In this blog post I will recount our days 7 through 20 in Kyrgyzstan. Almost nothing went as originally planned – and we wouldn’t have had it any other way. This is a long post—feel free to skip, move around, or read the entire thing.
Day 7
It was a yellow, smoky day in Karakol. Lest we have another marshrutka disaster, we decided to stay put for the night. Our intention for the day was to restock food in preparation for our 9-day hike. Vexed about how many extra calories we would need, we took stock at our hostel.
Eight freeze-dried meals was all we had; we needed to hit the store. YouTube had told me that “Globus” was the supermarket of choice in Kyrgyzstan, so that’s where we planned to go. Our stomachs growled, though, so we decided to hit lunch first. Many Kyrgyz people had told us to try Sierra Coffee in Karakol, and so we did.
Granted the loving title of “The Starbucks of Kyrgyzstan,” Sierra Coffee really did look like a Starbucks on the inside. Aside from the decor, however, there was very little about Sierra Coffee that resembled an Starbucks cafe. Blackboards across the cafe’s walls advertised classic Kyrgyz dishes including a few Karakol specialties. On the menu one could find cold noodles, T-Bone steaks, dumplings, cheesecakes, tuna melts, and even beef Stroganoff. Bottles of local honey and sea buckthorn juice (a tart, orange berry) adorned the shelves. Young people with laptops and men wearing kalpaks sat beside each other – it was a truly Kyrgyz place.
Continuing with our exploration of Kyrgyz food, we tried a few new dishes. Up first was ashlyan-fu, a Karakol specialty. This cold dish featured two types of noodles (one made of wheat, the other probably of potato starch) in a vinegary, spicy broth. It wasn’t our favorite but was worth a try. Especially delicious were the next two dishes – manti (wheat dumplings filled with beef and onions) and mampar (a warm soup with rice, meat, onions, carrots, and dill).
After lunch it was time to visit the supermarket. Kyrgyz supermarkets tend to be small (think the size of a Shopper’s Drug Mart in Canada) but are packed to the brim with goods. You can find anything you need in the local supermarkets, and I don’t just mean food. The Karakol supermarket sold fishing rods, water pumps, horse saddles, and an impressive array of barbecuing (шашлик) equipment.
In terms of the food, I think it would be most accurate to say that the selection is primarily Russian – most of the prepared foods (e.g. bags of granola, chocolate bars, bottles of oil) come from either Russia or Ukraine. Kyrgyz-made products in the store mostly consisted of cured meats, cheeses, and lots of different drinks. There was bozo, chalap, tan, even maksim. The shelves brimmed with kvas, kompot, ayran, and, yes, chumys. Our favorite was chudo, a think milk drink that came in flavors of strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate (the undisputed champ). There was also always a huge selection of iced teas – we drank liters.
For those interested, here’s an average of how much various staples costed in Kyrgyz grocery stores:
Loaf of bread: 40 som (about $0.60 CAD)
Liter of milk: 80 som (about $1.20 CAD)
Dozen eggs: 40 som (about $0.60 CAD)
1 kilogram of beef, usually just sold in slabs: 200 som (about $3.00 CAD)
A cooked rotisserie chicken: 400 som (about $6.00 CAD)
A bar of chocolate: 200 som (about $3.00 – chocolate is very expensive in Kyrgyzstan)
A jar of Nutella: 500 som (about $7.50 CAD)
It’s fun to fantasize about these food prices, but life is still tough for the majority of Kyrgyz people.
After our grocery haul we decided it would be fun to catch a movie at the only theater in town, the Issyk-Kul Kinoteatri. We made our way to the theater and expressed to the ticket agent that we would like to watch a movie.
“No English. Only Kyrgyz language. No good for you.”
“We don’t care – we just want to watch a movie.”
“Why you watch movie no understand? Only Kyrgyz.”
“We’d like 2 tickets to особняк (a movie we chose at random) please.”
“Ok. 200 som per person.”
And so he printed our tickets; in we went. The theatre was tiny – maybe 20 seats – and it was completely empty. On small projector screen was a logo that looked suspiciously similar to that of a website one would visit to pirate movies. We were the only ones in the theatre, about to watch a movie we would not understand. It was hilarious.
Suddenly, an attendant from the movie theatre ran towards us. She was beaming – it was a rare treat to have foreign visitors in the movie theater.
“Hello! May I interview you after movie please?”
“Sure! We’d love to. What do you want to discuss.”
“Oh yes – we will discuss. Haha! Please watch movie! I meet you afterwards.”
Feeling starstruck, we were ready to watch the flick and share our thoughts. A few families came in while Anil ran out the theatre to buy us some ice cream bars. The other moviegoers were amused to see us sitting there – they knew we would have no idea what was going on in the movie. Anil returned with the goods (a sort of ice cream sandwich for him, a sort of sesame-chocolate ice cream bar for me) and the movie began to play.
To say that we could not understand a word would be an understatement – the movie was in full-on Kyrgyz, so even the small bits of Russian we had learnt were useless (Kyrgyz, as a language, is more similar to Turkish than proper Russian even though it is written with the Cyrillic script). The movie seemed to be about a young woman choosing between two love interests. The first was a posh, rich man who drove a fancy car and slurped down oysters. The second was a street rat who stole watches and burned down his parent’s shed.
We we able to follow the general plot for about 15 minutes – after this, all hell broke loose. An interconnected and nonsensical (to us) web of storylines arose, and we had no idea what to make of it. There was robbery, argument, partying, eating – there were policemen drinking vodka in a sauna, there were hooligans burning down cars. There was an old man who would have hallucinations about attending a dance party. We started to fall asleep but powered through – we needed to give a thorough review during our interview.
Half asleep, we saw the credits roll and heard people shuffling out of the theater. We pepped up in preparation for our interview and made our way to the lobby. Our interviewer, Lira, was waiting for us near a couch. She gestured for us to sit down and pulled up a chair. Handing us each a clip-on microphone, she gave us the interview instructions:
“I have no question – you just talk.”
“Okay, talk about what?”
“Talk!”
And talk we did; we magically turned into verbose TV interview guests. We presented our hypotheses as to what the movie was about, shared our thoughts on the theater, and expressed our love for the great nation of Kyrgyzstan. Our interviewer was ecstatic – we were giving her exactly what she wanted.
“I will edit video and then post on Instagram. Is this okay?”
“Yes!!”
We called a Yandex and headed back to our gross hostel. We needed sleep – the next day would be the start of our big hike – the reason we came to Kyrgyzstan.
Day 8
I woke up and checked the forecast. It was bad. Multiple sources predicted severe thunderstorms for the next few days in Jyrgalan, the area we would be starting our hike.
I don’t mind snow, wind, or rain – but lightning at high altitudes scares the shit out of me. On the Ak-Suu traverse we would be spending over 9 days at altitude, almost always in exposed terrain (on mountain ridges, passes, and in high alpine valleys with no tree cover). While direct lightning strikes are exceedingly rare in daily life, one’s risk increases exponentially in the mountains.
In addition to this poor weather forecast, we had heard from other hikers that many of the high mountain passes leaving Jyrgalan were still covered in snow. This would make the trek much more dangerous, if not impossible. Many areas at the beginning of the trek are extremely steep and require walking over rocky outcrops – one slip on a patch of snow might mean actually falling.
Based on all this, we made the tough decision to cancel our big hike. This was really upsetting after many weeks of planning routes, logistics, transportation, and food. Still, the classic hiking/mountaineering saying trumped all:
“Summiting is optional; returning is mandatory.”
It was just too dangerous to go. So, we pivoted. We decided to still travel to Jyrgalan from Karakol to visit the town, relax, and consider our game plan for the rest of the trip.
It was time for another marshrutka. We had a basic breakfast of fried eggs, sausage, cheese, and bread at our hostel and called for a Yandex to take us to the town bazaar.
We waited for our ride to show up, and show up he did. In a plume of dust, an ancient man driving an ancient Lada pulled up next to our hostel. He stepped out of the car to help with our luggage and began shouting randomly in Russian. He seemed frustrated, yet also ecstatic to see us; he was angry about something, yet also honored to have some foreign guests. He was small and frail and dressed in a plaid shirt with dirty corduroy pants. He could barely lift our packs and tossed them roughly into the trunk. He beckoned us into the car, and we followed.
I have never seen a car in such bad shape – it was literally falling apart. The front windshield looked totaled and everything else in the car didn’t work – the door locks didn’t work, the window cranks didn’t work, and there certainly weren’t any seatbelts. The entire car reeked of gasoline and there was no paint on the interior – it had all chipped off. Anil and I gave each other a concerned look, but the driver zoomed off without a worry in the world.
The man drove like an absolute maniac. It was a manual car and he was shifting gears as if he were pulling the lever on a slots machine. We swerved in between cars on one-way roads and drove way too fast, even for Kyrgyzstan standards. We felt genuinely unsafe in this car with this possibly unstable old man; we considering hopping out. All the while, the driver clutched a cell phone in this right (non-steering) hand and would occasionally shout some indecipherable sentences at us in Russian; he seemed to be furious about something, but we couldn’t figure it out.
At some point we checked our Google Maps and realized that the maniac was not driving in the direction of the bazaar; we began to panic. We told him (via Google translate) that he was going the wrong way, but he just grabbed the cell phone, shook his fist angrily, and continued to speed through the dusty streets of Karakol.
We strongly considered jumping out of the car, but we came to a sudden stop before the thoughts could develop. We were at a crumbling apartment building with a faded blue exterior; the driver jumped out, shook his head and hands wildly, shouted some nonsense, and came back into the car.
We realized (or at least came to a strong hypothesis) that the driver was trying to return a cell phone that a previous rider had left behind in his car. He had taken us to the previous drop off point and was unsuccessful in finding the man. No matter – his mood improved hugely after this and he started driving us to the Bazaar. Still, his driving was irresponsible at best and life-threatening at worst – we couldn’t wait to leave the car.
He chatted with us in extremely simple Russian and asked where we were from. I said “South Africa,” Anil said “Germany.” Immediately after Anil said this, the driver’s demeanor changed – he seemed to perk up considerably. And thus he said:
“Germania! HAHA! Hitler! HAHA! Hitler! HAHA! Wow. Hitler! HAHA.”
He repeated this nonsense for the rest of the ride. We didn’t know what to say – he was crazy. When we arrived at the bazaar I gave him his money and we were out of that cursed vehicle as quickly as humanly possible. The experience was hilarious but also scary – the reckless driving was the only real concern.
And so we were once again surrounded by transportation – this marshrutka gathering place was even busier than the one in Bishkek. Animals, humans, and vehicles zoomed around stalls and shops selling fruits (particularly watermelons), pastries (like samsi and pirozki), and basically anything else you could possibly need. A stall selling water hose fasteners stood next to a shop selling inflatable rafts; it was chaos and we loved it.
We found a marshrutka heading to Jyrgalan – three to four of these leave from Karakol every day. We agreed on a price of 200 som each for the 2-hour ride, and the driver stuffed our gear into the “trunk.” We were starving, so Anil sprinted to buy us some lamb samsi and iced tea before departure time.
As usual, the vehicle was packed past popping point with passengers. It was sweltering inside; luckily, we zoomed off just a few minutes after taking our seats.
We were happy to be leaving Karakol. No offense to the city – it is an excellent home base for mountain adventures – but it was just not our favourite place. The whole town was permeated with what we came to call the “good sour,” a pungent odor of burning plastic, smog, and horse droppings. It would be unfair to say that the whole city smelled like this, but it would be a lie to say that most of it didn’t.
The 2-hour ride to Jyrgalan was gorgeous and characteristic of this region south of Lake Issyk-Kul. Dirts roads looped between and around the foothills of the colossal Tien Shan mountains; we saw silt-blue rivers, deep green patches of forest, and lots of wild cows and horses. The sky above constantly changed between ominous storm clouds and piercing blasts of high-altitude sun. There was no “good sour” here—it smelled lovely and fresh. One could tell that the air thinned as we drove higher into the mountains.
We arrived in Jyrgalan just as storm clouds began to form. This was barely a town, and even calling it a village would be generous. Jyrgalan was a collection of small, crumbling houses and animal pens situated between two raging alpine rivers. Every house seemed to have a rusted and inoperable Soviet vehicle sitting in the drive, and the streets were bare earth covered with horse manure. The main form of transportation here was horse or donkey- we saw many people going from one place to another on their trusty steeds. Snow-capped peaks and green foothills surrounded us – it was as magical place.
I had booked for us to stay in a homestay. These are a ubiquitous in Central Asia and they can be found in even the tiniest villages. A Kyrgyz homestay isn’t really a bed and breakfast in that you have your own bedroom and bathroom and are served a meal separate from the hosts. Rather, you live in the home of the hosts as if you were a member of their family. You share the same food, the same bathroom, and, for better or worse, sometimes the same bedroom.
Check-in at a homestay is always a challenge; the hosts almost never speak English, so Google translate or hand gestures are essential communication tools. While homestays can be booked online via booking.com or similar, it’s usually the young son or daughter (who can speak English) of the family who runs the online business. Usually, said son or daughter isn’t at home when you arrive, and quite some confusion can arise when you show up at the homestay door.
Our first homestay in Jyrgalan was lovely. We arrived and hunted for 10 minutes to find someone who could understand why we were there. Eventually, the mother of the house came to us and, after some confusion, realized that we needed a place to stay. She led us to our room on the second floor of the house – it had two small beds, a table, and a window. Very comfortable.
The Kyrgyz houses that offered homestays were very similar in design. There was always one large communal area that included a table with carpet-covered benches and a kitchen. There were always a few items on the table: a bowl of sugar, a teapot, a bowl of compote (Slavic/Central Asian fruit preserves and syrup), a bowl of bread, tea biscuits and cookies, and sometimes dried fruits and nuts. These items were usually covered with a dainty lace doily and were free to be enjoyed at anytime in the day.
Each house featured only one bathroom which was split into two separate, adjacent rooms. The first would feature just a toilet and a wastebasket (to throw out toilet paper – one quickly learns that there is NO toilet paper allowed in the toilet in Kyrgyzstan). The second would have a small shower and a sink; every shower had an external water heater directly above the nozzle. Most notably was that these bathrooms would be shared with the entire family—sometimes up to 10 people—so we would often have to wait in line to use the loo.
Our bedroom in our first homestay in Jyrgalan had a collection of strange items on the table—English-Russian, English-Kyrgyz, and Kyrgyz-Russian schoolbooks, a selfie stick, and some pencils and notebooks among them. We thought this was a weird assortment of items to have been left by other travellers. We realized a few days later that we must have essentially kicked out the little girl of the family whose room we were staying in.
After settling into our rooms, we decided it was time for some fishing. I had brought a telescopic fly-fishing rod with me and was excited to give it a try. We walked over manure-covered roads towards one of the nearby rivers. It was raging from the early summer snowmelt and was obviously too fast-moving for any fishing—I still gave it a try. Two hours later, no bites—but many pictures of the gorgeous scenery.
We returned to our homestay and relaxed in our rooms for a few hours while a thunderstorm exploded outside. At 7:00 on the dot, our host called us down for dinner. On the table was a magnificent spread of Kyrgyz cuisine—a lentil soup with lemon, a cucumber-tomato salad, fresh bread, tea, and a pasta-dumpling dish called oromo. Everything was delicious and we gobbled it down. In a sort of oromo-coma, we wobbled off to our cozy beds.
Day 9
With our hike cancelled and the weather poor, we opted to stay in Jyrgalan for another night to develop a game plan. Our homestay couldn’t host us for another night, so I headed to trusty booking.com to find another one in Jyrgalan. In minutes, we were booked to stay at Bil-Boil Guesthouse (which was confusingly also called Syimik Guesthouse, Used Guesthouse, and Jyrgalan Guesthouse. A one-night stay with dinner and breakfast was going to run each of us a whopping $12.00 CAD.
We packed our bags and enjoyed a fantastic breakfast before leaving our first Jyrgalan home. On the menu was fresh bread, a potato omelet, fried zucchini cakes, sausages, cheese, cake with apricot preserves, and tea. We thanked our hosts, paid, and left.
A 20-minute walk brought us to Bil-Boil guesthouse. Most of the path was covered with a deep layer of horse and cow manure and our shoes quickly changed from blue to brown. On the way there we ran into two tourists we had met a week before, Edward and Karen from Calgary. They were also staying in the guesthouse and were happy to see us again.
On the top of a hill, we came a house that looked like it was crumbling from the outside—it had a “GUESTHOUSE” sign on the fence, though, so we knew we were home. We opened the gate and were welcome inside by Uved, our host. She was a fantastically typical Kyrgyz babushka and exuded warmth and kindness even though she couldn’t speak English.
We took off our shoes and entered the house. It was almost identical in layout tot he previous place we had stayed—one shared bathroom, a large communal eating space, and rooms with creaky wooden floors and tiny twin beds. It was cozy, warm, and colourful rugs draped most surfaces of the house. We left our bags in our tiny room and headed downstairs for some tea.
There were two new faces at the dining table—Tom and Ileena, a newly-married couple from England. Tom and Ileena would turn out to be incredibly good friends to us, and I am so glad we met them in Jyrgalan. Tom and Ileena, if you are reading this, thank you for being so awesome!
We got to chatting and were quickly offered a number of suggestions for how to fill the rest of our time in Kyrgyzstan. This was incredibly helpful and a huge relief—we had a new gameplan. It was as follows:
- Spend and hike 3 days at Altyn Arashan, a natural hot springs area high in the mountains
- Spend 3 days on the South shore of Lake Issyk Kul at a yurt camp
- Spent and hike 3 days around Son Kul Lake, one of the most gorgeous high alpine lakes on the planet
It rained for the rest of the day, so we sat in our cozy room and read. At 8:00 it was time for dinner—Uved made everything from scratch and it was divine. The appetizer was a rich pelmeni soup served with a cabbage salad. The main course was a hearty plate of dimdama, the Kyrgyz version of pot-au-feu or a boiled dinner. It featured cabbage, carrots, potatoes, and meat (maybe beef, likely sheep, possibly horse) boiled in a lightly spiced broth flavoured with paprika and dill. This simple dish hit the spot on a cold, rainy night—we washed it all down with fresh bread and jam-sweetened tea.
Our stomachs were distended from the unholy amount of dimdama we had eaten but we were still hungry for some post-supper adventure. From the dining room window we had seen the glint of a magnificent sunset and decided we should get a better look. We donned our manure-caked shoes and some warmer clothes and left the comfort of Bil-Boil guesthouse.
We walked into the Jyrgalan foothills using the golden setting sun as our guide. The air was fresh and there was a symphony of raging rivers and neighing horses in our ears. We went as high as we could go and were rewarded with this:
We sat silently on a soft patch of mosses until the sun had completely set. It was meditative, calming, and almost felt like a message from Kyrgyz Mother Nature that we were right to cancel our big hike—that we were exactly where we needed to be.
Day 10
Breakfast was scheduled for 6:45—we had a 7:30 marshrutka to catch. We gobbled down a feast of crusty bread, omelets, barberry preserves, tea, coffee, and cookies and packed our bags in a hurry. We had a 20-minute walk to the Jyrgalan “bus station,” which was a crumbling lean-to made of green sheets of corrugated metal from shipping containers.
The bus was parked and ready when we arrived; we gave the driver 150 som each and squeezed ourselves inside. Today we were taking a short ride to the village of Ak-Suu, from where we would start a 16 kilometer trek towards Altyn Arashan, a mountain camp. The plan was to stay at a yurt camp for two nights and return to Ak-Suu on day 3. With packs filled and a cold bottle of iced tea in our holsters, we started the walk.
Though long, this was a relatively gentle hike up a dirt and pebble road. We followed the Ak-Suu River almost the entire way, listening to its constant gurgle of rushing glacial water. Halfway through the walk we both decided to listen to an audiobook – Anil listened to Dan Brown’s Inferno and I listened to Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code. Dan Brown novels became a bit of a running joke throughout this trip—Anil calls them “shlock,” though we both agree they are masterpieces. As we walked we would spit out random lines from our books—it was hilarious.
We stopped for a lunch of fresh naan (Kyrgyz bread, more like a ciabatta loaf than an “Indian” naan), beef sausage, local cheese, Tabasco sauce, Russian mayonnaise, and gummy bears. I filtered water from the rushing river and we each had huge gulps of the ice-cold water.
As we continued to walk we encountered (and passed) a number of other tourists who had ridden 4X4 vehicles partway up the road. Of note was a huge group of Israeli women I ran into; I spoke broken Hebrew to them and they said I am “chamood” (cute).
After about 6 hours of trekking we made the final ascent towards the valley. A steep climb over mangled roots and huge pebbles offered us a spectacular view of Altyn Arashan and its yurts and hot springs. To our right and left were medium-sized peaks just tall enough to breach the tree line; directly in front of us was a huge, snow-covered behemoth that dwarfed the nearby peaks. Behind the behemoth were larger and larger and larger peaks; we could just see them from the distance. Each of these seemed to have a halo of clouds around their summits; the view was magical.
Our yurt camp was supposed to be more than a kilometre away from the opening of the valley; we continued to walk. I had made a booking for this yurt camp by messaging some random person whose number Tom (the nice British guy we had met in Jyrgalan) had given me. Our WhatsApp conversation went like this:
“Hello, may I book a yurt stay for 2 people on the nights of June 15 and 16?”
“There is hot springs in Altyn Arashan.”
“Yes, we have heard! May I book a yurt stay at Altyn Arashan for 2 people on the nights of June 15 and 16?”
“A horse ride will cost 8000 som. Is this okay?”
“No need for a horse ride, thank you. So am I confirmed for the 2-night booking? How much does it cost?”
“Very good, 6400 som cash for 2 people.”
“Thank you!”
We eventually saw a sign for Eco-Yurt Camp and began our search for an employee. After a few minutes, a woman around our age approached us and led us to our yurt. She spoke excellent English and was an incredible host.
“Thank you for coming to our yurt camp in Altyn Arashan! The dinner will be at 7:00 in the large yurt, we will be eating borscht and plov.”
The yurt, our home for the next 3 days, was clean, comfortable, and cozy. The structure was probably 4 metres in diameter and was built from a metal lattice and crown covered with canvas and wool. Most of the interior was taken up by a raised wooden platform that held our beds, which were thick cotton bedrolls covered in a thin comforter and very thick and dense wool blanket. The beds were exquisitely comfortable and the heavy bedding made one feel as if they were using a weighted blanket.
There was no electricity, wifi, or cell service at Altyn Arashan. The afternoon we arrived brought a thunderstorm which had us sheltering in our yurt for a few hours. Listening to the rumble of the thunder outside paired with the violent cracking of hail falling onto our yurt was surreal; it was a natural sound show. We left the door of our yurt open to watch the formerly bright-green valley turn into a grey, hail-covered field.
And as quickly as it started, the storm left us. The sun began to shine and the valley was green and shined again. With this change of weather, there was only one thing for us to do: visit the hot springs.
We had purchased two tickets to the hot springs from our hostess for 200 som ($3) each. We were to walk about 10 minutes towards one of the many private hot spring shacks and present our tickets to the person there.
We walked down the valley and across the raging river (on the shoddiest bridge of all time) and gave our tickets to a strong but abrasive old lady who ran one of the hot springs huts. She offered us cold Kyrgyz beers to go along with our hot soak, and of course we gladly obliged. She gave us each a beer and a keychain and told us (using a combination of Russian, English, and confusing hand gestures) to walk across the river towards “#6”; we were to perform a tuk-tuk (knock) on the door to tell the current occupant that it was time for them to leave.
We did exactly as she said. I performed the tuk-tuk on the door of “#6” and was immediately rewarded with an annoyed yell from the babushka relaxing inside. We waited about 10 minutes for her to leave while enjoying our beers next to the river.
And then it was finally time—a piece of the famous Altyn Arashan hot springs was ours for 30 minutes. The simple wooden shack was a dream; it featured a change room with a bench and a room with the hot spring pool. The floor was stone and the pool bottom was lined with smooth river pebbles.
We donned our bathing suits and slipped into the pool. It was hotter than a normal jacuzzi but still cool enough to soak for hours. The water felt viscous and smooth and smelled sweet; it had little of the boiled-egg sulphuric smell of some other hot springs.
After an initial soak, Anil had the idea of running out of the shack and taking a quick dip in the freezing-cold river. Of course, we had to do it. The river water was beyond cold; still, we both dunked our heads and relished the adrenaline rush of a cold dip. We would then run back into the shack, shivering, and reenter the warm tub. Our legs cried from pins-and-needles; it really stung, but it was just lovely.
We did this sort of Scandinavian thermal cycling a few times. Soon, it was time for us to leave. We dried off, changed into clean clothes, and gave back the keys to the shack. We were elated—nothing beats hot springs!
We headed to dinner in a very large communal dining yurt. Dinner was just as our hostess had described; a simple borscht featuring cabbage, sour cream, and mysterious boiled meat (probably goat), rice plov, fresh bread, and a cabbage-carrot salad. We scarfed down our food and asked for seconds; the warm nosh in the warm yurt away from the cold mountain air was truly heavenly.
With full stomachs and finally-warm toes, we retreated to our yurt. The stars above were among the clearest I have ever seen and the valley was dead silent apart from the breeze. We brushed our teeth and climbed into our beds; we were out in minutes.
Day 11
Day 11 was a big one. The weather was supposed to be perfect, and our plan was to attempt a colossal 27 kilometre day-hike to Ala-Kol Lake following the route of our original big hike. We had heard from some other travellers that reaching the lake would be impossible due to the amount of snow at the final ascent. We thought we’d give it the “old college try” regardless, partially because we are Canadian (and used to snow) and partially because we are a little insane.
After a yurt camp breakfast of a boiled egg, cucumbers, tomatoes, cheese, and bread, we packed just one bag with water and snacks for the day ahead. Just before setting off I set up my solar panel on the outside of our yurt to charge the satellite phone and power banks.
Just 20 minutes outside of Altyn Arashan revealed the most gorgeous hiking scenery we had ever seen. Colossal green valleys dotted with wild horses and cows were around every corner; raging rivers with crystal-clear water crossed every field; and there was no one else around us. We went the entire morning without encountering a single other hiker. We had to cross a number of rivers, one of which was too powerful to rock-hop. We did a classic shoes-on river crossing and our feet were soon soaked. It didn’t matter; the views, smells, and sounds were just that good.
A relatively gentle 4 hour walk brought us to the base of Ala-Kol pass. We immediately saw the huge mounds of snow that had deterred probably hundreds of hikers from attempting the route this early in June. Of particular concern were large overhangs of snow right at the top of the pass; these would make the final ascent literally impossible without climbing gear. Isaac’s heart dropped, but Anil’s leaped out of his chest. To Isaac: DANGER. To Anil: FUN.
We walked as high as we could on the solid rock; there were already patches of snow melting beside us. Seemingly out of nowhere, two disheveled hikers crossed our path. We were excited to talk with them and inquire about the conditions on the pass.
“Did you come here from Ala-Kol Lake? We are hoping to climb up to the pass today.”
In a heavy Russian accent: “Yes, we did. We are barely alive.”
“So you’re telling us it’s POSSIBLE to get up the pass?”
“Oh, most certainly. But it will be tough. Coming down was terrible for us, but going up will be even worse.”
“Do you have any advice for us?”
“Oh, most certainly. You will need to pass snow, there is no doubt. It is deep, waist-deep. For the most part, follow the path we took—you will be able to see.”
The brave hiker showed us his path—it was along a tiny patch of scree on one of the far sides of the ridge. We saw that we would need to cross a number of deep trenches of snow—this did not excite me. We thanked the hikers, told them that they will be rewarded with life-giving hot springs upon their arrival in the valley, and began our slog towards the top.
It was, in a word, horrendous. We had no clear idea of where to go and were traipsing through waist-deep patches of melting snow without the correct equipment. It took us over an hour to reach the true bottom of the final ascent to the top of the pass, and by this point our feet were not only wet, but frozen. I was ready to turn back, but Anil, thank goodness, was dead-set on reaching the top. And so we continued.
The final push was a disgustingly steep patch of scree. Anil walked up comfortably with his poles and two feet, whereas I turned into a primate and crawled up using my hands, knees, and feet. I was terrified I would slip down and into the depths below, but Anil’s endless confidence kept me going. And the going was tough; this was loose scree combined with sand and large, unstable rocks; every step forward placed you half a step back, and slipping off the mountain into the depths below was a very real possibility. It wasn’t that dangerous, but slipping and falling would’ve meant real injury.
I sweated and huffed and puffed as Anil zoomed up ahead of me; and soon we neared the top. As usual, the very final ascent plateaud into a gentle walk to the top. The view was incredible. The lake was not its turquoise-blue as you might find in normal photos of this place, but the ice gave it an otherworldly look. We felt as though we might be on Neptune or Mars!
We had a quick snack at the top and took lots of pictures—but we didn’t last long. It was cold, windy, and the high altitude (4,000m) had us feeling a bit sick. So, we began the descent.
The way down was much easier than the way up. The loose scree and sand allowed us to “ski” down the ridge by gently shuffling our feet and maintaining balance with our poles. Within minutes we were below the snow and on comfortable, grassy ground. We were ravenous and stopped at the nearest stream to filter water and boil some instant noodles. We scarfed down two packets each and were on our way once again; we had to make it back to camp for dinner.
Every minute of the return trip offered the most gorgeous hiking views imaginable; the pictures speak for themselves!
It took us 3 hours to walk from the base of the pass back to Altyn Arashan. We arrived at 7:00 exactly and headed straight to dinner; to say we could each eat a horse would be an understatement. As we took our seats in the dining yurt, our host brought us steaming bowls of cauliflower-sausage broth and plates heaped with instant noodles in a butter sauce. The food was simple and exactly what we needed. We washed everything down with a few cups of jam-sweetened tea and Kyrgyz chocolates.
We were exhausted, but the day was not done—a hot spring soak was waiting for us. Again, we bought tickets and made the walk towards shack #6. It was pitch dark, but this did not deter us. We soaked, warmed up, and ran into the river to freeze. This was a mystical experience in the dark with the Milky Way visible overhead.
Warmed to our cores, we retired to our yurt. I decided to make a freeze-dried creme brûlée for us to enjoy before bed—it was marvellous.
With many kilometres on our feet and lots of food in our stomachs, we slept deeply.
Day 12
We did not want to leave Altyn Arashan, but more of Kyrgyzstan was waiting for us. We removed our belongings from our yurt and walked to the dining tent for our final breakfast. We were each served a mound of buttery macaroni noodles topped with a fried egg; it was an unusual but hearty and delicious breakfast.
Two little boys were standing in front of our yurt when we returned. They were adorable and wanted to talk to the strange foreigners. The first, Umar, must have been about 5 years old and had a bushy milk moustache – possibly from guzzling fresh kumys at breakfast. Alim, Umar’s brother, was maybe 3 years old and wore a tiny felt hat. Neither boy spoke English but we had a classic conversation by listing Kyrgyz foods we enjoyed and using lots of gestures.
And then it was time to leave. I paid our lovely hostess and we said our goodbyes to the valley. We weren’t completely done with Altyn Arashan, though. Again, there was one more soak to be had.
A German man named Nick had told us the night before that there is a secret, public hot spring adjacent to the river, about 1 kilometre away from the village. Nick had told us to “follow the dirt road,” which seemed like vague advice—but it was just what we needed. Sure enough, we found a dirt road upon exiting the valley that led us down a treacherous 1-kilometer path towards the raging river. We walked down and down and down and finally reached the river. It was encased in a sort of rocky gorge and we were on a small outcrop on the right bank.
And there they were—the secret hot springs. Nestled within caves on the side of the gorge were two rock pools with sapphire-blue water. The first pool was large enough to fit two adults and the second could easily fit five. Reaching the second pool required a bit of rock climbing over slippery boulders—it was absolutely worth it.
This whole area seemed too idyllic to be real, to be public. And we were the only ones there. Again we soaked, warmed up, and jumped into the freezing river. The sounds of birdsong and the river and the gurgling hot spring made for a magical experience—we were truly living in the moment.
Stormclouds ahead told us it was time to get the hell out of the hot springs and back towards the village. We dressed, had a little snack, and began the gruelling walk down. It took us nearly 6 hours to get down—it was tedious and our feet started to ache.
We were lucky to find a marshrutka returning to Karakol upon our return to the village. We boarded and I booked a hotel for us to stay in that night. The 1-hour drive was an opportunity for us to rest our feet and felt like heaven.
Upon return to Karakol, we took a Yandex to our hotel, the Hotel Caravan, one of the only places in Karakol that has air conditioning. On entering the front door, I immediately heard people talking loudly in Hebrew—something I had encountered with shocking frequency throughout this trip—and moved towards the voices. Suddenly, in from of me was a Hasidic Rabbi and his wife. We started chatting in Hebrew and I gathered that there was a group of over fourty Hasidic rabbis and their wives on vacation here in Kyrgyzstan. They were all staying at this hotel and were about to start their Friday night services.
The rabbi begged me to join them for services and dinner. I politely declined because Anil and I smelled like death and we needed to shower and rest. He was disappointed but encouraged me to join them after dinner just to say hello. I promised I would come; he said he would give me some fresh cholent (a Jewish stew of braised beef, beans, eggs, and barley) to celebrate my arrival.
We checked into our room and each took a shower. I could physically see dust and dirt washing off of my legs and staining the shower floor; it was fantastically gross. Showered and freshly clothed, we chose a restaurant for dinner, the highly rated Zarina Cafe.
Dinner was wonderful. We ordered an appetizer of boorsok (balls of fried, leavened dough that are delicious with a cold glass of beer), “Kazakh style meat” (braised beef or maybe horse served with wheat noodles), and washed this down with frosted mugs of Kyrgyz wheat beer. Anil ordered kavap-kazan (grilled, skewered meat in a soy-pepper sauce served with rice) and I had lamb rib kuurdak (fried lamb ribs and fried potatoes topped with raw onions and garlic). This meal gave me the most horrendous onion breath but everything was delicious—I think it was our finest dinner in Kyrgyzstan to date.
I downed a Kyrgyz ice cream cone on the walk back to the hotel. Though I was absolutely exhausted, I had made a promise to the rabbi. Anil slipped into bed while I donned my Kyrgyz kalpak as a kippah and walked downstairs towards the conference room/makeshift synagogue.
I was greeted by a room of over 40 Hasidic Jews sitting around a rectangular table covered in kosher wine, fruits, and cookies. The average age of the group was probably 60 and there was an equal number of women and men. Everyone was chatting loudly, laughing, and sharing stories. The moment I walked in, an absolute eruption of friendly Hebrew greetings fell down on me; men were inviting me to shake their hands, women were asking me if I had eaten any dinner. Everyone spoke almost exclusively Hebrew, so my understanding of the situation was poor. Still, I felt welcomed and loved.
The leader of the group slapped me on the back and told me to give a speech to the group. My Hebrew was nowhere near good enough for that, so I just said something like “I love seeing other Jewish people in unusual places!” and they ate it up. They asked me about my family, if I was married, if I had any children, if I went to synagogue regularly. They were disappointed by almost all of my answers but the women continued to offer me food and the men wouldn’t stop shaking my hand.
I was exhausted and couldn’t keep up with the group’s chatter – I needed to escape and go to sleep. I tried to leave, but they held me back with new questions about my experience as a Jew in Canada and with more inquiries as to why I am not yet a father. I eventually slipped out of the room – I was immediately shuttled into another room, however, and was given a prayer book. I joined the men in prayer for about 20 minutes and was once again ferried into the large meeting space. I told the head rabbi that “my friend must be worried about me at this point,” and he finally let me go. His wife gave me a heaped plate of cholent to take back to my room and I was finally free. It was a hilarious and serendipitous experience, though I was happy to be back in my room. I put the plate of cholent into the mini fridge and crawled into bed.
Day 13
The universe had aligned, on Day 13, to allow us to visit a uniquely Karakol event: the cattle market. The largest in Central Asia, this famous livestock sale runs from 10:00pm on Saturday to 10:00am on Sunday every week. Our German friend Nick recommended we visit at 7:00am on Sunday for the wildest experience.
Getting out of bed at 6:45 was brutal, but we had to go. We boarded the Yandex and enjoyed the 7-minute ride to the market. The streets were much busier than normal – you could tell something special was on.
Absolute chaos erupted the moment we stepped out of the car. We were in a dusty, flat area packed to the brim with small tin buildings, animals, people, and cars. There were so many people and cars in the area that our driver couldn’t take us directly to the front gates of the outdoor market – he had to drop us almost a kilometer away. Even though we were outside the official boundary of the complex, there were hundreds of livestock vendors sprawled throughout this unofficial market.
Each vendor had 7-10 sheep, 1-2 cows, and sometimes a horse. It is difficult to describe the scale of this operation. Each vendor and their animals would be directly next to another vendor selling exactly the same thing, creating a jumbled, cluttered mess of animals and humans shouting and bargaining. Sometimes cars would try to pass through the crowded alleys of people and livestock – they would inch along at a snail’s pace, waiting for the crowd to part just enough to move through. The smells were horrendous (a combination of the Karakol good sour with far too many farm animals in one place) and the constant yells and animal cries made for a sensory overload. It took us 20 minutes to walk from the informal market to the real thing—it couldn’t possibly become crazier, we thought.
Of course, we were wrong. Through the red gates was a gigantic, sprawling mass of more livestock than I had ever seen. At the centre of the field was a pole barn at least 1 kilometre in length and 500 metres in width. There were thousands of horses, sheep, lambs, goats, cows, bulls, and calves packed into every tiny space—moving around was difficult and scary, as we were worried about getting a kick from the hind legs of a horse or cow.
People bartered and shouted and exchanged cash and animals. I inquired about the prices of the different animals and received surprisingly consistent, fair quotes. As far as I could tell, one could buy a sheep or goat for $100 CAD, a fully-grown cow or bull for $500-700 CAD, and a ready-to-ride (or milk) horse for $1000 CAD. Many of the vendors thought I legitimately wanted to buy one of the animals—they would’ve sold one to me without batting an eye.
50 minutes was all we could handle in the cattle market—it was just too wild. We hailed a taxi and rode back to our hotel.
We had the worst meal of our trip that morning—a cold, stale, almost rotten spread of bizarre breakfast foods. There was an unheated warming tray of cold fried eggs that had been sitting around the whole morning—it smelled terrible, with contents that would almost certainly have gotten us sick. The pictures don’t do it justice—we were scared of getting food poisoning and ended up just having coffee for breakfast.
The plan for the next few days was to visit the south shore of Lake Issyk Kul, an area considered to be Kyrgyzstan’s beach paradise. We were a bit skeptical but decided to see it for ourselves. I had booked 2 nights at a very famous lakeside yurt camp called “Bel Tam” and we were due to check in at 5:00 that evening.
And so we packed our bags, picked up some snacks and drinks, and made our way to the Karakol Bazaar for the last time. We were headed to the region of Tong and catching the right marshrutka was, at this point, child’s play. We waded through hundreds of people and zooming marshrutkas to find the Bokombay-bound set of marshrutkas; within minutes we had paid and were crammed into the minibus. We were starving after our terrible breakfast that morning but only had 10 minutes to find something to eat before we were set to depart. I saw a shack selling “GRIL,” which meant rotisserie chicken and flatbreads. I ran out of the marshrutka and purchased a whole chicken for about $4 CAD, which came with two large flatbreads and two bottles of iced tea. I sprinted back to the bus just in time. Soon we were driving off into the dusty distance, enjoying our rotisserie chicken. The chicken was loose in a white plastic bag—we used the thin flatbread (which was very similar in taste and texture to a whole wheat tortilla) as a utensil for ripping off small pieces of chicken to keep our hands clean. It was seasoned simply with salt, pepper, paprika, garlic and was succulent and delicious.
The drive towards Bokombay (medium-sized city on the south shore of Issyk Kul) was uneventful and pleasant; the marshrutka was relatively empty and we enjoyed the scenery. The south shore really was as beautiful as people had described. 4 starkly different landscapes seamlessly transitioned into one another as you rotated your head. Snowy, rugged peaks turned into lush green valleys; these morphed into arid stretches of desert which flowed into the deep, crystal blue waters of Issyk Kul. There was very little development in this area; the natural views were unobstructed and gorgeous.
The weather began to turn as we neared the tiny village of Tong. This panicked me as we had a 5 kilometre walk to the yurt camp and there would be no cover. As mentioned before, getting struck by lightning is where I draw the line—we might need to take shelter for a few hours that afternoon.
The road sign for Tong flew by the window and it was time to get out. The sky was a sinister grey and it rumbled viciously. Lightning began to strike the moment we stepped out of the bus; we sprinted to the “safety” of a crumbling concrete bus stop. I was panicked but Anil was, as usual, relaxed. We needed to get into a proper structure—the shambles of a bus stop wouldn’t cut it.
We sheltered in place for half an hour—there were no taxis, Yandexes, or hitchhiking-friendly cars to help us. The storm continued to erupt above us and the bolts of lightning struck far too close for comfort. If I hadn’t been in the company of Anil and a number of laughing, jolly children I may have wet my pants.
And suddenly came our salvation—a man driving a red Toyota Yaris. He could have asked for any price, but he didn’t. For 200 som we were out of the storm and in the comfort of the car, soon to be zooming towards our yurt camp.
A dirt road took us closer and closer to the shore of Issyk-Kul. We could soon drive no closer, and our driver told us we had arrived. We thanked him, grabbed our bags, and walked the final few metres towards the camp.
It was exactly as described—a serene collection of yurts perched just off the shore of the lake. There were six or seven 4-person yurts and one communal dining tent in addition to genuine flush toilets and showers. The ablutions here were a welcome surprise and were spotlessly clean and inviting. The showers had floors made of the smooth pebbles of the lake and the toilets were functional and comfortable.
Our host led us to our yurt for the next two nights—it was directly next to the beach. This was a truly authentic yurt made from a wooden lattice frame and roof structure and strung with a sheepskin covering. Our beds were cotton rolls set on wooden frames and there was a small cowpat stove to keep us warm. We were ecstatic to be in the safety of a building and continued to shelter in place until the storm abated. The interior of the yurt smelled strongly of barnyard animals while the rain pounded outside—we were comfortable and happy.
The storm stopped. In true Kyrgyzstan fashion, it took just 5 minutes for the clouds to disappear and for the sun to beam. We knew what we had to do. It was time for a swim. We donned our bathing suits for, shockingly, the fourth time on this mountain vacation and made the short walk to the beach.
It was the perfect combination of a sandy and rocky beach. Towards the land was soft, white sand—towards the water was smooth, colourful rock. The water was warm, slightly salty, and absolutely crystal clear. It sounds crazy, but it was some of the finest swimming we had ever done. There were no fish or weeds or muck because Issyk Kul is an oligotrophic lake and nothing can grow. We took in views of the varied landscapes as we floated carelessly—it was surreal to swim in a huge pool surrounded by snowy peaks and arid desert.
Feeling refreshed, we settled back into the sand. I whipped up some creamy noodles and we enjoyed them while listening to the gentle waves. Of course, being in a land with no rules, we took an opportunity to make a blazing fire on the beach. With food in our stomachs and the warmth of the fire on our tired feet, we were in heaven. We spoke with some Swiss tourists who thought we were living life to the fullest and soon it was time for dinner.
We made our way to the communal dining tent and met a number of amazing people—particularly a group of young French tourists with whom we chatted for many hours. Dinner that night was dimdama (a Kyrgyz boiled dinner), carrot soup, fresh bread, and too many cups of sweetened tea.
With our first night of an unexpected beach vacation in the books, we returned to our yurts for a restful sleep.
Day 14
More thunderstorms were predicted for today—we had to be strategic. We had wanted to visit the famous Skazka Canyon and would need to do so before the poor weather of the afternoon came rolling in.
We had a quick breakfast of sliced tomatoes, bread, and coffee and packed a small bag to bring with us for the day. We couldn’t find a taxi and walked 5 kilometres to the crumbling marshrutka stop of the day before. A number of marshrutka routes conveniently stop right outside the Canyon, so we just had to wait for one to show up.
Soon we were in the most crowded “shrutie” of our careers. We were forced to stand in the aisle in a cram of local adults, children, and other tourists. There were pieces of furniture and other random cargo shoved into every crevice of the vehicle and it felt like there was simply no comfortable position. The main problem, however, was the heat—it was a boiling, muggy day and no one had made any effort to cool down the vehicle.
The ride was unbelievably turbulent—we were on a temporary dirt road that bumped and bashed our heads with every passing metre. We were sweating bullets and had soon drenched our clothes. I took a look over to Anil, whose neck was craned to avoid hitting the roof—he wasn’t looking so good. Though I was sweaty, he took first prize, and I noticed he was pale.
“Isn’t this amazing,” I said to Anil, trying to lighten the mood.
“Isaac, please don’t talk to me right now.”
“Got it.”
We continued to smash and bash our heads on the roof and the bus only got hotter—we started to feel sick. The route also began to wind like a spiral and this did not help our case. Anil was looking particularly poor and attempted to open the emergency exit hatch to let in some air. He succeeded and we were rewarded with life-giving cool air, but a passenger immediately gave him the evil eye and said to close the hatch. She claimed that the air was “bad for the baby” sitting on her lap, so we couldn’t argue.
And we were back to the suffering. It was getting truly bad—I thought Anil might faint. We were nauseous and hot and becoming perfectly primed for a vasovagal episode. I suggested getting off the minibus early, though that would leave us totally stranded. We decided to power through.
I noticed Anil had entered a sort of meditative state, had ascended to a realm far away from this sauna of a vehicle. At this point I was just getting ready to give either Anil or myself a bag in which to vomit—it was horrendous.
Finally we arrived at the Canyon and scurried out of the minibus like rats. We barely spoke as we trudged towards the entrance—we were in shock and still feeling ready to barf. After 10 minutes we had mustered the energy to talk and began to discuss just how horrendous the experience had been. I told Anil that although the blog post would have been more interesting if he had fainted or vomited, I was glad he didn’t.
We pulled up to the Skazka Canyon cafe, a small modern building next to an outhouse. There was a man inside who informed us that the cafe had “no food, no drink, no electricity, no Wi-Fi,” and we asked what they did have. “Milk,” the man said. We knew better.
After snacking on some chocolate I had bought in Karakol, we made the walk into the canyon. It was 2 kilometres down a red-rock road and the scenery was striking. Skazka Canyon is also called “Fairytale Canyon” and is famous for its sharp, jagged red stone formations that jut from the ground to resemble a dragon’s tail. The weather was lovely and we enjoyed exploring the Canyon for more than an hour.
We were hungry and thirsty—it was time to move on. After the events of that morning we swore to never, ever take a marshrutka again, and so began our hunt for a different method of transportation back to our yurt camp on the beach.
And down the redden path we walked once again. Within minutes a small red car pulled up next to us—inside were two adult men, one with a beard, and a little boy. The men invited us into the car and our immediate instinct was to make the “how much” gesture with our hands, as hitchhiking in Kyrgyzstan often requires payment. The men emphasized that we did not need to pay a cent and continued to invite us inside. Even the little boy beckoned us inside—and so we entered reluctantly.
We were met with warm handshakes and a classic Google-translate conversation. The men told us their names (I cannot, for the life of me, remember them) and the boy proudly introduced himself as Bosombek. We chatted about kumys, bozo, chalap—you know, a normal conversation about fermented horse milk drinks. We expressed that we needed to go towards Bokombay, and the men politely informed us that they would take us close enough to catch a taxi.
We rode, all five of us crammed into a tiny car, without a worry in the world. We chatted about food and Kyrgyzstan and how nice the people are, and soon it was time to say goodbye. Bosombek in particular was sad to see us leave.
We were dropped off near a small grocery store in the middle of nowhere and picked up some Kyrgyz lunch. We ate potato porozki, a hardboiled egg and pickle sandwich, chocolate milk, spicy pepper sauce, and a dried, smoked fish. The fish was from Lake Issyk Kul and was one of the foulest things I have ever tasted—every bite was like ingesting the whole contents of the waste trough in a lobster processing plant. The rest of the food hit the spot and we were soon ready to head home.
We waited for almost an hour to catch a taxi back to Tong. An incredibly friendly old fella finally showed up and asked for 600 som ($10 CAD) to bring us back. It was a fine deal and we were off. It was a huge upgrade from the traumatizing marshrutka journey of the morning—the wind flowed, the Kyrgyz music blared, and our driver smoked endless numbers of cigarettes. We even picked up two local passengers on the way—a very old man wearing a kalpaks and his granddaughter—and they enjoyed the ride alongside us.
We were dropped off at the same cursed, crumbling bus stop and had to make a final walk of around 5 kilometres back to the yurt camp. We were exhausted but had a hilarious journey just reminiscing on the events of the day. This was a huge form of entertainment for us throughout the trip—joking about the characters, foods, and places we’d seen—and was one of my favourite aspects of the entire experience.
Soon we were back to the camp. We unloaded our stuff, did some laundry (yes, they had a tiny washing machine there) and headed towards the communal dining yurt. We enjoyed outrageous quantities of beef kuurdak (fried meat and potatoes served with raw onions and parsley or cilantro) while chatting with our new French companions. It was a lovely night. Before we knew it, we were back in the comfort of our yurt. I cannot express enough just how nice it is to sleep in a yurt—the cold interior is perfectly complemented by the thick, weighted blankets and cotton bedrolls. We could hear the gentle lapping of the Issyk Kul waves and the hum of the wind outside as we drifted into another deep sleep.
Day 15
Today marked the final phase of our journey, the last major destination. We decided make the odyssey to Lake Son Kul, a glorious alpine lake at 3,000 metres above sea level. Son Kul is one of the most famous, sacred places in Kyrgyzstan—possibly because it is an absolute pain in the ass to reach. No real roads lead there and just getting to the nearest town requires some serious logistics (and even luck). This did not deter us—we knew we had to see Son Kul before we could say we had truly experienced Kyrgyzstan.
To visit Son Kul, the plan was to travel to a tiny town called Kyzart and make the 31 kilometer trek up towards the lake. This was not known to be the toughest trek in Kyrgyzstan—the real challenge would be getting to Kyzart. We would need to walk to the Tong bus stop, take a marshrutka to Bokombay, take a shared taxi (i.e. a taxi going to a specific destination in which each passenger pays a fixed price) to Kochkor, take another shared taxi to Djangaryk, and then walk towards the Kyzart village exit. It was the ultimate transportation challenge. After 15 days in Kyrgyzstan, we were ready.
We woke early to have a lush breakfast of crusty bread, fried eggs, tomatoes, cucumbers, fried cauliflower, and a sort of Kyrgyz savoury French toast. We packed our bags and I found our host to pay the bill. We dropped a whopping $130 CAD for this stay, which was outrageous by Kyrgyz standards but actually very reasonable considering they provided us with a private yurt, private beach, and incredible meals for 3 days. After packing our bags we made the 5 kilometre walk to the crumbled bus stop one last time. We quickly caught a marshrutka headed towards Bokombay and stood for the entire journey.
The Bokombay bus station was, as always, smack in the centre of a bazaar. It was loud and chaotic and a bit smelly, though this didn’t prevent us from finding a shared taxi to Kochkor in minutes. Shared taxis operate in a similar fashion to marshrutkas, though the drivers do try to scam foreigners. The driver announces his destination, one agrees on a price (per seat), and, if the price is right, you hop inside. I became quite adept at dealing with shared taxi drivers—my rule of thumb was to get the price down to roughly double what the locals might pay. I learned that community tourism offices (called CBTs, or community-based tourism offices) in the town bazaars were happy to provide information as to what a “fair” shared taxi fee might be for that area, and I would work my haggling around that.
With our seats secured and bags packed, we had to wait until the shared taxi filled with other passengers before we could depart. I walked around the bazaar to find something to eat and stumbled upon a samsi shop in a tiny, concrete room within a church. The lady was thrilled to offer me a taste of everything in the store and asked me to take a picture of her.
The samsi were rich, umami, and delicious. I needed to use the washroom before we left the town and I began a mad dash to find somewhere to go. A major disadvantage of Kyrgyzstan is scarcity of toilets—they are sometimes just impossible to find—and this was very apparent in Bokombay.
I decided to try the CBT office—surely a modern, air-conditioned building with tile floors would have a bathroom. I entered the room and asked the attendant if there was a washroom; he was ecstatic to lead me outside into a garbage-filled backyard where a green steel outhouse stood. He was incredibly happy to offer me this luxury and I thanked him.
This was among the scariest outhouses I had used—there were no wooden slats on the floor, as normal, but rather a thin sheet of metal. It creaked and groaned as I walked above a shitty depths below. The smell was repugnant—this was no outhouse in the middle of a verdant valley in the mountains where the contents could just decay. I used a technique I had developed since arriving in Kyrgyzstan of covering my nose with the collar of my shirt and breathing through my mouth to get through may short visit to the outhouse.
And soon it was time to hop in the taxi and begin our 45-minute ride to Kochkor. It was hot, bumpy, and quite uncomfortable, but we both fell asleep for the majority of the ride. Our arrival in the Kochkor bazaar felt as if we had woken up from a dream, and we waddled out of the car.
The Kochkor bus station was particularly out-of-control. Aggressive taxi and marshrutka drivers accosted us with every step we took and asked for insane prices to bring us to Kyzart village. We simply could not find a friendly, placid driver who would agree to take us where we needed to go for a reasonable amount of money. A number of drivers began to scare us by harassing us and following us around. Some of the drivers were becoming physical and outwardly aggressive. We became flustered, short, and extremely impatient and decided to leave the chaos of bizarre to cool down for a few minutes to calm down.
We stepped into a restaurant and ordered, as you do, a steaming plate of boso lagman (fried chewy wheat noodles with peppers, onions, beef, and soy sauce). We wolfed it down alongside two cans of MacCoffee iced coffee and considered our options. No drivers were willing to go to Kyzart for fewer than 3000 som ($45 CAD)—this was much higher than the suggested 1000 som of the CBT office. The day was growing late and we needed to get to Kyzart as soon as possible—we wouldn’t make it to Son Kul in time if we didn’t start hiking that day. We decided that we would be willing to pay 2000 som to a friendly, seemingly-safe driver, and we began to take shifts out in the bazaar trying to find someone.
We were lucky to find a friendly, older driver who was ecstatic to take us for (the still too high) price of 2000 som. We rushed into his car to avoid the swarm of other taxi drivers and soon we were on our third drive of the day. This one was an absolute pleasure—the windows were open, we had incredible durchzug (Anil taught me this German word for “airflow”), and the scenery was magnificent. Haunting thunderclouds surrounded us but we were driving away from them. This was good—we needed to hike today, and we needed good weather to hike.
A 2-hour drive brought us to the village of Kyzart, also known as Djangaryk. This was a quintessential rural village and had absolutely no tourist infrastructure—no signs, no stores. I had planned out our exact GPS route for the next 3 days while we were still at the yurt camp, so we were good to begin our hike. The sky has completely cleared and the sun was out. These miraculous weather windows seemed to be a regular occurrence in Kyrgyzstan and we were always grateful for their arrival.
Although the trek did not feature the dramatic mountain landscapes we had come to love in Kyrgyzstan, it was still beautiful in its own way. Incredibly lush fields of grass sloped gently upwards to the mountains in the distance and slow-flowing creeks gently bubbled as we walked. There were birds chirping in the skies and the sun began to set—we walked and talked and listened to music and life was at its best. A warm breeze lapped over us and the sky slowly transitioned into red, then ochre, then violet. No mosquitoes to be found and a solid, comfortable trail—it was quite simply hiking heaven.
We suddenly realized that we had walked the 17 kilometres to the location of our camp for the night. We thought there might be a yurt camp at which we could stay—but the nomadic peoples were, understandably, not there. Instead we found a soft patch of grass near the river and set up our tent for the last time. As the sun completely set we made a fire and I began on dinner. We ate freeze-dried Ukrainian borscht, linguine with rose sauce, and hot chocolate. The stars above were vast and electric and it almost felt a shame to crawl into our tent to sleep.
Day 16
We slept as long as we could—the sun and birds woke us around 9:00AM. We packed our things and had a quick breakfast—the real hike began today and we needed to make it to the lake before the storms of the afternoon rolled in.
The ascent began immediately and didn’t stop for about four hours. We walked under a broiler of a sun and sweated buckets for the entire day. Though we were grateful for the good weather, the heat posed a real challenge and we needed to stop and rest regularly throughout the walk. Filtering lots of water and chowing down on high-calorie snacks added a great deal of extra time to our trek—this was much harder than the reports online had stated.
The views were, of course, majestic. We were at altitude again and the sharp features of Kyrgyz mountains made every step more picturesque than the last. There were wild horses, sheep, and cows on every hillside and yellow wildflowers dotted every patch of grass. The rivers flowing down the valley did not have crystal clear water, as we were used to—this was serious livestock country and one could tell by looking at the murky streams. We made sure to filter water extra carefully here to avoid getting sick.
The brutal walk was made more comfortable by strong winds as we approached the Too-Ashuu mountain pass. We were at 3,580 metres and became excited to see what would be on the other side. The final few steps to the top revealed a very gradual grassy slope that led down to the lake—it was still over an hour’s walk to the nearest shore.
We began our descent. The scenery amplified in beauty with every step, particularly due to the increasing numbers of yellow wildflowers surrounding us. The view became more panoramic, too, as we left the mountains and walked towards the flat of the lake. The puffy clouds above us made the scene incredibly dramatic and I had to take an opportunity to lie down for a nap.
And we walked and walked—the lake finally approached. The waters were even more crystal-clear than those of Issyk-Kul and there was a serious current. As we approached the shore and sat on the smooth pebbles to make some lunch, we saw two familiar faces in the distance. It was Tom and Ileena, the British couple we had met over a week before in Jyrgalan! We had an epic reunion with some hugs and chatted about the previous few days. Kyrgyzstan is a small country but the likelihood of meeting with Tom and Ileena on this day were still very slim—it was so serendipitous and fun.
We waved them goodbye—we would see them later. They told us that the best yurt camp was a 2.2 kilometre walk to the east shore of the lake. I hadn’t booked anything because we couldn’t. Yurt camps on Son Kul have no Wi-Fi or cell service and fill up on a first-come, first-serve basis. It was getting late and we needed to get to the camp before the storms and before the beds might fill up. We scarfed down our lunch of spicy instant noodles and donned our packs for the last stretch of the day.
Our walk along the shore of Son Kul was possibly the most beautiful of the entire trip. The coastline somehow looked Caribbean, Mediterranean, and Scottish at the same time—the shallows were turquoise blue, the beach comprised of smooth grey pebbles, and the banks were rich, green, hilly pasture. A prominent feature of the terrain were regions of plush mounds of marsh grasses that looked like green moguls.
We had walked for over an hour without any sign of the yurt camp. We had traveled far more than 2.2 kilometres and began to worry that the nomadic peoples had, as they do, moved somewhere else. Suddenly, though, we walked over a hill and got sight of the camp, a collection of tiny white dots in the distance.
And within minutes of arriving, we were drinking tea, eating biscuits, and munching on chak-chak (Kyrgyz sweet, chewy rice crackers) in the communal dining tent. This was an exceptional yurt camp. The facilities (e.g. washrooms and sinks) were essentially nonexistent but the hosts exuded kindness and hospitality; we really felt as though we were part of their family. There was something uniquely special about the people running this camp—it’s difficult to pinpoint exactly what it was. I think the combined factors of the magical location and the fact that we had just showed up made for a special connection between everyone there. It was as if everything had to align for us to be together and we had to make the most of it and enjoy the moment.
One of our hosts, the man of the house, led us to our yurt. He was enamoured by our kalpaks and shouted “KYRGYZSTAN!” whenever he saw us. He would shake our hands and pat our backs—he seemed just so genuinely happy to have us there.
Our home for the night was the most austere yurt we’d been in so far. It was an authentic yurt (i.e. it had wooden supports and a sheepskin covering) and smelled strongly of the cow pats which warmed it in the colder months. There were no mattresses or bed frames, just thick cotton bedrolls on a ground of woven rugs. This time, too, we had a roommate—a 64-year-old French lady who had travelled from France all the way to Kyrgyzstan on her bicycle. She was gregarious and very happy to meet some travellers who could speak to her in French (mostly Anil—my French is poor).
We heard the grumble of an incoming storm and retreated to the communal dining yurt. Within minutes the sky exploded with rain, sleet, and hail and the wind roared. The sheepskin covering beat flapped wildly over the wooden frame and the steel chimney rattled loudly. This was the most vicious storm we had experienced so far—it sounded like a jet engine from the inside of the yurt.
The temperature dropped dramatically and we began to freeze; this was unfortunate, as we had hoped to go swimming and exploring, as this would be our only day at Son Kul. And just as we started to feel down, Tom and Ileena popped into the yurt. With smiles on their faces they asked if we wanted to play Monopoly Deal (a card game version of Monopoly)—we gladly obliged and the four of us proceeded to play cards and share stories for almost two hours.
The storm abated and night quickly approached. In a bout of raw stupidity, Anil, Aleena, the French woman, and I decided that we had to seize the day and go for a swim in the lake. The sun was far behind the clouds and a brisk breeze blew all around us—we still had to go. We had come this far and we had to make the most of it. Tom made very clear that he did not want to swim; he offered to be the photographer, though, so he would come along for the ride.
We changed into our bathing suits and made our way to the rocky shore. It felt like we were walking the plank—this was going to be dangerously cold and we would have nowhere warm and dry to recover. Suddenly we were on the rocks and taking off our shirts—and into the water we went. It was bone-chilling and hilarious. We laughed and screamed as we entered and enjoyed the exhilarating cold. After a full-body plunge we ran to the shores like excited children and dried off as well as we could with our tiny microfibre towels.
A quick walk back to our yurt and a change of clothes brought us once again to the dinner tent. We sat next to Tom, Ileena, two Spanish documentary makers, two Germans (including our friend Nick from Altyn Arashan), an Israeli man who could speak 7 languages, the French lady, and our Kyrgyz hosts at a table covered in sweets, nuts, and the finest fresh bread we had tasted on the trip. We were ravenous and the atmosphere in the dining tent was electric. Again, there was something special about the group of people gathered there on that night. We were possibly the only yurt camp on the lake that night and were alone among the vast nature that surrounded us. Together in a small, warm, gently-lit yurt, we truly lived in the moment.
The first course was a rich, meaty broth flavoured with carrots, dill, paprika, and vinegar. It warmed our souls as we drank and the saltiness was so, so good. We mopped our bowls with fresh bread (cooked in the cow shit ovens) and asked for seconds, thirds, and fourths. Our dining companions chatted happily and Anil and I reveled in being able to talk to so many people at the table (both of us could speak French and Spanish, Anil spoke German to the Germans, and I spoke Hebrew to the Israeli). We shared tales of our experiences so far in Kyrgyzstan and bonded over the sourness of the local drinks and the warmth of the people we’d.
The main course featured toothsome wheat noodles that had been made by hand 10 minutes prior by the babushka of the house. They were served in an intensely savoury, salty meat broth alongside carrots, onions, and potatoes. The noodles tasted like fresh Italian pasta and, as with the soup, we eagerly asked for seconds. The mother of the house kept bringing us tea, bread, fifth servings of soup, more noodles—she absolutely pampered us. As our bellies filled and we began to tire, the conversation calmed. We considered heading to bed.
But we couldn’t—there was something to be done, one more course to be had, one more thing to drink. As a fine French dinner might end with a glass of brandy, a Son Kul feast must end with a few sips of fresh chumys. Our hosts had informed us that the horses had been milked just minutes before dinner and that the chimes was cold, sour, and ready.
We were hesitant. Though we didn’t get sick from our first experience with chumys, getting sick here, in the absolute middle of nowhere, would be torture. There were no real toilets and just getting to the hole in the ground required a 10-minute walk away from camp. Should we need to visit the hospital, evacuation would simply be impossible—we would have to walk 31 kilometres back to the village. Having chumys here would be genuinely risky, and we resisted the offer
But then we realized that this was our moment—it was almost meant to be. We had heard nonstop throughout our trip that the finest chumys in Kyrgyzstan came from the horses on Son Kul, and that any chance to taste it cannot be wasted. People from across the country cited that the sacred, pristine waters of Son Kul gave nearby horses special chumys-producing ability, and that the product is simply unmatched. We were near the end of our trip and it felt like we had come full circle, given this opportunity to enjoy the finest chumys in the land. We knew what we had to do.
We were served, as before, a hefty portion of the drink. Into porcelain cups our host ladled the thick, white liquid. Immediately apparent was the absence of a strong odour—this chumys just smelled like kombucha (slightly yeasty, a bit sour). It was ice-cold and free of the debris and sawdust that was abundant in our roadside chumys of the first week. Everything was looking good—I was ready.
And so we took a sip—it was delicious. Smooth on the tongue and pleasantly sour, it was reminiscent of kombucha, kefir, or even a good beer. Anil and I downed our entire cups and our Kyrgyz hosts beamed with pride. I even asked for a second serving—I didn’t really want it, but the smile on our host’s face was motivation enough.
Day 17
We woke to the warmth of the sun on our yurt. Breakfast was a plate of boiled kasha (buckwheat) served with cucumbers and carrots. I made coffee (instant coffee, milk powder, and sugar) for all of our dining companions, including our Kyrgyz hosts.
The man of the house, the one who always shouted “KYRGYZSTAN” when he saw me and Anil, communicated to me that the tassel on the point of my kalpaks was damaged. He led me to our yurt and got to work. Using just a small knife and a piece of thread, he somehow repaired the tassel and had my kalpaks looking as good as new. He folded the brim in the classic style and proudly placed it back on my head.
We didn’t want to leave. This Son Kul yurt camp was a magical place and the weather was gorgeous. Horses roamed all around and every vista was more beautiful than the next.
Of course, we had to leave. The weather report for the afternoon was poor and we needed to get back to town that day. I chatted with Tom and we decided to make the descent to Kyzart together (with Ileena and Anil) as soon as possible.
Saying goodbye to our Kyrgyz hosts was truly difficult. They asked for pictures with us, shook our hands violently, and suggested the best exit route for us to take. Our bags were soon on our backs and our hearts were full—we walked out of the camp.
The walk down was scenic but it was incredibly hot and we sweated like mad. We chatted happily with Tom and Ileena for the first half of the way down but separated when they decided to stop for some lunch. Anil and I had almost no food left and were also finding for some fresh samsi in the village, so we decided to power through.
We made it back down to Kyzart village in about 4 hours—the final few kilometres were a hot, dusty, thirsty slog. Our samsi cravings were not fulfilled upon reaching the village—there were absolutely no stores, shops, or bakeries. I eventually found a man willing to sell me some bread rolls and warm bottles of iced tea—we chowed down on these while waiting for Tom and Ileena to return.
We were soon reunited with our British friends and began to figure out how the hell we would get back to Kochkor, the nearest transit hub. There were no marshrutkas in sight and certainly no taxis. We walked (meeting a truly insane old man riding a bicycle) endlessly through the village until we found an abandoned bus stop.
It wasn’t looking good—we had no schedule and we couldn’t just wait all day. Anil and I decided to visit the only guest-house in town and ask them if they could help us. In classic Kyrgyz fashion the hostess invited us inside, called a friend, and organized a taxi in minutes. We brought Tom and Ileena into the guesthouse and we were treated to tea, biscuits, fruits, and nuts. We each bought an ice cream bar from the little shop and enjoyed them while reminiscing about our night at Son Kul.
Our taxi driver—a local man with a big car—arrived after about an hour. We hopped inside and began our trip back to Kochkor. This wouldn’t be the final destination for me and Anil tonight—we needed to make it all the way to Balkychy. This was because we wanted to check just one more thing off of our Kyrgyzstan bucket list: a ride on the only train in the country.
We arrived in the Kochkor Bazaar and said our goodbyes to Tom and Ileena. I searched for a shared taxi to Balkychy and Anil scouted the finest samsi the bazaar had to offer. We soon met in our seats of the taxi, waiting for other passengers to join us. The night grew dark and we needed to get to Balkychy—I decided to just “buy the remaining seats” of the taxi so that the driver would leave without a full car.
Two other passengers were in the vehicle with us, a quiet man who drank chumys from a plastic bottle and a veritable mountain named Avaz. He chatted with us incessantly for the rest of the ride and became a bottomless well of inside jokes between me and Anil.
Avaz had a few quirks that we adored. He used gestures to describe core components of his stories—stories he repeated ad nauseam for the entire ride. For example, he would tell us about his time in the military by making an exaggerated army salute; he would tell us that he “saw Potsdam, Germany” by making the my eyes are on you gesture with his figures while shouting “POTSDAM!” He told us about all the intercourse he had enjoyed with Polish women in 1987 by slapping his right palm onto his left wrist and rubbing it voluptuously. Anil and I had some fun telling him that we were from Germany and South Africa, respectively, and that our names were Hans and Zachary. Anil was a plumber and “loved fixing toilets even though the pay was poor” and I was a chef at a French restaurant. We laughed with Avaz but eventually became irritated with his unstoppable chatter. As we neared Balkychy he invited us to come to his house for a drink—we politely declined and frankly couldn’t waited to be away from him.
We arrived in Balkychy just as the sun had set and caught a taxi to our guesthouse. We were exhausted and checked in, dropped our bags, and walked to a nearby restaurant. We enjoyed a mushroom, tomato, and beef tongue salad as an appetizer and each had stir-fried beef dishes as our mains. The meal hit the spot; we paid and we were asleep in our beds within minutes.
Day 18
We enjoyed breakfast at our guesthouse with two travellers from Russia—they had come to Kyrgyzstan with the sole purpose of attending a rock concert. Well-fed, showered, and rested, we were ready for some city exploration.
Balkychy lies on the western shore of Issyk Kul and was, to our pleasant surprise, clean, safe, and pretty. We were there for one reason only, though—the train to Bishkek. The only domestic train route in Kyrgyzstan runs between Balkychy and Bishkek, and I had become obsessed with taking it ever since I had heard about it online. Finding information about the timing, stops, and ticket purchasing of this train ride proved to be a gruelling challenge—there is simply nothing useful on the internet. Even Balkychy locals often have no idea about the details of the train—some people told us it wasn’t running.
And so our day in Balkychy centred around finding out how to get the train. We took a taxi to the station and found ourselves on a random residential street—the Google Maps listing for the station had led us completely astray. Undeterred, we continued our search and eventually found a strong candidate for the location of the train station, though we couldn’t be certain without going there ourselves.
We hailed another taxi and rode 15 minutes towards the outskirts of town. A classic Soviet train station appeared in the distance and we knew we had come to the right place.
We walked inside just as a train was arriving. This was good news—the train existed! I looked for a ticket office but found absolutely nothing. There were no train station employees, no signs in English, Russian, Kyrgyz, or any language at all. We were in an entirely empty building that just so happened to have train tracks at its rear.
I eventually found sound signs near the entrance of the station—they were entirely in Kyrgyz. I used the handy Google Translate camera to decipher the words and was pleased to find this:
We needed to return to the station at 5:00; we could just buy our tickets on the train. A “deluxe” ticket in an air-conditioned car would cost 500 som per person and a “normal” ticket 150 som. With a few hours to kill, we decided to grab some lunch.
We had been dying to try some famous Issyk-Kul rainbow trout since arriving in Kyrgyzstan and realized that today would be our only chance. I found a restaurant called the “HOUSE OF FOREL” on Google Maps and, on a whim, we took a taxi there.
The restaurant was a bizarre establishment near the water that featured an ostrich petting zoo, a stuffed lion, and some very unhappy penned rabbits. We were seated at a picnic table and our waiter informed me that I needed to select a fish. I was brought to the kitchen and instructed to choose a trout—there was a huge pile of succulent pink-fleshed butterflied rainbow trout in a chest fridge, each with a different price based on size. I opted for the 700 som ($10 CAD) fish and asked for it to be grilled. I returned to the table where the waiter had brought us a spicy cucumber salad.
We waited almost 45 minutes for our fish and it was absolutely worth it. The flesh was rich like salmon and had an intense soy-paprika-honey flavour. The skin was crisp and made for a perfect bite alongside the sliced vegetables with which the fish was served. We chowed down until every morsel of meat had been stripped from the trout—it was a religious experience.
We returned to our guesthouse and packed our bags, ready for the train. One of our hosts insisted on driving us to the station, which was much appreciated, and we were off.
The station was still barren of employees but was now packed with future riders. There was no order or system for loading passengers onto the train – it was a free-for-all, with commuters rushing inside to grab a seat. The signs had informed us that we would have to buy a ticket on the train, so on we went.
We opted for the “standard” ticket, not the “luxury” ticket. The luxury train car was air conditioned and featured panoramic windows and a water dispenser; it felt sterile and out of place. The standard cars, on the other hand, were quintessentially Soviet and felt just right. They were hot and sweaty with varnished wood-lined walls; comfortable brown leather berths and seats were perched between openable windows. There were no outlets nor was there food car – this was bare bones. We were ecstatic; it was just what we wanted. We paid our fare using an ultramodern credit card machine and settled into our berths.
We had joked about the weather or not the train would depart on time like a Swiss locomotive. Lo and behold, at exactly 5:48 PM, as scheduled, we were moving. The train ambled along slowly but surely; the scenery was dramatic and was a sort of summary of everything we’d seen so far in Kyrgyzstan. We saw rolling hills, green valleys, teal snowmelt rivers, red-sand desert, and lots of yurts and horses. These scenes felt familiar to us and we sat, contented, reflecting on our journey.
The train made few stops and the remainder of the ride was smooth. We arrived at the “Bishkek Train Station Number 2” fifteen minutes ahead of schedule – it was a Kyrgyz miracle. We took a celebratory picture outside our train car – we were proud of what she had accomplished, and thrilled that the train journey had become a reality.
We were happy to be back in Bishkek. We had come to really love the city and its quirkiness and were excited for one final day of exploring.
I had booked a nice hotel (read: air conditioning and a shower) while we were in the train. The prospect of a proper warm shower was irresistible, and so we were in a Yandex to our hotel within minutes of leaving the station.
Upon arrival, the man at the front desk of the hotel informed me that “Booking.com was wrong – we have no available rooms.” No bother, this was normal business in Kyrgyzstan. Rather than becoming upset and arguing for a room, we began our room search anew. In a few minutes I had booked at the “Smile Hotel” on Gorky street, among the best in the city, and we were off.
The second hotel checkin was more successful – for $60 CAD a night, we had a chic room with two double beds, a city view, and an incredible rainfall shower all to ourselves.
We showered, freeing our bodies of many layers of dirt and grime, and began the discussion of where to go for dinner. At this point in our trip we were hugely fond of traditional Kyrgyz fare and strongly considered going for boso lagman, plov, kuurdak, or manti. We couldn’t, though – there was something that needing doing, an establishment that needing visiting. We had been pushing it off but it could no longer wait.
If you were to ask a young, fashionable Kyrgyz man where he might bring his girlfriend for a special evening, there’s a good chance he would say “KFC.” We learned early in our trip that Kyrgyz KFC (yes, Kentucky Fried Chicken) is a prestigious establishment one might only visit for big occasions. We tried to figure out why this is – our best guess is that KFC is the only truly international fast food chain in the entire country. There are no McDonald’s, Burger Kings, or Starbucks – KFC is a Kyrgyz youth’s only true taste of America. In addition to being very expensive relative to local restaurants, Kyrgyz KFC franchisees are housed in modern buildings with air conditioning and certainly give off an air of sophistication.
We had to give it a try. We walked down Gorky street to the nearest KFC and saw, in typical fashion, that it was packed full of loving young couples.
We ordered fries, chicken wings, and the “BOXMASTER” sandwich from a tablet menu. Long story short, it was KFC – tasty but not worth prioritizing over local Kyrgyz restaurants. It was also ridiculously expensive – over $15 CAD per person, which could have bought us an absolute feast anywhere else. In any case we were stuffed and were ready for a restful night of sleep in a real bed. Tomorrow would be packed – our last day in Kyrgyzstan had to go out with a bang.
Day 19
Today had to be big – we wanted to use the skills and confidence we had gained to do a number of things we never would have considered upon first arriving in Kyrgyzstan. At this point we knew the food, we knew the public transit, we could even read the Cyrillic alphabet. We were ready for, as we liked to say, a day of unadulterated trolling.
First on the schedule was a something I like to do in every unusual country I visit; I must always have a haircut and shave at the end of a trip. There is something fascinating and possibly dangerous about having a mysterious barber give you a cut after a long, successful journey. And so we navigated Kyrgyz websites with Russian text to find a barbershop that could take us – and we succeeded.
We enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at our hotel and took a Yandex to the barbershop. It was in a swanky area of Bishkek that looked remarkably French or Italian, with trimmed hedges and classical-looking apartment buildings.
The barbershop, like many things in Kyrgyzstan, surprised us. It was spotless, modern, and comfortable. Leather couches lined the walls and there was even a barista who made incredible, complimentary espresso drinks for waiting customers.
We had both booked appointments for a full cut and hot-towel shave. There is always a risk in doing this (less health-related and more hairstyle-fiasco related) but that is part of what makes the experience fun.
And soon we were sitting on our padded recliners and enjoying the pampering of our barbers. Over the course of almost two hours we had our hair cut, beards shaved, ear hairs trimmed, faces scrubbed, and scalps massaged. My haircut was not at all what I expected but I came to like it; Anil’s was very good, too. All of this cost about $20 CAD per person which is an unthinkable bargain.
Looking and feeling fresh, it was time for some sightseeing. We visited the State Opera and Ballet House, the State Museum of Fine Arts, and the State History Museum. We saw a gigantic banner advertising a performance of “Cholpon,” when we were at the Ballet House. The one-night-only show was that very evening and we knew we had to go. We purchased tickets for the finest seats in the house for 800 som ($12) each.
Our ballet was scheduled for 7:00 that evening. We knew it would be a multi-hour ordeal, so a hearty lunch was in order. This would be one of our last chances to enjoy real Kyrgyz food and we pounced on it.
Lunch at Cafe Faiza (the undisputed home of Kyrgyz cuisine) consisted of ayran, a mutton samsi, a warm field mushroom salad, a steaming bowl of gyuro lagman, and a heaped plated of Uzbek plov. Everything was fantastic and we stuffed ourselves to the brim.
After a quick trip to Globus (the excellent grocery store) to buy our fathers bottles of Kyrgyz wine, we quickly returned to our hotel to change for our ballet evening.
We realized that we were horrendously underdressed as soon as we arrived. The Ballet House was bustling and it was a real joy to see so many young Kyrgyz people coming out for the ballet.
We had a quick snack of smoked trout and smoked trout roe on bread with butter and walked to our seats. The theater was ornate, majestic, and would not be out of place in any major European city. We were smack in the middle towards the front and had a clear view of the stage and the live pit orchestra that would be accompanying the dancers.
And so began the show. We had no idea what was happening but had a blast trying to figure it out. The entire ballet went for about two and a half hours and included not one, not two, but three intermission breaks. We thoroughly enjoyed the experience and felt that this serendipitous, random, and bizarre activity was the perfect conclusion to our last night in Kyrgyzstan.
We went for a delicious Georgian dinner after the show at a famous restaurant called Papuri. We ate eggplants stuffed with walnuts, khinkali dumplings, a chicken liver salad, a khachapuri cheese bread, and drank homemade Georgian white wine. We ate like animals and took a taxi back to our hotel.
And that was that – the end of our trip to Kyrgyzstan. Our return flight to Canada was at 4:00AM that morning. The plan was to sleep for a few hours and take a taxi to Manas International Airport to begin our journey home.
And what a journey we had ahead of us. Flying back to Canada the way we came would have cost a fortune. Instead, we would we taking a much cheaper but masochistic route of Bishkek to Istanbul, then Istanbul to Oslo, then Oslo to Reykjavik (with a 17 layover), and finally from Reykjavik to Hamilton, Ontario.
Two months have passed and I still find it difficult to come to meaningful conclusions about our trip. I can say with certainty that it challenged us physically and emotionally and pushed us to consider who we are and what our places are in the world. Throughout the trip we were reminded of our insane privilege and of how lucky we were to be able to enjoy the beautiful country of Kyrgyzstan for what was, to us, an astonishingly small amount of money.
We met some true angels and some real pieces of work – the former far outweighed the latter, though. Overall, we felt safe going about our day-to-day business and were never in a properly dangerous situation. The transportation was brutal but effective and moved us across the entire country. We rose to the challenge of navigating the system with just our wits and a crude ability to read Russian letters, which is, in my opinion, pretty awesome.
And Anil and I shared experiences we’ll never forget. We drank fermented horse milk together, escaped risky situations together, and laughed together about the chaos, randomness, and beauty of a place in which we have no control. We looked out for each other and made the most of our time together. Most importantly, we lived truly in the moment for three magical weeks.
This concludes the blog series about my trip to Kyrgyzstan. I hope you have enjoyed reading and would love if you left a comment to let me know what you thought of everything. Thank you for coming along for the journey. Until the next trip!
Comments
5 responses to “Kyrgyzstan: days 7-20”
Wow wow wow. What an incredible experience
I thoroughly enjoyed reading your blog. What a fantastic experience!!! Thank you for sharing!!!
So cool (>0<;)!!! Can't wait to read it again but not on an airplane and with the ability to view images. I think the Swiss on day 13 were right on. And you forded a river!!?!!!?!!!
Loved reading this Zak! So glad you weren’t updating as you went along as I might have sent a search party for you part way through your visit – yikes! Amazing adventure!
I think the Kyrgyz Tourist Office and the entire Glorious Nation of Manas owe you a huge debt of gratitude! Seriously, though, you have achieved exactly what a good travel writer should – not only have you made me eager to visit Kyrgyzstan, but you have also made me wish I could have been along on your particular journey. (Not to mention how thankful we are for all those details we would have never found out from our son!) I tip my kalpak to you.