Sixty One Degrees
An occassional journal of an Asia-overland adventure
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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.
Kochkor, Kyrgyzstan
Kyrgyzstan is a poor country. Unable to afford Playstations children are forced outside to play football or jacks. Most homes only have black-and-white TV.
Sounds remarkably like my childhood. Except I had to wear flares.
Tash Rabat, Kyrgyzstan
My travelling companions over the Torugart Pass, Paul and Jo, today head on for Bishkek then their current home in Tashkent. I, however, am heading back down the Torugart road to see the 15th century caravanserai of Tash Rabat. A sort of Middle-Ages hostel for traders.
Despite protestations from various taxi drivers I managed to catch the local bus for At-Bashy. Along the way I was befriended by a couple of girls who spoke very little English. Despite my Kyrgyz being limited to "salam" and "rakhmat" they managed to offer me a small sweet from a packet they were happily devouring. I popped the creamy ball into my mouth and immediately my eyes started watering as the sour taste hit. How is it? they asked. I gave what I thought was a smile as I choked it down, it may have been a grimace.
I arrived at At-Bashy with an address but no idea how to get there. A couple of vague directions later and I head off down a dirt road. A car rolls by with a few people in it and offers a lift. I shrug it off in my travel-hardened fashion. Eventually I find the house I'm looking for, with the same car in the driveway and the driver standing at the door ready to greet me. Why didn't you come with us, he asks. I have no answer I can give with my above-mentioned command of Kyrgyz.
It's now late in the day but we decide to head straight for Tash Rabat, about a further one-and-a-half hours drive. The guy's teenage son and daughter come along for the ride. Of course I'd already been along the road to the Torugart Pass but I wasn't prepared for the gorgeous valley that we turned down to reach the caravanserai. Incredibly lush pastures, green hills, swift streams, and nomad's yurts combined to make a delightful picture.
After 15km we reached the caravanserai. A lonely stone building standing in the valley. The local caretaker came across to unlock the door and I headed in to explore. Built like a small castle, with thick stone walls, it must have been a chill place to stay when the weather turned cold. Apparently the only example in Central Asia, and maybe even outside of the Middle-East, I didn't see any in China, Tash Rabat is wonderfully evocative of the Silk Road life.
Kashgar, Xinjiang Province, China
The Torugart Pass is one of the world's most notorious borders. The Lonely Planet for Central Asia devotes three pages to a detailed analysis of this one crossing. It's officially a second-class border, which means no foreigners. In practice, if you line your cards up right, you can get across.
The cheapest option, catching the bus with the locals from Kashgar to Bishkek, was immediately knocked on the head. All reports, and the nice lady from China Travel, said that you'd be kicked off at Chinese immigration.
Plan 2 was to hook up with some other travellers and share a car. Apparently a permitted way to cross. Go figure. I was lucky enough to find a couple travelling on the same day I wanted and so the arrangements were made. The trick is to take one car in China, then have a another car waiting at the isolated border post in Kyrgyzstan. Without this second car you again are not permitted near the border.
So, after catching the famous Kashgar Sunday market the day before I'm ready to head out of China and on to Central Asia. I meet Paul and Jo, my companions for the day, and by 8:30 we're off and heading down a dirt road for the distant border.
The first checkpoint arrives after about half-an-hour but takes just a few minutes as the guard checks our passport and a mysterious piece of paper that our driver keeps waving at any official looking person. An hour further down the barren road we reach the point where the Torugart and Irkeshtam roads diverge, and Chinese immigration control sits. Everybody out of the car with all the luggage.
The border post is remarkably quiet. Apart from a couple of truck drivers we're the only ones there. We drag our bags across to the x-ray machine and put them on top of a huge pile of sacks. Then it's off to the first office to have the passports checked. A lady inside scrutinises our passports in great detail before finally deciding that they pass muster, pencils something into a log, then ushers us on to the next check. Now it's a guy with a computer who runs through the same routine before also deciding that we're okay. At this point I run my backpack through the scanner but casually slide my daypack along the floor so it doesn't get x-rayed. I don't entirely trust those "film safe" declarations.
Finally we're ushered in to yet another room where now two guys are working in tandem to flush out any irregularities in our paperwork. However nothing is remiss and they soon pull out the exit stamp with a flourish and we're on our way.
We're still 110km from the border at this point and we start to climb up to the pass, the stark desert landscape rolling by on both sides. The only signs of life are the overladen scrap metal trucks heading for China. They seem to be slowly dismantling all of Kyrgyzstan.
10km from the border we pass a lonely outpost with a couple of decaying buildings and a handful of guards. Our driver waves the magic piece of paper and we're ushered through.
The final stretch now and before we know it we're at the top. A lone Chinese guard stands on one side of the small gate. No-one stands on the other. He must have offended someone greatly to get this posting. Our car stops and we see the Kyrgyz car waiting on the other side. With smiles and thanks to our driver we cross the border. I ask the guard if I can take a picture of the scenery. He shakes his head. Wouldn't want the secret of his wooden hut and the thirty feet of low fence to get out.
Now it's another 10km down to the Kyrgyz border control. We reach a double barbed wire fence that looks straight out of Stalag 13. The guards are friendly enough though and in fifteen minutes we're on our way.
The scenery has changed dramatically. In China it was all red desert. Now it's lush green pastures and snow-capped mountains. Still very few people though. Just a few nomads and some distant yurts.
It takes another three hours to reach Naryn, the first significant town on the Kyrgyz side. I don't mind though as the scenery is tremendous. The driver says that he knows a nice place we can stay. His place as it turns out! Well, a flat upstairs actually. It looks very comfortable though so we happily accept and settle in to a nice cup of tea.
Specific details for other travellers
There are a couple of places in Kashgar where you can line up vehicles or hook up with other travellers. The well-known John's Information Cafe inside the Seman Hotel, and the Caravan Cafe just outside the Chini Bagh. Caravan Cafe can also line up transport if you're heading from Kyrgyzstan.
You can't change RMB in Kyrgyzstan but there was a guy hanging around at Chinese immigration that gave a reasonable rate of 5:1 for Kyrgyz som. Don't bank on it though.
If you somehow talk your way to the top (unlikely) without onward transport don't expect to pick up a share taxi at the border. The only car there on this trip was our car. In fact, the only car on the road almost all the way to Naryn was our car. It's a lonely road. There are a few trucks carrying scrap metal but they're all heading to China.
In Naryn you can organise a homestay through the Tourist Information Office. They're on the main street, towards the Bishkek end, on the north side and about 500m before the bridge. It's about 300 or 400 som for B&B. We stayed at our drivers house.
If you're not planning to go back, try for a detour to Tash Rabat. 15km off the Torugart-Naryn road up a very pretty valley. In fact, you could even stay overnight there in a yurt which would be cool but you might have trouble getting out unless your driver stays also (which he'd probably do quite cheaply).
Oh, and you probably know this but you don't have to register with OVIR in Kyrgyzstan any more if your stay is less than a month (maybe even three months).
P.S. Happy Birthday Anita!
Everytown, Everywhere
It happens every time. You land in town and don't know which bus station you are at. You shrug off rapacious taxi drivers and start walking down the street, not knowing which direction you're going. All the street signs have disappeared and no-one knows where your hostel is.
Two days later: you know where to buy your water and where to do your laundry. You've sussed out three cafes and a great market for cheap meals. You know which buses go where and how to pay the fare. You know everything there is to know about this town. You're the king.
You see someone walking down the street with full backpack, looking around a little unsure and you look on with sympathy for their naivety. Then you get on a bus and go to the next town and it starts all over again.
Kashgar, Xinjiang Province, China
The Karakoram Highway. A name that sets a traveller's heart racing. Running from Kashgar south to Pakistan and beneath some of the world's highest mountains, it's often described as the best overland journey in the world. I'm not going to Pakistan but I thought I'd do at least the start of the trip. As far as Karakol Lake, about half-way to the border.
The journey started simply enough, the city giving way to fields giving way to barren desert. Having started at 9am we stopped in Upal at 10:30am for lunch, this being the last town before Tashkurgen, a further six or seven hours away. I was happy to sit it out on the bus but that was a little too strange for the locals so I got down and joined them in mutton and rice.
From Upal we followed a wide valley, water coursing over the grey rocks. Rising in the distance, beyond barren foothills, the jagged snow-capped peaks of the Pamir Mountains were visible. We climb to a higher valley, green pastures lining the wide valley floor. Gradually the valley narrows and the sides become steeper, the snow-clad mountains looming ever closer.
After some time winding along the ever climbing valley the peak of Mt Konger, 7719m high, looms above. We slide underneath its gaze and confront its companion, 7546m Muztagh Ata. Between them lies Karakol Lake. 3800m high and my destination for today.
I still had a few hours before dusk so I decide to circle the lake, about a three hour journey. On the way I meet a young chap who invites me in to his yurt to meet his family and see their collection of Chiang Kaishek coins for sale. I decline the coins and he then offers a lift on his motorbike, which I also manage to refuse.
The circuit of the lake is sensational. The weather is excellent and both peaks are always visible, high overhead. From this distance though it seems hard to credit their height. It almost seems you could climb them in a day, the height is very deceptive.
I eventually return to my cosy yurt and, just before turning in for the evening I'm greeted by the same young chap. His hands and knees are all bloody and cut up. He's crashed off his bike. He asked if I have any first-aid but I've left it in Kashgar. Just lucky I didn't take him up on his offer of a ride.
The next day I take a guide up to one of the higher pastures beyond the village at the southern end of the lake. About a three hour hike. He tells me that on Sunday the whole village, sheep, yurts, and all, are moving up here for the summer. Would be quite a spectacle. Today the village is a little quiet as quite a few have travelled the 10km by moterbike cross-country to a village in Tajikistan for its weekly market. Border? What border?
On my final day at the lake I decide to head up to the base camp for Muztagh Ata. It lies at 4450m and I find a Swiss climbing team preparing for the ascent. It's going to take the fifteen man team two-and-a-half weeks to get to the top and back. They were preparing the first of three supply drops higher up the mountain as we spoke.
I returned to the lake and headed out to the road to try to catch a lift back to Kashgar, the bus having already gone by. Offers from various hangers-on at the camp were thick on the ground at 150 yuan back to town, complete with dire predictions about the lack of vehicles on the road for hitching. I decide to ignore this and head up to the road, picking up a lift within five minutes for 40 yuan, no haggling required.
As we start off towards Kashgar I cast a glance back south, towards Pakistan and the 8000m mountains of the Karakoram. A trip for another day.
There are a lot of things to complain about in China but the trains aren't one of them. I'd have to say that I think China has the best railway system in the world. An incredibly extensive network with some 52000km of track connecting just about every corner of the country.
And the trains themselves are pretty impressive. Typically about twenty carriages long with a selection of seats or sleepers. Sleepers come in two varieties, soft (ruan wo) and hard (ying wo). Hard is actually quite okay, it just means six bunks to a compartment rather than four, and no door. On a couple of runs, in Xinjiang in particular, it was pretty comfy.
Soft though is where the real luxury is at. For almost the price of an airfare you get just four bunks in the compartment, a door you can lock, volume control for the speaker (very useful), white linen table clothes, and, on the Beijing to Xian run at least, personal TV screens with a choice of Hollywood movies. I had Matrix 2 and Star Wars on my trip.
Of course, at the other end of the spectrum, hard seat, things aren't quite so rosy. The seats are padded but the journey can be tough depending on your number of near neighbours and their predilection for smoking and scattering the floor with food scraps. The dining car can sometimes be a refuge or you can try for an upgrade (bupiao).
In all cases though the whole journey is a very socialable experience. With the longer trips laster more than 24 hours there's plenty of time for talking, reading, listening to music, or just watching the scenery roll by. What better way to spend the day.
Beijing, China
The scene: Mao's mausoleum. I'm with Patrick from Sweden and we've been queuing for about twenty minutes to see Mao's preserved body. We climb the steps to the grand building, respectively removing our hats as we silently shuffle in to the ante-room. Before us is the great man himself, larger than life in a marble rendition, looking down upon us benevolently.
Patrick takes all this in then remarks under his breath, "Wow. He looks pale".