then that my peril in using this crossing sunk in. The river seemed to roar angrily at having missed a possible victim.
I squelched along trying to find the dirt road that was meant to follow the river on this bank. Gradually I became aware that the squelching was not a result of my wet boots, but the ground underfoot was wet. I walked a little further then sunk calf-deep into mud. I sighed. I had entered some kind of mire, where the stream from the mountains spread out into the grass creating a muddy field. I extracted my feet from the mud, and tried to jump from tussock to tussock, slipping now and again back into the mud. Eventually I managed, wet and muddy, to find the road again, and I squelched along until Altyn Arashan came into view. It consisted simply of a couple of large country buildings and a few outhouses and yurts. As I came through, I came across a Russian man with Colonel-style moustache and baseball cap, flannel shirt and down vest. He was Valentin form the Yak Tours hotel a little further down the valley.
I was overcharged at the hot baths and was a little unnerved by the prices charged by Valentin, possible because of the lack of competition in the ‘village’. But I didn’t care. I pitched my tent, and spent nearly an hour in and out of the soothing hot water, warmed naturally to a perfect hot bath temperature. The baths were old concrete pools a couple of metres long protected by old timber and rusty iron sheds. Scale from the sulphur salts was thick on the walls. The water and pools were crystal clear and clean, however, and the steaming liquid was invigorating despite the slight sulphurous smell. A hot dinner and a fireplace discussion with another Australian couple who were coincidentally in the springs complex finished the evening perfectly and I slept well that evening, finally warm and comfortable.
The walk back to town dragged a little. The descent was strange, coming from lush alpine valleys into dry hills. I passed a village. I was almost going to try and hitch or pay a taxi, if one would pass, but noticed that a mashrutka had disappeared down the road in the opposite direction. I figured that if it went all the way out of town, it would have to come back and at least make it to Aksu, and from there I could get to Karakol. It seemed an eternity: the road never seemed to make it to Aksu and there was no mashrutka. Finally, the grunting sound of a minivan engine signalled that my gamble had payed off, and payed handsomely. The mashrutka went all the way back to Karakol. My only disappointment in heading back to Karakol was that there was no hot water in the guesthouse when I returned. A good hot cleansing shower would have to wait until Bishkek.
The next morning I decided to try to make it to the Pzerwalski’s museum out of town before heading to the southern shore of Issyk Kol. I went in search of the bus, but had to resort to a taxi to get out there. Despite this, the trip was worth it. I had a wonderful English speaking guide who told me all about the memorial and the history of the Cossack explorer. He managed to criss-cross China and Central Asia over several expeditions and tragically never completed his penultimate journey to finally contact the Dalai Lama in Lhasa, contracting typhus and dying by the shores of Issyk Kol. Pzerwalski was buried by the shore of the lake; now a memorial site in a park containing a small museum. The memorial is a magnificent construction from twenty-one blocks of stone, and various bronze edifices symbolising parts of his life or beliefs. I found it well worth the trek out.
That afternoon I caught the bus out to Tamga, a small town about halfway across the southern shore from Karakol. I found the little sign saying ‘Bed and Breakfast’ which indicated the guesthouse that someone had recommended. It was basically run by a couple who let some spare rooms with beds. They, too, had a garden of magnificent roses in bloom, as well as some vegetables and a chook pen beside the outdoor toilet. The afternoon was perfect for heading down to the beach, being hot and lazy. It was a long way from the guesthouse, a result of the receding shoreline. Like Pzerwalski’s grave, once on the edge of the lake and now barely within sight of the water, the sanitorium that once sat within easy reach of the water found itself stranded with the dry hills of the former lake bed and an avenue of tall poplars between it and the beach. I dozed on the beach awhile before plunging into the lake. It was relatively warm, compared to the icy waters of the mountain lakes and streams I had recently been experiencing. The dip was refreshing. I took some dinner at the guesthouse and soon after fell asleep.
The next morning I woke early to catch the mashrutka back to Bishkek, but ended up taking a share taxi instead, being quicker and much more comfortable and not much more expensive. The car was owned by a young couple who interrogated me with questions about Australia. Like many Kyrgyz frustrated by the lack of opportunity in their own country, they were keen to emigrate. Unfortunately, they were naïve about the opportunities that western countries afforded. Life is better in a country like Australia, but only if you can afford it. To struggle on low wages in a new country far away from friends and family and any other support is a hard wager, especially in the strict environment that Australia now offers. Gone are the days of the lucky country where opportunity would abound: only skills that Australia needs are welcome. Unfortunately taxi driving is one skill that doesn’t seem to be lacking amongst immigrants. I also tried to drive home to them that whilst we may earn more, we spend more, too, to keep up our lifestyles. No eighty cents for a pack of cigarettes like in Kyrgyzstan.
Walking into Nomad’s Home was like coming home. A few familiar faces, some new additions, and some people I had met in China meant that sitting down in the communal area after a hot shower and some dinner was like sitting amongst an adopted family. This was an impression that grew over the month I was in Kyrgyzstan. I relaxed, pondering over the photos reminding me of unforgettable scenery, and planning my next foray – south to the other half of Kyrgyzstan.
