Who would have known that travelling to this part of the world makes the conquest for the eternally elusive decent Internet connection akin to the thrill of the Crusades? Oh yes, slained my ex-Soviet monsters that sat behind the rustic table with a single light bulb-furnished glow that enhanced the lacking of hair growth upon his crown I did. Oh indeed, met my Jack Ripper-esque smokers that hung around the bus stands (read: touts that didn't give a damn that you don't understand Russian spoken in speed) I did. The haggle and the hassle, their determined stance to make you accept that it's totally acceptable that they ripped you off for a huge fare for what was a routine drive from one city to another. Did we mention too that they actually didn't have the license and correct papers to bring you across the border and wouldn't lose a night's sleep knowing beforehand that they will be leaving you stranded in no man's land while you were left at the mercy of... gasp holy Santa Maria! More touts! When they couldn't accept that they can't do a thing to make you fall for their poorly disguised money trap, they attempted to hustle you by pushing you rudely on your backpack while you walk away Hell hath no fury like a woman messed with when she's been doing days of treks in the great outdoors, had her ass frozen by near sub-zero temperature in the high jailoo, rode a horse that was as stubborn as a mule, and ate heaps of wild strawberry jam and freshly milked and produced cream. Ah, shame known to the mortal weak as he hung his head low and avoided eye contact when she swung around, backpack glistening in the morning sun, asking point blank "why did you push me?" in a tone that Clint Eastwood would approve of. Shmuck the Kyrgyzstan Police, fluck the ex-Soviet interrogation. If we're going down, then I'm going down defending my say. Anyway, thankfully I have my level-headed hubby to gently tugged my arm along the way least I did more harm to myself, although my pride would have been well preserved.
Would I come here again? Oh you betcha when you look beyond the bureaucratic great wall. Kyrgyzstan is one of the last frontier of untouched and untamed wilderness that has so blessedly been a generous lady to bequest the accessibility of pure beauty upon us ungrateful trekkers, travellers, nomads and tourists alike.
Would I come here again? Oh you betcha when you look beyond the bureaucratic great wall. Kyrgyzstan is one of the last frontier of untouched and untamed wilderness that has so blessedly been a generous lady to bequest the accessibility of pure beauty upon us ungrateful trekkers, travellers, nomads and tourists alike.
When we finally left Bishkek on a morning out to the mountains, I thought of the famed Issyk Kul. A lake crowned as the "Warm Lake" for no reason beyond that she is of the one that never freezes during winter. Some really fast drop of temperature I've heard in this part of the world when the season calls for it, but Lake Issyk proves to be an escapade for many a Russian bosses for some high mountain beach resort. We headed across the North shore on our little bus, cramped with the heady mix of early morning sweat and underarm deodarant, freshly baked bread and loud, indecipherable Russian pop music. The passing scenery was breathtaking - an endless spread of petal carpet that rolled on in all direction of the imagination with bursts of purple, canary yellow, baby pink and subdued slightly by the tempering nature of white spots dotted across patches of these blooming miracles.
We wanted to trek along the Arashan River up towards Altyn Arashan, where the famous natural hot springs provide nursing respite from the fatigue brought upon a 5-hour hike up towards the mountains. The promise ahead bore spectacular cornices of pines and raging rivers coursed by the power of melting snow. Wild animals, should you spot one (and we did!) laid among the path. At the end of the journey, sit in the natural hot springs built by a local Ukrainian man by the name Valentin, while your body oozed in the warmth of the Earth's heart while your skin prickled at the temperature's difference from the outside rainy, misty wall. For days we saw such amazing forestry display that danced with the soaring wild eagles circling above us in search for the little mountain mice that crawled amongst our scrambling boots. We saw for first witness account, the toxic mix of an ex-Soviet legacy and the fight of the brave few such as Valentin to promote his country beyond and above, quote "primitive mentality to slice money off you" end quote.
Our hike back towards Kochkol was a hungry affair. The breakfast that Valentin heartily fed us quickly transformed into burnt calories and at one point I was standing in the middle of a mental fork-road: (a) eat my arm, or (b) look really sorry at a passing van that was coming up. A quick deciphering of my past record, I found no evidence of acute cannibalism in my inherited bloodline, hence I resorted to pull the sorriest Snoopy look at the driver and the heavens broke out in song, the wheels screeched and cast a dusty cloud of brakes upon my already grime covered body needing a wash from my two-day sojourn. We hitch-hiked a couple of metres out to the main road and got dropped off. A few horses looked at us from the Muslim / Christian cemetery on the hill above. The gravel road was long and my stomach betrayed my wilting strength into thinking that there was a reason that perhaps I was given two arms... and then from a distance, a buzzing beige cloud formed on the oncoming road, an approaching Lada. I stuck out my hand to wave it down, utilising my last remaining common sense to not stick my thumb up in case they follow the customary Iranian popular assumption of it being the international sign for "f@ck you". Hitch-hike No.2 successful, I was planting my buttocks at hubby's chest while our Japanese compatriot, Yasuo tried valiantly to take a photograph of us as we explained the relationship between our holy trinity of backpackers to the Lada's driver and his wife and sister. With each promising grunt of the wheels we approached the main stop outside of the hike into the Arashan valley. We bargained hard for a shared taxi to take us back into our Mother Hen in the name of Kumuchai, a nice old lady that did a B&B, the type whose dormant maternal instinct kicked in the moment you smiled at her and it didn't hurt she was sweet as sugar, cooked like a charm. And did I mention her home has a sauna too? So there we were, cruising in a beat-up Audi that had seen better days on worse roads, sharing it with a KGB-dressed up insurance salesman whose school curriculum consisted of nothing in civil friendliness. I was really amused and frustrated at the same time sometimes on whether I should just act against my grain and not smile at all, or just smile like a lunatic as if nobody was watching.
This is an interesting part of the world, made only more interesting with its calamitous history and tumultuous beginning of an open era. Many still couldn't comprehend the need to reach out and connect. Even more wouldn't be slightly interested in you unless the effect of Vodka had kicked in. But for as many of these, there is a group of upcoming visionaries that hope their effort today will spring forth a new ladder to break beyond the dull hum-drum of a Big Brother state. Even at times it may be a pain in the back, literally when you sleep on a bed made of no more than squeaky hinges and a spring base that bore downwards within contact of any milligram of weight, you relish in the fact that one day, in a naive hopeful dream, that the ex-Soviet states will have moved beyond their current states and such insanity will be no more to see. Already in the bigger cities you cringed at the abysmal display of new wealth. Truly a watershed moment in the making...
I looked back at the torn paper's scribbling done with icy fingers while trekking on a light load. My thoughts already seemed so distant a time and place:
As the giant Poplars looked similarly strange to the dense forests in Bavaria, walking beneath them felt akin to looking up the leafy knees of Gulliver, the coned Pines forests here spreaded out like smart soldiers awaiting an inspection
A mighty Arashan crashed angrily towards the valley below as an upset winter bear awokened by Lady Spring
Its icy water flowed ahead to Ak-Su and Karakol in bales of force like the swell of a pregnant belly
Forests are wildly beautiful despite the horrendous weather plaguing us, lime needles poking upwards like an opened magic sewing box
As the giant Poplars looked similarly strange to the dense forests in Bavaria, walking beneath them felt akin to looking up the leafy knees of Gulliver, the coned Pines forests here spreaded out like smart soldiers awaiting an inspection
A mighty Arashan crashed angrily towards the valley below as an upset winter bear awokened by Lady Spring
Its icy water flowed ahead to Ak-Su and Karakol in bales of force like the swell of a pregnant belly
The hills were not alive with the sound of music as we struggled first day to find any joy in being subjected to rude behaviour of the rudest cow in ex-Soviet that would put Ivan the Terrible's manners to a nursery graduate, but such was life being seldom a fairytale
But we discovered quickly to what was the beginning of our trekking happily ever after in Valentin's goulash after he's ranted off his fued with the cow on two legs
But we discovered quickly to what was the beginning of our trekking happily ever after in Valentin's goulash after he's ranted off his fued with the cow on two legs
