From all accounts, Kyrgyzstan can be considered as the emerald of Central Asia. It possesses that mesmerising combination of glistening expanses of water and tumbling rivers under a sky opening up to a vista of snowy and rocky mountains and green hills either forested or segmented into grassy jailoos. Song Kol is no exception. Each area of Kyrgyzstan is something different. Whilst Karakol had deep wooded valleys and towering crags, Song Kol is a desolate landscape of dry hills greening to high rounded mountain tops punctured by rocky peaks and the occasional patch of snow. Coming over a pass to a view of the lake is a phenomenal experience. The large freshwater body nestles into a ring of mountains and pastures feeding the lake with snowmelt. Waking to a crystal clear morning with the deep blue sky paling with the sunrise and the mountains reflected off the calm water was a stilling experience. Song Kol is not the sort of place you can just pass through. It imminently stops you in your tracks, demanding a pause and contemplation.
The lake is not the only thing that will interrupt your journey: the local hospitality will hold you up for a while, too! Sitting by the lake for a day enjoying the sunshine and the view and not having to walk anywhere after a hard day’s trek, we had frequent visitors from the Kyrgyz in the surrounding bosi (yurts), mainly men and boys wandering around on their horses checking the livestock grazing languidly on the hillsides. Despite the shadow of a language barrier, they would often be content just lazing around with us at our campsite, drinking chay (although our lack of sugar didn’t seemed to please them much, as the locals drink all their tea with at least a good teaspoonful) and enjoying the pleasant weather. One young boy approached us on a horse many times his size. He rode with the natural competence of someone who is growing up in unison with their animals, and after springing off his mount with the agility of a high jumper he came and spent a couple of hours rummaging through our equipment. He was curious about anything mechanical, and his ability to decipher the mechanisms and utility of the items he found was impressive. He also annexed my camera for a little while and wandered around close to our tents, taking photos of anything that aroused his curiosity.
A taste for kumuz is also essential. Wandering around the jailoos, you never know when you will be dragged into a yurt for chay, kumuz, naan with delicious fresh cream, sour yoghurt or even a dinner of langhmian or kyrdak. Kyrgyz hospitality seems to be centred round the consumption of kumuz, or fermented mare’s milk. The drink resembles sour milk (but without the rancid off taste) mixed with soda water and a dollop of alcohol. It is sold in summer all along the roads out of town. Even in Bishkek women sit with coolers of kumuz which is sold by the cupful to passers by as a refreshment from the heat of the city. Hiking up a mountain, determined to get back to Bishkek to organise myself before leaving the country, a small boy waved me over to the top of a hill overlooking the lake. Like many of the kids around the countryside of Kyrgyzstan he displayed poise beyond his years, and he had unforgettable piercing blue eyes set in an Asiatic face. After a greeting of salam aleykum and the obligatory handshake, he took me up the hill. Suddenly there appeared an old man sitting cross-legged. He smiled at me, putting away a set of binoculars into its worn case. His crimson clothes and black leather vest and riding boots reminded me heavily of a Tibetan monk, lingering on the hilltop to survey and ponder the world through wisened eyes. I paused for a moment, the old man signalling for me to sit beside him and rest for a moment. I tried to explain that I was in a hurry, but the concept of rushing is not one that seems natural to many of the nomadic herders. He literally dragged me to the ground, and pulled out two old coke bottles. One contained the sour yoghurt which, being unpasteurised I still struggle to feel comfortable consuming, the other contained the ubiquitous kumuz. I was forced to sit and sip the tart liquid, and explain my route to and from Song Kol. Like all the locals, the old man requested a couple of photos, to which I gladly obliged, and he took a few of me. Whilst I was eager to get on, moments like these are the ones that you cherish, sitting on a hilltop with a kindly old man, watching the sun swell its presence across the amazing panorama with his young companion astride a horse champing at the bit.
The generosity of the locals did not stop with kumuz. An adolescent and an older man visited us during the day, informing us that they would be out catching balyk, and asking us if we wanted any. We didn’t really want to pay for more food, having enough rations, but a fresh addition of fish to our meal was welcome. They kept insisting that we take three, but we told them one would be enough to flavour our dinner. Evening came and we saw no sign of the pair, and presumed they had forgotten about the fish. We began preparing some rice – a risotto type meal with some bits and pieces we had left – when they appeared with three fish. They kept insisting we take the three, one for each of our company, but we had already plenty of food on the cooker. We finally agreed to take two, trying not to be impolite, but again not keen on paying the probably exorbitant price they were about to charge us. We asked them how much for the fish. They laughed at us. It was then we realised how rude we had been in not accepting the three fish, being gifts. We felt terrible as they walked off with one small fish in hand, the pair probably wondering what the hell they were going to do with one fish. They also invited us later to take some kumuz, and as night fell we strode over to their bosi and drank the beverage with some fresh naan and cream.
Song Kol, like all places along my travels, was not a dream run, however. The commencement of the journey began discordantly. The mashrutka from Bishkek to Kochkor, the main transport hub in that area, was easy enough and priced at a reasonable 250 som, just a little more than local price. It was along this road that we entered into some horrendous weather, with dark summer storm clouds dumping sizable hail on the van as it wound it’s way through the mountain passes. The trip from Kochkor along the road to Chayek involved some intense negotiations. Taxi drivers the world over seem to be breed of greedy overpricers eager to sly you out of money at any opportunity. The rate for just thirty or forty kilometres was at minumum 1200 som and the highest bid was over 2500 som. We finally persuaded a young guy in a mashrutka to take three of us for a total of 500 som. The lad was cussed by one of the sleazy taxi drivers for dealing him out of a fare, and the driver jumped in his taxi and squeezed through the people as we were loading the back of the van with our bags, trying to nudge us with his car as retribution. We were on our way when rain once again pelted down along the road. We looked at each other, all pondering what we had gotten ourselves into. The driver and boy didn’t know the pass at which we wanted to be dropped, so we sat hunched over the map in the crowded bus examining the landmarks. We eventually found the spot, and disembarked to a bitter wind and soaking drizzle in an empty, desolate landscape. The boy and another passenger kept reconfirming whether this was the right spot, a slight look of concern on their faces. We reassured them that this was where we wanted to be, but we far from reassured ourselves. That afternoon we made it over the first pass into a valley with a couple of bosi and camped on the other side.
Despite the miserable start, the weather soon turned for us over the next couple of days. The recent rain cleared the air of dust, and the sun decided to prevail within a high crisp blue sky. This meant the views wherever we reached a height were astonishing. Walking back to a town called Kyzart in my attempt to get back to Bishkek, I took a ‘shortcut’ where I bumped into the old man and his young relative. It turned out to be a ‘wrongcut’ and added time onto my journey and considerable effort as I was forced to climb a mountain, not a pass, to get to the town. Cursing myself and concerned that I would be running out of time, and beginning to fatigue as I climbed the slopes, I reached the ridgetop. The view took my breath away. The wide river valley in which several local towns sat stretched on to more mountain ranges in the distance. Back along the path, the lake could still be seen between the peaks of the valley. Before me rolled a rugged set of barren dry hills before more ranges. Being so high, snowy peaks disappeared into the horizon. I climbed one of the rocky summits next to the saddle. The feeling was invigorating. With a cool mountain breeze stirring the air, the sunshine beaming down, and uninterrupted panoramas, I had a sense of being in the middle of the backbone of the world. With the knowledge that large mountain ranges stretched in every direction, I felt as if I really was in the centre of the globe, and world stretched away before me.
After this rejuvenating sensation and the free feeling of making my way down the mountain slope into the valley, I knew that I still had a struggle before me to get back to the capital. Entering Kyzart, it was amazing the difference between the warmth and generosity of the locals around the lake, and the distrust cultivated towards those remaining in Kyzart. This was all the harder to reconcile myself to, as I knew that many of those whom I had met came from Kyzart and were only in the mountains for the summer pastures. I stopped by some locals including some young boys, and asked them for the direction to the mashrutka to Kochkor. I had a map, so knew the general direction in which I needed to head and had some idea of the layout of Kyzart, but was looking for a turnoff from the road from the mountains to the main highway. One of the boys told me to follow him, and I acquiesced. He was friendly enough, but then began telling me as we walked that, being Saturday, there were no mashrutka or taxis or even cars to take me back to Kochkor. He kept insisting that he knew where I could pitch my tent in Kyzart (obviously for a fee), and that I could catch the bus the next day. Through hand signals I explained to him that I needed to get back to Bishkek as my visa was expiring. The boy continued to harass me to stay, and began asking me dubious questions like how many som I was carrying, and could he see my passport. I soon realised that he was deliberately hampering me. He then took me to this field in the middle of town and pointed in a vague direction as to where the centre street was, and then had the cheek to demand money off me for showing the way to nowhere. If I didn’t have a map, I would have been well and truly disoriented and would have wandered around for a while searching for the right direction. Another street that I had pointed out that I thought was the way to the centre of town he had also blatantly lied about. When he demanded money I walked off in a huff, all the more angry because of the strong contrast between the experiences of the last few days.
I finally made my way up to the main highway between Kochkor and Chayek. One car came past, but refused to stop. I waited for a while. It was a hot day, and the heat shimmered off the asphalt as the road stretched on into the valley, devoid of cars. I sighed. It looked like the boy may have been right. I began to walk to the next town, Jymgal, in the hope that I might be able to pick a lift from there. Two more cars past me as I walked. Finally one car of locals stopped for me. They were happy to give me a free lift, unfortunately it was only to the next village. In the village I stopped at a small general store on the main street to grab some more water, the dry landscape providing me with no opportunity to refill my bottles. Some locals loitered around the shop. I asked about mashrutkas and cars heading to Kochkor, and again I was told that there was no possibility of getting a lift. One of the guys, who by all intents appeared to be heading in the opposite direction to Chayek, offered to give me a lift to Kochkor in his car for 2000 som. I laughed an angry laugh: there was no way I was paying some exorbitant fee for getting to Kochkor. There is one thing that riles me whilst travelling, and that is the perception amongst people from other countries that travellers are somehow laden with dollar bills falling out of our pockets and just itching to give money away. His car was no Mercedes, but his decent clothes and well groomed appearance belied the fact that he was no pauper. It frustrates me to think that people like this probably have more money than myself, a traveller with their entire lives strapped to their backs, and still they think that we leak funds with abandon. I walked out of the shop, then came to another small one, intent on stocking up for another day’s provisions so that I could begin to walk to Kochkor, and if nothing came that day, I could camp the night along the road and hitch a lift in the morning or walk the rest of the way. I bought some vegetables and dried noodles and stepped out of the shop.
Suddenly, I looked to my right, and lo and behold a mashrutka was stopped by the side of the road. I hurried up to it, filled with trepidation that it could represent a false hope. The hope was not betrayed. Not only was it a way to get to Kochkor, the mashrutka was going straight through to Bishkek. The vehicle admittedly ended up breaking down along the way and an empty van picked up the passengers, extending the trip to five hours, but for 250 som instead of the 2000 that the driver in Jymgal wanted, I was more than happy. The passengers were an extremely friendly lot, too. I whipped out my phrasebook and attempted to communicate a few concepts with them, but whilst the book may be practical for catching a bus or acquiring accommodation, it doesn’t quite provide for enquiries about family, occupation and other details about daily life. Coupled with the antics of an older guy who was keen to share bottles of vodka and kumuz and who in his intoxication didn’t quite understand that hand signals wouldn’t go astray when talking to a foreigner in Kyrgyz, we all had a good laugh. The Kyrgyz spirit reappeared and affirmed my faith in their warmth and friendliness.
Walking back into the hostel late at night, tired, dirty and hungry, it felt like a homecoming, having spent much of my time in Kyrgyzstan in the homely guesthouse. Flicking through some photos of Song Kol, sipping a well-earned beer, my little snapshot camera far from did the landscape justice. There is no substitute for being able to stand on a mountain top and feel your chest expand, breathing in the cool air and relishing the open sky and terrain stretching on to a horizon. Song Kol, like the rest of Kyrgyzstan, refreshed my soul.
