23 June 2009

Karakol, Kyrgyzstan

Just a quickie from the gateway to Issyk Kul (big, pretty lake. Second highest Alpine lake in the world, you know). In a dodgy net cafe, so no pics to post (and I've only taken ones of rocks anyway since we last spoke.)

Homestay tonight--these are really more like B&Bs than someone's house, and today's is pretty spectacular. Lilac satin bedspread, embroidered with a large white ruched heart in the centre and at the corners. Whole room coordinates. Romance in the Stans!

With the wifi in Bishkek we've managed to put some planning into action as concerns the second and third leg of our Epic Journey. Have booked a camper van for two to drive ourselves around Oz from mid-October to mid-November. Comes with a bed and cooker and icebox, and will seem luxury after the Truck for six months. And if I haven't learned to feed two of us on a single burner by then, I will have wasted all of Cheryl's good influence for the last half-a-year. Hoping to see old friends (hi Ben!) and new (hi Corrie & Louise!) while we putter about in what is called a Wicked Camper.

Parents and other people looking into when to buy us Christmas gifts--we are leaving Sydney on 18 November, stopping in Fiji for four nights (because why not?) and arriving a LAX on 22 November. Thanksgiving in Green Valley, then driving across country to be in NJ for Christmas.

I would like Taco Bell meximelts, Arnieri's pizza, new underwear, and a place to stay for longer than 3 nights.

Bishkek! My Bishkek!

20 June 2009

Bishkek tonight and tomorrow—similar to Tashkent in the wide boulevards crying out for a Red Army parade of tanks and some half-hearted anti-capitalist rhetoric, the Russian-style buildings and rather hideously grand public spaces. It doesn't feel particularly Kyrgyz, and is populated with a lot of ethnic Russians, which makes it different to the rest of the country that we've seen up till now. Still, good to have a city around us again. Too much nature makes me itchy.

Six days of bushcamping with no showers is at last at an end, and my manky hair is pleased about that. Surprisingly easy to deal with, barring the chalky dry skin and filthy feet and general less-than-beautifulness. Have washed my hair twice and deep conditioned and scrubbed bits with my Uzbek pumice stone and am looking almost normal. Before and After:

The Hotel Alpinist is close to a western-style shopping mall, differing only in that everything in it appears to be fake. There's a fake North Face shop, a fake Pierre Cardin, and a fake Adidas store, among others. Also a Russian hunting and fishing shop full of what appear to be t-shirts advertising the merits of drinking vodka, hunting bears, and being an American GI in Vietnam.

Went to a bar called the Metro Bar, full of expats, with the South Africa/Lions rugby match on as well as Angels/Dodgers baseball. The first Americans we've even seen since Khiva seemed to be military—there's still an American air base at Manas airport north of the city, though the Kyrgyz government has ordered them out by mid-August in favour of Russian money. Burgers and fries and even Bud Light. Because this is what we've come to Kyrgyzstan for.

Not a whole lot else to talk about in Bishkek...we're off for a few more nights camping in Kyrgysztan on the way to China in the next week. The mix of camping and cities is, on the whole, actually quite good. Bush camps give us time for reading and chatting and doing not very much, in generally gorgeous surroundings. A city now and then provides culture and laundry facilities. Overlanding is obviously new to all of us, but I can't see how you'd improve on the variety of experiences we've already had. It's like backpacking without the pretentious hippies, and with someone else to sort out visas. Even given the occasional chilly days and odd dodgy tummies, we're having a brilliant time. It's always better than being at work, and that really is my personal litmus test. We'll be home the day we decide the Tube is preferable to the Truck.

Shout out to some of you reading this: FOB and FRN at 9 Elms, really good to hear from you; have come across some extremely random objects that have put me in mind of all of you on occasion. Hope you're all well and still employed.

Dad, Happy Father's Day from Kyrgyzstan! Hopefully we'll be able to call tonight, but no guarantees...am thinking of you, and looking forward to you driving me to Taco Bell at the first opportunity.

Fermented Mare's Milk Is Surprisingly Not Ghastly

19 June 2009

This place is beautiful—crumpled green mountains stepping up to steeper, chocolatey brown ones topped with sugary white snow (I like snow when I don't have to get into it), around a shallow bowl of a valley dotted with herds of horses and yurts. The clouds drift across the valley casting shadows that chase them along. And it's sunny. And warmish.

Four of us left in Kochkur for Bishkek, having taken all they could of the slightly chaotic search for goat polo. Understandable in the wake of the Virus and all the Moving About, but they've missed a wonderful two days. Acel and Mike arranged horses for us to ride around the valleys (I believe that my last time on a horse may have been at Camp Kettle Run, circa 1986), and polo for this morning. Am clearly a natural horsewoman. Louise and her “expert” advise be damned. David slouched around on a horse in flip-flops for a while, with Dennis barefoot on his. Go west, young man! Or east. Whichever way is Bishkek. Spent some time implementing my only useful skill on this trip--french braiding. Dirty hair isn't so intolerable if you can't see it.

Annnnnddddd......Goat Polo!! I know how you've been waiting for this bit. The national sport of Kyrgyzstan involves beheading and be-legging a goat, and two teams of horsemen who fight over the furry carcass, attempting to steal it away and drop it on a goal. It's difficult to convey how fantastically fun it is to watch—the goat was slaughtered prior to the game, from the local family's herd, and appeared at game time as an inoccuous white fluffy ball. The stupendous horsemen who look like they were born in the saddle took off with it onto the “field”...a flat bit of the valley near our camp. The concept of field is a fluid one, as the players rode pretty much directly into us repeatedly, causing much shrieking and giggling. A crowd of locals rocked up to cheer, and my logic was to hang behind the grannies. This is faulty logic. They appear to ride directly for their womenfolk. Some issues here.

Highlight of the game: Emma's tent strolled over by a pack of six rampaging horses bearing six Kyrgyz nomads, two of whom were fighting over a headless goat carcass. Not your every day shift in a Nottingham hospital (I don't think). And they did it twice. Hoofprint highlighted in following image. (David & Ausma: she was not inside!)

Afterwards, Acel took a few of us up to the local yurts just above us to have a look around. The sweet little grandma who looks about 97 turns out to be 73—nomad life doesn't include Oil of Olay. Her numerous grandkids swarmed about, apparently as intrigued by our truck as we were by their yurts. The family comes up here six months a year to graze their herds, and make the fermented mare's milk that they sell in the market. Which, rather surprisingly, is nowhere near as ghastly as one might expect. A bit like soupy yogurt that's gone off. Also gave us mare's milk straight from the, um, mare. Warm and foamy and sweet. Really quite nice, actually. Surreal to see someone milking a horse, though.

Tomorrow back to civilization, Bishkek for two nights. Am told there's a Fake North Face shop, which we're all very excited about, and statues. And not much else. Which will be a nice break—all this seeing and doing and lounging in the sun is draining on a girl.

Bush Camp from Hell...Is Actually Quite Nice

19 June 2009

Alas, Bush Camp from Hell has evolved into a slightly more difficult prospect than originally envisioned. Song Kul, while beautiful and austere and all that, was also colder than a witches tit. Snow on the way up along precariously perched roads—stopped for buckets of snow to cool the drinks. We towed a family's truck containing their un-assembled yurt, and followed them up to the “summer” pastures—draped in icy cold gales and bitter grey clouds. So a tad bit colder than last year...camped one night beneath majestic peaks and promptly turned around to drop altitude and find some sunshine. Lest thou think us complete nancies, the weather has kept most Kyrgyz families away thus far this year too, so no games or horses could be organized.

Now, goat polo being a prime motivation for camping up here, we obviously had to pursue it to any length. A local guide told our Acel that we could go on to another summer pasture (yurts present and accounted for) a few hours away. Attempted that, only to be stopped by roads that are completely washed out, and bushcamped on a mountainside overlooking the thriving metropolis of Kochkul. By which I mean there are roads that don't have boulders in them. The photo below right is the main road. Seriously.

We'd voted in the majority for leaving Song Kul, though not everyone was thrilled to leave—the promise of four days in one place was a mighty temptation, to be fair, as we haven't been anywhere for more than three days in more than two months. Personally, freezing to death in Kyrgyzstan was not a temptation, especially with nothing to do for days and days, so was desperately happy to be anywhere else. Having spent two nights of the Promised Four, we made ready to move on another 80K to a third summer pasture (yurts present and accounted for, but actually this time), with the addition of a new guide who knows the area better than Acel. He is apparently called Michael Jackson. Thriller.

(He is also the guide who told Tim that Inhospitable Summer Pasture Number Two was easy to get to.)

Anyhow, we are finally at a summer pasture which contains Kyrgyzstanis, yurts, horses, and (happy and somewhat relieved sigh) goat polo.

Cyrillic Knickers and Yurt Mortgages

                                

15 June 2009

                 

Left Osh yesterday morning for what is being touted as Bush Camp from Hell in some circles—okay, not really, but potentially could be dreadful, and equally conceivably, fantastic. The Gin Twins have bailed and opted to fly straight to Bishkek for the week; not fans of being cold and bored, and didn't want to take the chance—fair enough. Disconcertingly quiet without them, though the two extra seats make a world of difference. I can see that from Odyssey's POV it makes sense to fill the truck and have that much more income/kitty, but lord, how much more comfortable it is to not be crammed into table seats with three other adults.

   

The Twins off on their ongoing mission to patronize McDonald's outposts the world over, we're driving up to Song Kul. Last night we camped on the banks of a reservoir lake of a peculiar jade-green, so beautiful it looked like we'd been dropped into a painting of steep green mountains tumbling down to still, clear water. Hot afternoon ended refreshingly with a dip in the cold cold lake—and we collectively smell all the better for it today. Though Emma fears the flesh-eating virus will now taint us all.

                                 

The virus that leveled David a few days ago has reared it's head again and taken down both Emma and Louise. Being ill on a driving day is less than pleasant, poor things, but everyone else who's had it has been better in about 24 hours, and both of them seem on the mend.

                            

The market is Osh was more full of dodgy Chinese bits and bobs than the others we've been through so far, reminding me that we're not far off now. The amount of Engrish and shameless knock-offs is fabulously entertaining; also makes the point that copyright is pretty much pointless. Britney and Scarlet and Paris have their faces plastered on everything from soap powder to chocolate bars, to perfume, there's a copy of Dove soap called (rather hilariously) “Dave”, Calvin Klein has morphed into Ciavin Kalin, and Dolce & Gabbana have become Dolce & Gannaba. Have acquired knickers printed in a Chinese version of Russian, and sleep shorts which barely squeeze over my arse and yet are marked XXXXLL. Textiles are of the retina-burning variety; tinsmiths use recycled metal to make decorative trim that looks more like gingerbread than rubbish.

                                              

Another bush camp tonight and then we'll be at Song Kul for four nights. Nature time. Yay.