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The beauty of China’s neighbor Kyrgyzstan
By Peter Krasnopolsky
Source:Global Times Published: 2016-5-6 5:03:02
A mountain road in Kyrgyzstan Photo: Peter Krasnopolsky
China's western neighbors, collectively known as the "stans" are still viewed as mysterious as they were during the Tang Dynasty (618-907) Monk Xuanzang's travels. From among them, Kyrgyzstan (or the Kyrgyz Republic), incredibly affordable and relatively accessible, offers spectacular natural beauty and a colorful Soviet cultural experience. There are no direct routes from Beijing, but in just two hours flight from Urumqi, those of adventurous type can find themselves in Bishkek, rent a car, with or without driver, and have an adventure. Bishkek is a fine representation of a cozy former Soviet city. With a population of about 1 million (the entire country is about 6 million), one can wander around the green and quiet city center and never see too many people. It is a good place to start a journey.
Legend says that when God was giving out land to the people of Earth, the Kyrgyz were sleeping. When they woke up and realized their misfortune, they pleaded to God, who took pity on them and gave them the piece of land he had originally put aside for himself.
I shared my knowledge of this story at the car rental agency. "Iron Horse Nomads," run by an American named Ryan, is one of only four car rental firms in the whole country. Ryan's American wife suggested that the legend was a bit condescending toward the Kyrgyz and offered another version in which God was on his beauty-sprinkling tour over newly created Earth and happened to flip over his beauty-containing bag while going over the country. A young and pretty Kyrgyz office manager Akylai appreciated the kinder interpretation, but said that the "sleeping at the most important moment" did sum up her people more accurately.
"We are just always late, you know," she said with a confident smile of a person who could laugh at herself, a feature shared by many of her compatriots.
Mountain adventure
Whatever the Kyrgyz lack in punctuality, they make up in friendliness, hospitality and sympathy to a traveler. This comes especially handy because whichever way God used to distribute the natural beauty to Kyrgyzstan, he didn't include paved roads in his package. Once I left Bishkek and turned off the main road, I wouldn't see asphalt for several days.
The first night I stayed at the house of Katya Eje. "Eje", as it happened, meant "older sister." Katya Eje had a simple farm house right on a bank of a fast flowing mountain river which looked fascinating at sunset. A bunch of rowdy lads, properly drunk, were swinging their pitch forks to fill up a large trailer with hay for the animals. Among them was Marat, one of Katya's seven siblings. Katya, the oldest and unmarried, shared the house with Marat's family of six. His youngest 3-year-old son kept following me around the yard.
In the early 1990's Marat had served in the Soviet Army, for the Interior Ministry forces, which meant that he had visited a few hot spots in the last days of the Soviet Union and had stories to share.
Marat didn't drink. He told me, "If I start I can't stop."
"Like going on to the next day?" I asked.
"No, like going on for the next two months," he replied.
A simple dinner of roasted potatoes and "kurduk" (mutton fat) was cooked especially for me and was included in the total price of my stay (about $12). As a gesture of hospitality Marat had Katya and his wife share the table and raise glasses with me to ensure I was not having dinner alone.
Marat's 3-year-old son stands in front of his home in Kyrgyzstan. Photo: Peter Krasnopolsky
A farm near Marat's home Photo: Peter Krasnopolsky
The following day I set out to drive to the second largest body of water in Kyrgyzstan, Son Kul. Some 3,000 plus meters above sea level in the middle of nowhere, this alpine lake is only accessible from late spring to early autumn. At times I drove for several hours without seeing another car or human being. Half a dozen of yurts catering to intrepid tourists stood on the bank of the blue and clear lake. The landscape didn't look like it belonged on Earth and in early October the piercing wind made it feel even less hospitable.
In front of one yurt a long haired Argentinean was laying on his back fixing his motorcycle. He had been on the road for three years. After a brief chat I turned around and headed south towards Osh, the southern capital. I had to climb over a 4,000-meter high mountain pass. Close to the top I ran over what must have been a large rock and damaged my brake line. The fluid ran out and left me almost without brakes. I spent the next five hours crawling forward in first gear to the nearest place with a mechanic. Ryan got in touch with a friend of a friend of a friend who found a "mechanic" in a nearby village.
The mechanic, Ardambek, picked me up right outside the village just as I was running out of gas. He towed me to his farm house where he and I drank a bottle of Kyrgyz brandy before calling it a night. When I woke up, Artambek was away sorting out parts for the car, easier said than done in a town hundreds of kilometers away from the nearest car dealer. His wife, Zul'yatun, served me a simple breakfast and tea and spent half an hour looking through every picture on my smartphone, still a novelty in that area.
Once the car was fixed, I set out in the afternoon hoping to reach Osh before nightfall. Just before another 4,000-meter plus mountain pass a hand-made sign announced that vehicles over one ton could not cross the small bridge over the river and instead had to detour a few hundred meters down the road over the shallow, albeit fast flowing river. When I saw the rapids I turned around and drove back to the bridge. It was raining and the river was swelling up. The bridge, however, after closer examination appeared to have been built for donkey carts rather than automobiles. Weighting the risk of getting stuck in the shallow water over the possibility of tipping over into it from a few meters height, I opted for the former and turned around again. Testing out the crossing required rolling up my pants and crossing the river on feet, quite a refreshing exercise during an autumn day in the mountains. Afterwards, fingers crossed, I put the car on four-wheel drive and ploughed through the water to the opposite side. This time I was lucky, but the mountain pass ahead would turn out to be a proper nightmare.
Higher up rain turned into hail and then into snow, a bit of a surprise since I spent the first half of the day wearing a T-shirt. Thick clouds decreased visibility to only a few meters. Afterwards, descending on the serpentine road seemed to take an eternity as the narrow gravel road was in many places covered by flowing water. As the fog cleared, it began to offer a magnificent view, but it was too difficult to enjoy it while imagining what would happened if the car slid.
A high mountain pass in Kyrgyzstan Photo: Peter Krasnopolsky
A flowing mountain river near Marat's home Photo: Peter Krasnopolsky
Back to Bishkek
Having lost time on rough terrain, I only managed to arrive in Osh and check in at a refurbished Soviet-style hotel close to midnight. The bar, still open, served simple food and was packed with a jovial bunch of film crew members who had come from Moscow to shoot nature scenes for a new TV drama. The next day I suffered from a massive hangover while exploring Osh, a centuries old city and important stop on the ancient Silk Road. It was from here that Babur, descendant of the Turco-Mongol conqueror Tamerlane, planned the expansion of the great Mughal Empire.
The Soviet style is even more prevalent in Osh than in Bishkek, but along with that the city, with its more diverse population, boasts the largest bazaar in Central Asia. The sad and terrifying page of Osh's recent history of ethnic violence between Kyrgyz and Uzbeks in 2010 is still visible in the form of burned and not yet rebuilt houses around the market, but life now appears more relaxed. Osh is one of those quiet places which inspires a tired traveler to wander around or just sit on a terrace of a chaihana (teahouse) and watch the world go by.
The next day I set out back to Bishkek. The 650-kilometer route takes 12 hours under normal traffic conditions, while a flight, I was told, would take a mere half an hour. To make the ride a more social affair I offered to drive two cyclists, a European couple, to Bishkek. Having started in Portugal, they had been riding for the past year and planned to reach Singapore some time next year. A month earlier, the man had been pitching a tent on the side of the Pamiri Highway in neighboring Tajikistan, one of the highest and deadliest roads in the world. He fell and broke his arm, hence couldn't ride his bike for a while, but not once did he mention the possibility of ending his trip.
Some people just cannot stay at home. Kyrgyzstan is one of those places that attracts just this type of person. On my flight back to Beijing, I kept thinking about how much I wanted to return someday.
By Peter Krasnopolsky
Source:Global Times Published: 2016-5-6 5:03:02
A mountain road in Kyrgyzstan Photo: Peter Krasnopolsky
China's western neighbors, collectively known as the "stans" are still viewed as mysterious as they were during the Tang Dynasty (618-907) Monk Xuanzang's travels. From among them, Kyrgyzstan (or the Kyrgyz Republic), incredibly affordable and relatively accessible, offers spectacular natural beauty and a colorful Soviet cultural experience. There are no direct routes from Beijing, but in just two hours flight from Urumqi, those of adventurous type can find themselves in Bishkek, rent a car, with or without driver, and have an adventure. Bishkek is a fine representation of a cozy former Soviet city. With a population of about 1 million (the entire country is about 6 million), one can wander around the green and quiet city center and never see too many people. It is a good place to start a journey.
Legend says that when God was giving out land to the people of Earth, the Kyrgyz were sleeping. When they woke up and realized their misfortune, they pleaded to God, who took pity on them and gave them the piece of land he had originally put aside for himself.
I shared my knowledge of this story at the car rental agency. "Iron Horse Nomads," run by an American named Ryan, is one of only four car rental firms in the whole country. Ryan's American wife suggested that the legend was a bit condescending toward the Kyrgyz and offered another version in which God was on his beauty-sprinkling tour over newly created Earth and happened to flip over his beauty-containing bag while going over the country. A young and pretty Kyrgyz office manager Akylai appreciated the kinder interpretation, but said that the "sleeping at the most important moment" did sum up her people more accurately.
"We are just always late, you know," she said with a confident smile of a person who could laugh at herself, a feature shared by many of her compatriots.
Mountain adventure
Whatever the Kyrgyz lack in punctuality, they make up in friendliness, hospitality and sympathy to a traveler. This comes especially handy because whichever way God used to distribute the natural beauty to Kyrgyzstan, he didn't include paved roads in his package. Once I left Bishkek and turned off the main road, I wouldn't see asphalt for several days.
The first night I stayed at the house of Katya Eje. "Eje", as it happened, meant "older sister." Katya Eje had a simple farm house right on a bank of a fast flowing mountain river which looked fascinating at sunset. A bunch of rowdy lads, properly drunk, were swinging their pitch forks to fill up a large trailer with hay for the animals. Among them was Marat, one of Katya's seven siblings. Katya, the oldest and unmarried, shared the house with Marat's family of six. His youngest 3-year-old son kept following me around the yard.
In the early 1990's Marat had served in the Soviet Army, for the Interior Ministry forces, which meant that he had visited a few hot spots in the last days of the Soviet Union and had stories to share.
Marat didn't drink. He told me, "If I start I can't stop."
"Like going on to the next day?" I asked.
"No, like going on for the next two months," he replied.
A simple dinner of roasted potatoes and "kurduk" (mutton fat) was cooked especially for me and was included in the total price of my stay (about $12). As a gesture of hospitality Marat had Katya and his wife share the table and raise glasses with me to ensure I was not having dinner alone.
Marat's 3-year-old son stands in front of his home in Kyrgyzstan. Photo: Peter Krasnopolsky
A farm near Marat's home Photo: Peter Krasnopolsky
The following day I set out to drive to the second largest body of water in Kyrgyzstan, Son Kul. Some 3,000 plus meters above sea level in the middle of nowhere, this alpine lake is only accessible from late spring to early autumn. At times I drove for several hours without seeing another car or human being. Half a dozen of yurts catering to intrepid tourists stood on the bank of the blue and clear lake. The landscape didn't look like it belonged on Earth and in early October the piercing wind made it feel even less hospitable.
In front of one yurt a long haired Argentinean was laying on his back fixing his motorcycle. He had been on the road for three years. After a brief chat I turned around and headed south towards Osh, the southern capital. I had to climb over a 4,000-meter high mountain pass. Close to the top I ran over what must have been a large rock and damaged my brake line. The fluid ran out and left me almost without brakes. I spent the next five hours crawling forward in first gear to the nearest place with a mechanic. Ryan got in touch with a friend of a friend of a friend who found a "mechanic" in a nearby village.
The mechanic, Ardambek, picked me up right outside the village just as I was running out of gas. He towed me to his farm house where he and I drank a bottle of Kyrgyz brandy before calling it a night. When I woke up, Artambek was away sorting out parts for the car, easier said than done in a town hundreds of kilometers away from the nearest car dealer. His wife, Zul'yatun, served me a simple breakfast and tea and spent half an hour looking through every picture on my smartphone, still a novelty in that area.
Once the car was fixed, I set out in the afternoon hoping to reach Osh before nightfall. Just before another 4,000-meter plus mountain pass a hand-made sign announced that vehicles over one ton could not cross the small bridge over the river and instead had to detour a few hundred meters down the road over the shallow, albeit fast flowing river. When I saw the rapids I turned around and drove back to the bridge. It was raining and the river was swelling up. The bridge, however, after closer examination appeared to have been built for donkey carts rather than automobiles. Weighting the risk of getting stuck in the shallow water over the possibility of tipping over into it from a few meters height, I opted for the former and turned around again. Testing out the crossing required rolling up my pants and crossing the river on feet, quite a refreshing exercise during an autumn day in the mountains. Afterwards, fingers crossed, I put the car on four-wheel drive and ploughed through the water to the opposite side. This time I was lucky, but the mountain pass ahead would turn out to be a proper nightmare.
Higher up rain turned into hail and then into snow, a bit of a surprise since I spent the first half of the day wearing a T-shirt. Thick clouds decreased visibility to only a few meters. Afterwards, descending on the serpentine road seemed to take an eternity as the narrow gravel road was in many places covered by flowing water. As the fog cleared, it began to offer a magnificent view, but it was too difficult to enjoy it while imagining what would happened if the car slid.
A high mountain pass in Kyrgyzstan Photo: Peter Krasnopolsky
A flowing mountain river near Marat's home Photo: Peter Krasnopolsky
Back to Bishkek
Having lost time on rough terrain, I only managed to arrive in Osh and check in at a refurbished Soviet-style hotel close to midnight. The bar, still open, served simple food and was packed with a jovial bunch of film crew members who had come from Moscow to shoot nature scenes for a new TV drama. The next day I suffered from a massive hangover while exploring Osh, a centuries old city and important stop on the ancient Silk Road. It was from here that Babur, descendant of the Turco-Mongol conqueror Tamerlane, planned the expansion of the great Mughal Empire.
The Soviet style is even more prevalent in Osh than in Bishkek, but along with that the city, with its more diverse population, boasts the largest bazaar in Central Asia. The sad and terrifying page of Osh's recent history of ethnic violence between Kyrgyz and Uzbeks in 2010 is still visible in the form of burned and not yet rebuilt houses around the market, but life now appears more relaxed. Osh is one of those quiet places which inspires a tired traveler to wander around or just sit on a terrace of a chaihana (teahouse) and watch the world go by.
The next day I set out back to Bishkek. The 650-kilometer route takes 12 hours under normal traffic conditions, while a flight, I was told, would take a mere half an hour. To make the ride a more social affair I offered to drive two cyclists, a European couple, to Bishkek. Having started in Portugal, they had been riding for the past year and planned to reach Singapore some time next year. A month earlier, the man had been pitching a tent on the side of the Pamiri Highway in neighboring Tajikistan, one of the highest and deadliest roads in the world. He fell and broke his arm, hence couldn't ride his bike for a while, but not once did he mention the possibility of ending his trip.
Some people just cannot stay at home. Kyrgyzstan is one of those places that attracts just this type of person. On my flight back to Beijing, I kept thinking about how much I wanted to return someday.
