June 26, 2004

High Plains Drifter

Song-Köl, Kyrgyzstan

I was heading up to Song-Köl, a high altitude jailoo where Kyrgyz herders take their flocks in summer. A beautiful lake surrounded by green valleys and dotted with shephard's yurts. And I was travelling by horse. It's the only way.

My adventure started in the small village of Kysart, at the home of Tolgart. It was mid-afternoon and threatening rain. "It will be better tomorrow", Tolgart confidently predicted. Nothing for it but to wait. At least they had a sauna next to the stables. Birch branch thrashing optional.

The next morning preparations are being made for the ride. "Are you an experienced rider?", Tolgart asks by consulting his phrase book. "A little", I reply, feeling that the truth, "I've never ridden in my life", might not go down so well.

Re-assured about my skills Tolgart shows me to the horses, one large and one small. That's a relief, I think. Then Tolgart proceeds to mount the small one, leaving the big one to me! Uh oh.

As we start out though, all seems well. Left and right, start and stop all seem to work. What more do you need? This horse-riding lark is a cinch. The only challenge is grass. Lightning (as I named my horse in memory of Flash, my camel in Morocco) likes to stop every five metres and eat some. I like Lightning to keep moving. A battle of wills ensues. Ultimately I decide to be magnanimous and let Lightning eat whenever he feels like it.

The lake of Song-Köl is ringed by mountains, and we're currently outside them. We walk for an hour or so along a valley heading towards a pass. On the way we stop in at a friend of Tolgart's yurt for some bread and kumys (fermented mares milk) and a bit of a chat. A routine that would become very familiar over the next couple of days.

A little further down the valley and we find the pass. A long climb up in to the mountains, ultimately reaching high enough to have snow drifts beside the trail. Upon reaching the summit we dismount to, I think, enjoy the sumptious views. Tolgart has other ideas and breaks out a small bottle of vodka to celebrate the occasion. My pitiful excuses go unacknowledged and I end up downing a couple of shots, accompanied by much grimacing.

From there it was a long but gentle downhill run to the lake shore. A beautiful scene with the lush green meadow beneath us and the snow-capped mountains ringing the far shore. Tolgart thought this also worthy of toasting and, despite more protests from yours truly, another couple of shots were downed, finishing the bottle.

From here it was a short ride along the lake shore then up a valley to the family with whom we'd be staying the night. After eight hours of riding Lightning seemed to know that we were almost at the end. This gave him an unexpected burst of energy and before I knew it he was galloping at full pace up the valley. With my skills, honed as they were by half a bottle of vodka, it was all I could do to hold on for dear life. Nevertheless, we arrived safe and sound at the yurt of Bartokan and his family, our hosts for the night.

The next day Tolgart and I said our goodbyes and headed out for the return journey, via some different valleys. We were just visiting another family a little further around the lake when Bartokan came riding up. A hasty conference with Tolgart and the next thing I know they're racing off to go fishing, leaving me in the yurt to eat bread and drink kumys. Well, there are worse places in the world to be abandoned.

Two hours later, the entire history section of the Lonely Planet having been read, they return with a bag full of fish. They decided to toast their success with some... yes! Vodka! My pathetic excuses are once again summarily dismissed as several shots are downed. I learned a trick from Bartokan though, not to completely drink each shot, only about half. Strangely I seem to get away with this.

Success toasted we arise and mount our horses. Bartokan continues to ride with us and we've also picked up the guy who owns the boat they used for fishing. Before long, as we ride up the valley, another couple of guys join us. Well, this is cause for celebration. We stop at another convenient yurt and out comes the... you guessed it, vodka! I really hold back this time because if I drink much more I'll fall out of the saddle. Thankfully the pressure is not too great and I get away with just a couple of small shots. Finally we arise, everyone else heads back down the valley and it's back to just Tolgart and I heading up.

Tolgart must have run out of vodka because we cross the top of the pass without incident. He is in fine voice though and belts out a few traditional Kyrgyz songs. He insists that I respond with something from Australia. Waltzing Matilda of course. Tolgart enhances the chorus with a few woops and yells of his own. Another Kyrgyz song requires another from Australia. Not knowing all the words of Click Go the Shears or The Pub with No Beer I instead resort to a couple of Cold Chisel numbers. I'm sure the local shephards really appreciated my Bow River.

On the way down we manage to find a couple more yurts to visit. One must have been having some sort of celebration because there was the most amazing spread of sweets and pastries over the entire floor. On each occasion the kumys flowed freely and I was not allowed to leave without a generous serving of bread and cream.

Finally, as the light began to fade, we worked our way back along the valley leading to Kysart, arriving a little after dark. An excellent couple of days.

Posted by David at June 26, 2004 01:18 AM