Like a winged horse

Kyrgyzstan – China | Anno 1998

 

Wednesday, August 5 | Song-Köl

Thursday, August 6 | Song-Köl – Tash Rabat

Friday, August 7 | Tash Rabat – Kashgar

 

 

Wednesday, August 5 | Song-Köl

A symphony of zippers announces the awakening of the tent camp. At this altitude – 3,020 m above sea level – the nights can be very cold, a fact not lost on us lying on our thin mattresses inside our sleeping bags. Throughout the night, it rained quite a bit, but that has now come to an end. The water of Lake Song-Köl lies calm, the sky is mostly blue with a few patches of clouds, and even the grass is dry.

It will be a calm day, completely immersed in the rhythm of nomadic life

It will be a calm day, completely immersed in the rhythm of nomadic life. We plan to explore this beautiful environment – whether on foot or on horseback, we haven't decided yet. We will meet our Kyrgyz neighbours in their yurts and later enjoy the promised sheep from last night, prepared by Yegitali, our Uzbek guide who, despite his assignment officially ending at the border crossing, generously offered to accompany us through Kyrgyzstan.

 

Kitchen tent

Tent camp in Song-Köl

It's almost half past nine when we lean over the tasty breakfast prepared by Oksana, the intern in training. Gradually, our optimistic expectations are tempered by a thick layer of clouds that gradually obscures the blue sky. Pay no attention to it, reassures our guide John; you can't rely much on the weather in Kyrgyzstan. It changes twenty times a day here.

The high plain is surrounded on all sides by mountains, you might almost think you are in a caldera

 

Nevertheless, it doesn't rain excessively here. The high plain is surrounded on all sides by mountains – the Songköl in the north, the Moldo and Borbor Alabas in the south. With this ring-shaped structure, you might almost think you are in a caldera, the remains of a collapsed volcano. However, that's not the case. This is an ordinary sediment plain formed between the mountains. Four rivers bring sediment here, and one drains the water to the Naryn. On satellite photos, this high plain appears as a beautifully almond-shaped eye, with the lake forming the dark pupil.

Winters are less pleasant here. Snow covers the terrain from October to May. Dense fog or snowstorms usually obscure the landscape, while the lake has to endure a one-meter-thick layer of ice. In the heart of winter, temperatures average around – 20 °C (– 4 °F), sometimes dropping as low as – 40 °C (– 40 °F).

On satellite photos, Song-Köl appears as a particularly beautiful almond-shaped eye, with the lake forming the dark pupil

 

Originally, this lake did not have any fish. In 1957, the Russians changed that by introducing a species that John calls sik, which is, in fact, peled, a whitefish or salmon-like species that thrives in the stagnant water of a lake and spawns on-site. Many such species emerged after the last ice ages when they were left in various glacier lakes and gradually evolved into distinct species. Nowadays, you can find them all over Siberia. The Russians must have thought that a fish accustomed to the harsh conditions of Siberian lakes would easily thrive in Song-Köl, and they were right.

Full-time nomads are scarce in Kyrgyzstan. The vast majority of Kyrgyz people have a fixed residence in the villages of the valleys, at least during winters. However, in summers, some still head to the mountains with their livestock. They seek fertile summer pastures called jailoos, set up their yurts, and stay there throughout the summer. The green grasslands of Song-Köl are a popular destination for these semi-nomads. Along one of the four access roads, they flock in to let their cattle graze. It's not crowded here; we can count the number of yurts on this side of the lake on the fingers of two hands.

In summer, these semi-nomads head to the fertile summer pastures called jailoos, and set up their yurt

 

It's high time to get to know our neighbours. That's a bit of a walk because the yurts of different families are at some distance from each other. At the first yurt, it's the grandmother who greets us. She is home alone with her granddaughter. Outside, a samovar is standing in the grass, an odd place for a kettle. They usually make tea here with a concentrate of tea leaves to which they pour hot water from the samovar to obtain drinkable tea.

Grandmother invites us inside immediately. That's what legendary Kyrgyz hospitality dictates. But our shoes must come off first because it's not intended for us to bring the souvenirs our shoes collected in the meadows inside. Central in the yurt is an enormous stove with a large pot of milk simmering on it. A metal chimney pipe directs the smoke outside through an opening in the yurt's roof. On a tablecloth on the ground, some snacks are ready for us – bread, sour cream skimmed from horse milk. Politeness compels us to taste.

The foundation of the yurt consists of a framework of red-painted branches. On that wall, long, red twigs of birch wood are mounted

 

But it's mainly the interior of the yurt that fascinates us. To our Western eyes, it might seem like a mess – semi-nomads don't drag cabinets to their summer pastures. But the yurt is arranged according to age-old tradition. This means that on our right side are the belongings the lady of the house watches over – cooking utensils, pots and pans, plates and bowls, tools for sewing and knitting. On the left, we see the husband's tools – horse harnesses, hunting knives, tools for shepherding sheep, tools for hunting. Directly opposite the entrance is the bedding with blankets, pillows, and mattresses. This is how it has been for centuries.

 

 

Building a yurt reportedly takes a nomadic family about four to five hours. The skeleton is assembled first, consisting of a lattice of red-painted branches, approximately three meters high, forming the vertical wall of the yurt. This lattice resembles a harmonica gate. Long, red birch twigs are mounted on this wall, folded inward, and converge at the top centre of the roof, where they are attached to a wooden hoop called the tunduk. Across the hoop, two sets of three twigs each are spanned in a cross shape, forming the chamgarak. This opening allows natural light and fresh air to enter and lets the smoke from the stove escape. In case of rain, a canopy can be drawn over the chamgarak.

For us, the story ends with an opening in the roof, but for a Kyrgyz, it is just the beginning

For us, the story ends with an opening in the roof, but for a Kyrgyz, it is just the beginning. A yurt is more than just a living space; it is an essential part of Kyrgyz culture, symbolizing the family, the earth, and even the entire universe. The yurt represents the universe, and the tunduk is the supreme power in that universe. It is the first thing a Kyrgyz sees upon waking up in his yurt. The tunduk determines the well-being of the family. It is not moved or replaced. If it falls to the ground, it signifies misfortune for the family. Cursing someone's tunduk is considered a grave offense. To grasp the central role of the tunduk in Kyrgyz cultural heritage, one only needs to glance at the Kyrgyz flag. Since 1992, a golden tunduk has occupied the same prominent position as the red disk of the rising sun on the Japanese flag.

 

Samovar

Once the basic yurt skeleton is erected, it is covered with wool and water-resistant felt. As plain as the yurt looks from the outside, it is colourful inside. The lattice is adorned with multicoloured mats, the floor is covered with sheepskins and vibrant carpets. Renowned are the shyrdaks, a distinctive Kyrgyz form of floor carpet. They consist of two layers of contrasting-coloured felt laid on top of each other. Figures are cut out of the upper layer – goat horns, yurts, geometric motifs – creating a lively pattern of bright colours. The figures cut from the top layer are not discarded but used to make a second carpet, forming a mirror image of the first.

 

Milk plays a central role in the lives of semi-nomads

Further on the steppe, there is more activity. Women and children gather around three tents, and a few mares roam nearby with their foals. Apparently, the men are tending to the livestock elsewhere, and the head of the family tries to assert his authority. Or at least he attempts to, as his cloudy gaze, unsteady steps, and flushed face lead us to suspect that he has already indulged in kumis this morning – the alcoholic beverage brewed here from horse’s milk. The life of these semi-nomads is not always as idyllic as the clichés suggest.

 

 

 

 

She doesn't even need a milking stool; she simply places the bucket on her lap while squatting next to the mare

If the foal is not nearby, the mare won't allow herself to be milked

 

While the older women look after the toddlers, the 23-year-old daughter-in-law tends to the mares. They need to be milked. It doesn't seem straightforward with those tiny teats. However, the milker knows what she's doing. She doesn't even need a milking stool; she simply places the bucket on her lap while squatting next to the mare. It is necessary, though, for one of the other girls to place the foal face to face with the mare; otherwise, the mare won't allow herself to be milked. The foal won't starve in any case. Only one litre is drawn each time, the rest is for the foal.

All in all, this yields quite a bit of milk – we see two buckets that are almost three-quarters full. Milk is an essential part of Kyrgyz cuisine, whether it comes from sheep, cows, or horses.

 

 

One of those dairy products is the infamous kumis. The concoction tastes sour with a faint hint of peat, as we learn from a cautious tasting. To make kumis, you pour raw horse milk into a goat leather bag and add butter from sheep's milk. The latter explains the peaty aftertaste, according to Yegitali. Then, you pound this mixture for about two hours with a ladle. The Kyrgyz call this ladle bishkek, and that has also become the name of their capital. The longer you pound the mixture, the higher the alcohol content. Typically, they aim for an alcohol percentage of about 10 %.

Bishkek, that's what the Kyrgyz call their ladle. And that has also become the name of their capital

 

It is claimed that kumis even helps against tuberculosis. However, you don't necessarily have to suffer from TB to appreciate kumis. Kyrgyz people just love to eat a lot of lamb and drink a lot of kumis. This sometimes leads to riotous bacchanals, according to Yegitali. Lying on the ground, he spontaneously gives a drunken demonstration of how it goes down. We feel a bit uncomfortable. As an Uzbek, he looks down on the Kyrgyz. Still, it's fortunate that he continues to accompany us because John, being an ethnic Russian, doesn't fare well in establishing friendly contacts with the local population. We need Yegitali for that, despite the many prejudices clouding his worldview.

 

It's a pity they didn't know we were coming beforehand because they would have slaughtered a sheep for us

 

Meanwhile, the high sun burns ever more intensely above our heads. A fair distance away, we come across a third yurt. The family sees us coming from afar – father, mother, two sons, and a daughter. The welcome is exceptionally warm and friendly. It's a pity they didn't know we were coming beforehand, we hear with a hint of disappointment. Because if they had known, they would have slaughtered a sheep for us. Next time we visit, we must definitely inform them in advance.

Outside, there is qurut drying, a form of yogurt made from cow's milk

Qurut

Proudly, they pose with us for a family photo in their yurt, seated on a carpet of multi-coloured patchwork and a traditional shyrdak under our stocking feet. Apparently, the youngest son has a fondness for headgear because at times he poses with a tebetei of brown fur, then again, he has a traditional kalpak in his hands and another one on his head.

Outside, as usual, the samovar is placed a distance from the entrance of the yurt. Next to the yurt, dried cow dung is prepared as fuel for the stove. A woven mat is stretched between some sticks. On it, qurut is drying, a form of yogurt made from cow's milk. You boil the milk and let it cool to 35 to 40 °C (95 to 104 °F). Then, you add a spoonful of yogurt and let it cool further. After that, you strain the mass. The liquid is collected and can be consumed immediately, while the solid part dries into individual pieces that can be stored for a long time – not unimportant if you don't have a refrigerator.

 

Interior of a yurt with a traditional shyrdak in the foreground

As we return to our tent camp, we cannot ignore the dark clouds rapidly advancing from the west. This does not bode well. Soon, the entire sky is taken over by the pitch-black mass of clouds from west to east. In this monumental landscape of endless grassy plains without any natural barriers, nature's fury announces itself in all its dimensions more intensely, more brutally, more ruthlessly than we have ever experienced. It seems like the apocalypse, the disaster that has installed itself above the tiny yurts. And all this while just half an hour ago, we were concerned about the strong UV radiation burning our skin.

 

It seems like the apocalypse, the disaster that has installed itself above the tiny yurts

 

Just in time, we reach the yurts of the large family. Gratefully, we take shelter in one of the tents. While we’re anxiously awaiting the downpour, the Kyrgyz people seem hardly shaken. For the farmer, it's business as usual. At this very moment, he had decided to slaughter our sheep. And so it will happen, thunderstorm or not.

While hailstones the size of cherry pits pelt the area, the farmer swiftly swings his sharp knife

 

A little further away, the unfortunate sheep stands somewhat pitifully bleating, tied to a post. While hailstones the size of cherry pits pelt the area, the farmer confidently ties the front and hind legs of the sheep together, grabs the head, and swiftly swings his sharp knife. Under the pitch-black sky, the stinging hailstones, and the dull rumbling of thunder, the last bit of life drains away from the sheep. Soaked, we run back to the yurts.

 

 

Half an hour later, the rain stops, and the sun restores order as if it's always summer here. The family has not been idle in the meantime. The sheep has been stripped of its entrails and fur; a girl is cleaning the entrails, and the bloodied fur is drying in a tent. The farmer and his wife will further carve the meat and bring us a portion for dinner later. Yegitali is already rejoicing at the prospect.

 

Processing the intestines…

…and the fleece

With clammy hands, we reach our tent camp just before two o'clock. It turns out to be not so bad. The downpour has not caused any significant damage. However, a layer of ice from melting hailstones has formed around some tents. But then we discover that two tents are underwater. Apparently, they were in a little depression. The relocation operation can begin, while Oksana prepares lunch – fresh trout from the lake. She does this safely in the truck's passenger cabin, where it is dry.

Around some tents, a layer of ice from melting hailstones has formed.

For thousands of years, these green grasslands have been the realm of the horse. Horses are essential to the nomadic lifestyle of these people. Life in the mountains and on the steppes would be impossible without these energetic quadrupeds. In Central Asia, horses are traditionally used for everything, from dowries to companionship, from food to clothing, from transportation to warfare. Horseback riding is ingrained in every Kyrgyz.

 

The steppe is like a sea that takes the rider wherever his horse can graze

 

The steppe is like a sea that takes the rider wherever his horse can graze. The Mongol Genghis Khan exploited this geostrategic fact to the fullest. His mounted archers, a true nightmare for static armies, spread death and destruction to the farthest corners of Asia and Europe. It wasn't until the discovery of major maritime routes that the constant threat from the steppe peoples came to an end.

We don't want to let it come to that. Simply exploring the surroundings on horseback seems sufficient for us. After all, you don't get very far on foot here. Before you know it, you've walked a few kilometres, and the surroundings still look exactly the same as when you started. These grass plains are so barren, these landscapes are so vast.

Our neighbours are happy to fulfil our wish and rent us some horses for that purpose. John will accompany us, but he has a problem with his saddle. That takes too long for me; I'm eager with impatience, and before I know it, I set out alone. I have no experience with horseback riding, but it turns out not to be necessary. Left, right, a bit faster, a bit slower – the horse has no trouble translating my clumsy commands into the desired action. Finally, a being that understands me.

It doesn't take long before I start a cautious trot, my gaze fixed on the distant hills. It starts to rain, but even that doesn't bother me. The endless green steppe beckons, not a single tree or bush hindering me. In short, this is the ultimate freedom.

Our gazes meet; I greet him with a friendly nod. But that's not how it works here

 

Then, at the foot of the hills, a lonely yurt appears. A man in his mid-twenties with a dark hat emerges in the doorway. Our gazes meet; I greet him with a friendly nod. But that's not how it works here. He calmly approaches me, takes my horse by the reins, leads it without any protest to the post at the entrance of his yurt, and ties it up. His broad gesture leaves no room for misunderstanding – I must dismount and enter his yurt. His wife is waiting inside. She shyly takes my outstretched hand and offers a wordless greeting. Inside, I see a table, a few chairs, a chest with a blanket over it. I place my wet jacket on the chest and take a seat at the table.

I want to ask them a thousand questions, give them a thousand answers

Sand cookies appear on the table and are soon accompanied by the formidable kumis. I decide to give it a try; not drinking would be a serious offense. The conversation doesn't flow smoothly in the meantime. I want to ask them a thousand questions, give them a thousand answers. But no matter what I try, they continue to stare at me kindly and with a broad smile, showing no trace of understanding when I resort to my best gestures. They don't know a word of English, and I know even less Kyrgyz – aside from bishkek, kalpak, tunduk, and laghman. But that doesn't get you very far. Here we are, sheepishly staring at each other. As if we were beings from two different solar systems.

 

In Kirgizia, hospitality is the norm

Suddenly, John appears at the entrance of the yurt. Thank goodness. When he recognized my horse outside, he rightly concluded that I was in the yurt, enjoying the kumis. The conversation goes more smoothly now. John is surprisingly proficient in Kyrgyz. Also with the kumis.

We learn that this young couple lives in Naryn for most of the year, a university town with forty thousand inhabitants on the banks of the river of the same name, about a hundred kilometres southeast of Song-Köl. In summer, they come here from July to September with their livestock to find juicy grass. Do they have children? Yes, indeed, a baby of a few months. The woman giggles and points to my raincoat. What I mistook for a chest earlier turns out to be a cradle with a peacefully sleeping baby inside. Not knowing that, I draped my wet raincoat over it.

In summer, they come here from July to September with their livestock to find juicy grass

 

With a warm feeling, we bid farewell to the friendly couple. John decides to head back to the camp, and I continue on my own for a while. Initially, with a light trot, but I want more. I apply more pressure to the horse's flanks, and the animal responds vigorously. We gallop across the steppe at lightning speed. What a delightful sensation this is. How must it have been in the past to gallop through the steppe in this way alongside thousands of other riders?

There is no escape; a fall is inevitable. But that's not what the horse thinks

Nothing and no one can stop us. Or so I thought, but appearances can be deceiving. Suddenly, just a few meters ahead, a ground depression of about a meter deep emerges. In this even green grassy plain, you only notice a trench like this when it's too late. There is no escape; a fall is inevitable. But that's not what the horse thinks. Like a winged horse, a contemporary Pegasus, the animal soars through the air at full speed, lands gracefully on its feet, and continues its gallop as if nothing has happened. Throughout the entire time, I did exactly what was expected of me – completely nothing. Returning to the tent camp is not difficult; after all, the horse knows the way.

 

 

In the evening, Yegitali starts working on the sheep. His mood couldn't be better, as aside from chatting, there's only one thing he likes more than cooking – cooking and chatting at the same time. Proudly, he presents the result of his skills. It goes without saying that it tastes delicious.

While dark clouds gather over the mountains in the west, preparing to assail us once again, we gradually retreat to our tents. Tomorrow, we have a long ride ahead over challenging terrain.

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Thursday, August 6 | Song-Köl – Tash Rabat

At midnight, the sky opens its floodgates wide. Throughout the night, rain clouds relentlessly discharge their chilly cargo. Only towards dawn does that gradually change. When the staff begins their work at a quarter past five, only a few drops still fall from the sky. Three-quarters of an hour later, we also venture outside our tents.

 

 

All this dampness seems to bother Oksana not at all. By half-past six, she has a complete breakfast ready in the kitchen tent. After that, it's all hands on deck. With combined efforts, the soaking wet igloo tents are packed up. A little later, the kitchen tent and the toilet are taken down, then gathering the wood, and we are ready to depart.

Our destination is Tash Rabat, a place near the Chinese border

Our destination is Tash Rabat, a place near the Chinese border. Shortly after eight, driver Sasha starts the truck. He had a day off yesterday, and today he faces a challenging route. Our destination is Tash Rabat, a place near the Chinese border. That’s about a hundred and fifty kilometres from here, mostly on unpaved roads.

Barely have we set off when it starts raining again. Meanwhile, we know what that means. Soon, the first drops seep through the leaky roof edge. But Oksana knows what to do, and by now, we do too. The holes are patched up with chewing gum.

 

Moldo Pass

We will leave the Song-Kol Basin via the southern route. This will take us over the Moldo Pass, a mountain pass at 3,243 m. We look forward to this because the route is widely described as one of the most beautiful in Kyrgyzstan. However, for now, we are left wanting. The unpaved road climbs slowly through a barren plain into the mountains in long, straight stretches. We can't expect anything else, considering that Lake Song-Kol is at an altitude of 3,020 m, and we only need to climb a little over two hundred meters.

 

It's a bizarre landscape, with peaks lying haphazardly as if it's unnecessary for rainwater to collect in rivers

But once we pass the summit, the spectacle begins. Before us unfolds a magnificent landscape of almost treeless green mountain peaks through which the gravel track meanders like an erratic pale ribbon. It's a bizarre landscape, with peaks lying haphazardly as if it's unnecessary for rainwater to collect in rivers. Wisps of mist hang ominously deep in the valleys. And we may consider ourselves lucky because often visibility on this treacherous route is reduced to almost zero by mist.

 

Moldo-Ashuu

We look out over the infamous seven hairpin bends of Moldo-Ashuu. Compared to, for example, the 21 hairpin bends of l'Alpe d'Huez, that might seem like peanuts, but here, on this unreliable mud track in this inhospitable landscape, it's a hallucinatory challenge for every driver. There is no emergency assistance; if something happens to you, you're on your own.

 

Moldo-Ashuu

But for our experienced driver Sasha, that seems like a piece of cake. Furthermore, as soon as we reach the bank of the Kurtka, the river that will guide us further downhill, he parks his truck to do what he hasn't been able to do for several days – give his truck a thorough wash. For over half an hour, he diligently uses his telescopic brush to give the outside of the truck a civilized appearance.

 

 

We continue southward through the Kurtka Valley. Initially, it's an impressive, deeply carved canyon, but gradually the scenery unfolds into a fertile valley. Just before eleven, we reach the Naryn, Kyrgyzstan's main river. Downstream, it powers a cascade of hydroelectric power stations, making a vital contribution to the country's energy supply. We witnessed this first hand last Sunday.

However, John and Sasha have a surprise for us

Finally, there it is, the asphalt road near the fertile fields of the farming village of Ak-Tal. You can't call this road surface as smooth as a billiard table, but after the gravel tracks of the Moldo Mountains, it's a relief. Normally, you would now head east to the university town of Naryn, from where you would go west to follow the Kara Kojun Valley to reach our final destination, Tash Rabat – a route of 185 km that folds around the Baybiche and Jamange Mountains like a horseshoe.

However, John and Sasha have a surprise for us. It won't be a detour around those two mountains; it will be an adventurous drive right through them. We will essentially drive from one end of the horseshoe to the other. This shortens the journey by about a hundred kilometres. So, we are in for a less comfortable ride, but what is much more important, we will once again be confronted with breathtaking landscapes.

 

The tombstones standing against the slope in the distance look like small palaces

Fifteen minutes later, we turn left at Ügüt and follow the Terek River due south. Soon after, we stand amazed at a Kyrgyz cemetery. The tombstones standing against the slope in the distance look like small palaces.

 

Market of Baetov

This brings us to Baetov, the capital of this district and also the economic and commercial centre of the region. At least, as far as a village of eight thousand inhabitants can play that role. Not unjustifiably, Sasha takes a short break for himself. Immediately, he takes advantage of the opportunity to secretly stock up on cigarettes, much to the annoyance of Yegitali, who has not missed Sasha's manoeuvre. He has been grumbling all the time about the smell of cigarette smoke in the driver's cabin.

 

 

Meanwhile, we stroll through the modest market. Local farmers sell the produce from their fields, as long as they don't need it for their own subsistence. The offerings mainly consist of essentials like bread, flour, vegetables, and pre-packaged goods. Nowhere do we see any fruit. That might be too ambitious in this climate. After all, we are at an altitude of about 1,950 meters above sea level. The market is not bustling; most stalls currently have nothing to do. Some men chat, impeccably dressed with a stylish felt kalpak on their heads.

Some men chat, impeccably dressed with a stylish felt kalpak on their heads

 

Now, the more challenging part awaits us. Two passes are ahead, first the Börülu over the Baybiche Mountains and then the Kulak over the Jamange Mountains. Along a tributary of the Terek, we gradually climb upward. In the distance on the right, John points out some hills that mark ancient Scythian graves. Then the road begins to ascend steeply above a grand landscape with hairpin turns following each other. Stopping is not an option here; we climb eight hundred meters higher in one go. Looking back, we see the breathtaking scenery but also the deep tracks left by the truck's wheels in the soaked gravel track.

It seems as if all of Kyrgyzstan lies at our feet

Börülu Pass

Börülu-Ashuu, that's the name of the place where we can fully enjoy the view. It's sunny, occasionally a cloud passes in front of the sun. It's colder at this altitude, but that doesn't matter. The magnificent scenery, served together with our lunch, makes everything perfect. We happily observe that it seems as if all of Kyrgyzstan lies at our feet while savouring the warm lunch prepared by Oksana in no time – soup and ribs. John and Oksana now also confirm that this environment is so beautiful, surprising us by admitting they have never been here before.

 

Börülu Pass

Börülu-Ashuu

Then nervous bleating catches our attention, as there are no sheep in this vicinity. It doesn't take long for us to figure out what's going on. A sheep has fallen into a small sinkhole through a narrow opening. It will never get out on its own. That's where we come in. We manage to pull it out by the front legs. Still shaken by its experience, it quickly makes a run for it.

 

 

 

At half-past two, we continue our journey. The road doesn't ascend as steeply anymore, and the top of the Börülu Pass turns out to be a saddle between two mountain ridges. Flatland, as John calls this crossing. For him, this is not a real pass. In a country like Kyrgyzstan with many hundreds of peaks above five thousand meters, this is a trifle, he relativizes the situation.

 

Börülu-Ashuu

Anyway, the saddle landscape at this altitude is so deceptive that John mistakenly reports twice that we have passed the top. Third time's the charm; just before three, we cross the highest point of the pass, 3,380 m above sea level. Incidentally, during the Soviet era, this was called the MELS Pass, a bizarre acronym referring to Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Stalin. In the early years of the Soviet regime, it was very popular and even used as a personal name for both boys and girls.

 

 

The descent to the valley between the Baybiche and the Jaman can now begin. It's not much – barely five hundred meters in altitude – but it is enough to remind us of how beautiful yet dangerous this nature can be. And it's not just about the risk of slipping, although Sasha's truck dangerously skids off the road at one point.

 

It's only a matter of time before this mud mixture starts to slide. In some places, it seems almost imminent

 

Grass being the only covering on these rolling green slopes, there are no trees or rock masses that could resist rainwater seeping into the soil and making the ground soft. The road winds through such terrain like a red ribbon of bare earth. It's only a matter of time before this mud mixture starts to slide. In some places, it seems almost imminent. The road has partially torn itself apart, resulting in frightening cracks at the edge of the ravine. It won't take much for the edge to sink permanently, leaving a looming void.

 

But it must be said, the breathtaking landscape, even more beautiful than at Börülu-Ashuu, quickly pushes our concerns into the background

 

But it must be said, the breathtaking landscape, even more beautiful than at Börülu-Ashuu, quickly pushes our concerns into the background. The panorama unfolding at our feet seems boundless. In the depth, a river, brown with sediment, has carved a rugged gorge into the red earth. The brutal scar cuts through the green hills and appears to reach the horizon, where steep rock masses close off the view.

The brutal scar cuts through the green hills and appears to reach the horizon, where steep rock masses close off the view

 

After a few more hairpin turns, the Akbeit River comes into view. It's a bit safer to drive now because the road no longer clings to muddy mountain slopes but faithfully follows the edge of this mountain stream. It's twenty minutes to four when we reach the point where the Akbeit flows into the Kolkagar. At 2,810 meters, this is our lowest point between the two mountain ranges.

 

Kolkagar river crossing

From now on, it's uphill again. First, a stretch upstream along the Kolkagar, then straight through the river to the other bank to begin the ascent of the Kulak Pass. Half an hour later, we reach the top, approximately 3,390 meters above sea level. This, too, turns out to be a saddleback, flatland in John's perception.

A herd of horses scurries across the grassy steppe in alarm as our noisy truck approaches

 

We initiate the descent in one go. Summer nomads have set up their yurts and livestock on the jailoos or summer pastures. A herd of horses scurries across the grassy steppe in alarm as our noisy truck approaches. Perilous road sinkings constantly demand Sasha's attention.

 

 

But a little less than half an hour later, the adventure is over. The mountain ranges of Baybiche and Jaman are now behind us, and we find ourselves in the broad valley of the Kara Kojun. It might not be evident when you see it, but the unpaved road running almost straight through this valley is an international thoroughfare. Turning left, or northeast, through the university town of Naryn, you will reach the capital, Bishkek, just over four hundred kilometres away. Turning right will take you via the Torugart Pass to the Chinese oasis city of Kashgar, almost two hundred kilometres away.

 

Deep in the At-Bashi Mountains lies the enigmatic Tash Rabat, our destination for tonight

Tash Rabat Valley

Exactly the latter is what we will do tomorrow. But today, we have other plans. Deep in the At-Bashi Mountains lies the enigmatic Tash Rabat, our destination for tonight. So, we leave the Kara Kojun behind immediately. One of its tributaries – aptly named the Tash Rabat – will guide us upward. Steadily, we climb through an idyllic valley. It's not the panoramic views that captivate us here, but the green summer meadows, the grazing horses and yaks, the babbling water of the river where the animals quench their thirst, and the canyon that narrows as we ascend.

 

Yaks

Interestingly, in this idyllic setting, after about fifteen minutes, a barrier suddenly appears, a brutal piece of civilization you wouldn't expect here. Apparently, John has to purchase entrance tickets here.

 

Yaks in the Tash Rabat River

Then, suddenly emerging from behind a bend, the silhouette of Tash Rabat comes into view in the distance, with its heavy dome, its façade flanked by two towers, and its impressive pointed arch portal facing east. The location alone is impressive, so remote is this place. Dozens of kilometres away from human settlements, at an elevation of 3,120 meters above sea level, the solid building stands there in solitary isolation at the foot of a mountain, partially embedded in the green slope.

The location alone is impressive, so remote is this place

The caravanserai of Tash Rabat

Usually the building is labelled as a former caravanserai on the ancient Silk Road. A resting place for caravans, therefore. However, there are many doubts about that. The most common hypothesis suggests that this building was constructed in the 9th or 10th century, but not as a caravanserai, rather as a monastery. There is much to support this, as the structure of the building does not resemble that of a traditional caravanserai.

Nestorians had significant influence, especially at the court of Genghis Khan

The monks who settled here would have been Buddhists or Nestorians. The spread of Nestorian Christian ideology in Asia owes much to the Silk Road, a vast network of trade routes connecting the Chinese capital Xi'an to the Mediterranean region. Not only did trade goods find their way between East and West, but also cultural, scientific, and religious knowledge travelled with the caravans. Nestorians had significant influence, especially at the court of Genghis Khan.

However, no Christian artefacts have been found in Tash Rabat. Buddhist artefacts, on the other hand, have been discovered. Therefore, it might have been a Buddhist monastery. Once Islam began to dominate Central Asia under Timur, Tash Rabat began to decline. Until the 15th century, when the building was repurposed as a... caravanserai. Merchants found a safe haven there, where they could eat, sleep, and rest for several days if needed.

 

In the 15th century the building was repurposed as a caravanserai

It is surreal to consider the hardships and dangers that awaited caravans on such trade routes. Throughout the year, landslides, avalanches, occasional floods, or earthquakes posed threats. Snow, making access to this place nearly impossible for eight months per year, was also a challenge. Not to mention the bandit groups that targeted the precious cargo carried by caravans.

Yet, these early globalists were not easily deterred. To reach the Torugart Pass, caravans from here simply ventured deeper into the At-Bashi mountains, a feat even our 6WD truck cannot accomplish. Tomorrow, we will have to return to the main road and circumnavigate the range in a wide arc.

Since its renovation in 1984, Tash Rabat has become a modest tourist attraction, although the reality seems to be quite different. A large Kyrgyz family is picnicking, another is singing and dancing to accordion music. Otherwise, it is very peaceful here.

If we wanted to uncover the purpose of this building, our visit to the caravanserai might not shed much light. There are no windows in the exterior walls, giving the building a closed and defensive impression. On the other hand, you can simply walk up the roof via the mountainside at the back, where you have access to the air holes – not exactly a comfortable situation for a besieged structure. The two corner towers seem to play more of an aesthetic than a defensive role.

From the gate, a central corridor with a pointed arch ceiling leads to the largest room, right under the dome

Gate

Central corridor

The building is entirely constructed with slate. From the gate, a central corridor with a pointed arch ceiling leads to the largest room, right under the dome. We can vaguely discern traces of murals on the walls. Was this the prayer hall of the former monastery? Did the stone platform in a long, rectangular room serve as a feeding trough for camels, as John claims? We can only guess.

In short, Tash Rabat remains fascinating and mysterious for us

Then there are the small rooms, 32 in total, which could have served as living spaces. However, staying there for an extended period, even just for a night, seems highly unpleasant – pitch-dark, musty, and cold. The function of one of the wells is also unclear, although John mumbles something incredulous about punishing adulterous women. There is also a tunnel that could allow for an unnoticed escape during a siege. How you could make your way in this treeless valley without anyone seeing you is a mystery.

Tonight is in our favour. The campsite is free of insects, the grass is relatively dry, and there is hardly any wind in this mountain-shielded area. Moreover, for the first time, we can set up our igloo tents before darkness falls. When the sun disappears behind the mountains at twenty to seven, all tents are standing.

 

 

Meanwhile, Yegitali has immersed himself in one of his favourite activities – cooking. For his last supper, he opts for pilaf, a dish popular throughout Central Asia. There are many variations, but it usually involves frying long-grain rice in oil and then cooking it in broth, similar to risotto. Lamb, along with various vegetables and herbs, is added. Three enormous dishes are the result of his diligence. He meticulously ensures that we eat everything to the last grain of rice. But that's not a problem, as vodka and wine lubricate our stomachs and intestines.

That tomorrow will be a nerve-wracking day is a certainty. Crossing the Torugart Pass to the Chinese oasis city of Kashgar won't be too difficult. However, it's the border crossing that could pose challenges. In the 1970s, the border was completely closed due to the enduring animosity between China and the Soviet Union. In the 1980s, the Torugart border crossing opened, but initially only for goods traffic.

We still need special permission from the military authorities in Urumqi to enter China via Torugart Pass

Today, Torugart is also open for passenger traffic. Until recently, it was the only border crossing between Kyrgyzstan and China. Only in January [1998], a second border crossing was opened in the more southerly location of Irkeshtam. However, travellers who are not Chinese or Kyrgyz citizens still need special permission from the military authorities in Urumqi to enter China. Let's hope our Chinese escorts have taken care of that.

Furthermore, the proverbial sternness of the officials guarding such border crossings is only surpassed by the meticulousness with which they check your papers and the unwavering determination they display if those papers are not in order. Last but not least, on the Chinese side, the border closes at 5 p.m. Since they use Beijing time throughout China, it's two hours later there than here. Therefore, we will have to pass the border no later than 3 p.m. Kyrgyzstan time.

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Friday, August 7 | Tash Rabat – Kashgar

Tent camp at Tash Rabat

Half past six. Sunbeams skim low over the eastern hills, casting a warm glow on our tents. We've been busy for half an hour preparing for our departure. We can leave the tents; John and Sasha will pack them up after dropping us off at the Torugart. Then, they will drive to Lake Issyk Kul to pick up a new group of tourists. On the way, they will drop off Yegitali at a suitable bus stop so he can continue to Bishkek by bus and then take a plane to Tashkent. There, he will promptly welcome a new group of tourists.

 

 

Half past seven. We leave behind the enigmatic Tash Rabat. Thirty minutes later, we reach the main road and head southwest in search of the border. Treeless green mountain ridges surround us as we follow the broad valley around the At-Bashi Mountains in a wide curve. On the horizon to the right, the mighty snow-capped peaks of the Jaman Range and the Fergana Mountains rise just above the surroundings.

 

 

 

Here and there, summer nomads have settled with their yurts on the jailoos or summer pastures. Cows, horses, sheep, and goats graze eagerly on the green slopes. Blue-grey smoke wafts above a yurt. Marmots look up in alarm as our truck rumbles past. The landscape continues to surprise, and the pressure to reach China in time won't prevent us from fully enjoying it. Even a brief stop at a military checkpoint can't spoil the fun.

 

The mighty snow-capped peaks of the Jaman Range and the Fergana Mountains rise just above the surroundings

 

Ten o'clock. In the distance, the Chatyr-Köl Lake emerges, a freshwater lake of 170 km² that has managed to preserve its pristine character perfectly. There are hardly any polluters in this remote location. Not a breath of wind stirs the smooth water surface, creating perfect reflections of the sun-drenched mountain ranges that surround us. In spring, the marshy shores are a coveted breeding ground for bar-headed geese and ruddy shelducks. Various species of dabbling and diving ducks also like to rest and refuel here during their spring and autumn migrations.

 

 

Dozens of rivers drain water from nearby glaciers and flow into the lake, while no river drains water from the lake. However, the water management isn't ideal. Often, more water evaporates in the summer than flows in during the spring.

Not a breath of wind stirs the smooth water surface, creating perfect reflections of the sun-drenched mountain ranges that surround us

Lake Chatyr-Köl

The atmosphere becomes somewhat grim now. Half-buried bunkers, a gloomy reminder of tensions between the Soviet Union and China in 1971 and 1972, appear here and there. On our right, double barbed wire delineates the wide no-man's-land between Kyrgyzstan and China. Just behind it runs a patrol road for the military.

Half-past ten. A collection of dingy trailers and a handful of soldiers mark the beginning of the bureaucratic ordeal. A relatively friendly soldier comes to count our noses. The balance is positive, as we're allowed to drive two hundred fifty meters further. In front of us is a Chinese bus, and by the roadside, six trucks are also waiting. A stern soldier fiddles with Yegitali's passport.

Another hundred meters down the road, we disembark in a large, cold hall. Here, we're supposed to complete the customs formalities. Immediately, John starts filling out forms. One by one, we present ourselves at the customs booth. Four relatively friendly soldiers fill the room. One of them diligently transcribes our personal information into a large book. On the wall hangs a large poster with a colour photo of Gran Canaria. Undoubtedly, the sea exerts a tremendous attraction on Kyrgyz people who spend their whole lives more than two thousand kilometres from any sea.

Half-buried bunkers present a gloomy reminder of tensions between the Soviet Union and China in 1971 and 1972

Oksana is still lugging a large basket of food and a pot of cold meat. Apparently, queuing here can take so long that it's advisable to bring some provisions. But that turns out to be a premature conclusion. The food isn't meant for us but for the border guards. They certainly appreciate a bit of variety in their monotonous potato diet. A win-win situation, as John and Oksana can now expect the border guards not to cause any trouble. We hope.

Half-past eleven. With the customs check completed, we move on to the next hall for passport control. About twenty candidates are already queuing up. Hopefully, the border guards won't interrupt the check for lunch.

Quarter past twelve. Our turn is approaching. John presents himself first at the passport control. Then suddenly, contrary to everyone's expectations, it turns out that John and Yegitali are not allowed to accompany us through the neutral zone to the border. Only driver Sasha is allowed to do that. Not illogical, since we need his truck to cover the remaining six kilometres. The farewell is a bit chaotic. Tears roll down Oksana's cheeks.

Quarter to one. Passport control is over. Five soldiers watch closely as we climb into our truck for the last time. Probably, the bottom of the vehicle has also been inspected, as Sasha had to drive through a garage with inspection pits.

With the formalities behind us, we can finally leave the Kyrgyz border post behind. Oksana and Yegitali wave us goodbye, each in their own way – Oksana in an open window on the first floor, vigorously waving both arms, Yegitali below behind a dusty window with a shy hand on his chest.

Nothing stands in the way of our ascent to the Torugart now, except... a closed barrier

Nothing stands in the way of our ascent to the Torugart now, except... a closed barrier that fortunately quickly rises. Between the double barbed wire, we continue our journey through no-man's-land. Not so long ago, that wire was electrified. Whether it still is, no one knows.

 

Crossing the border between Kyrgyzstan and China

One o'clock. The top of Torugart is hard to miss. The Chinese have deemed it necessary to erect an ostentatious triumphal arch of red brick there. Not entirely without reason, as this 3,752 m high pass has been the most important crossing through the Tianshan Mountains for over two thousand years. Even the Han emperors, who ruled over China around the year zero, knew that you had to be here to reach the Fergana Valley with its famous horses. Although the Chinese were firmly convinced that civilization ended at the foot of the Tianshan and that only barbarians lived west of it.

The Chinese were firmly convinced that civilization ended at the foot of the Tianshan

On the other side of the triumphal arch, our Chinese guides are already waiting for us with a Toyota Coaster Deluxe. On foot, we pass under the arch and thus cross the border between Kyrgyzstan and China.

Quarter past one. In the distance, we see Sasha, in his incomprehensible Columbo style, climbing into his truck and driving away, honking loudly, not without taking a lady on board who apparently was waiting for him.

Meanwhile, Abdul, our Chinese guide of Uighur origin, welcomes us on board. We don't have to worry about paperwork; everything is in order, he assures us. Including the permission from the military authorities in Urumqi. Administrative checks will require some patience, but no fundamental problems are expected. Moreover, it is now a quarter past three, he adds. The time difference with Belgium is now six hours. We snack on some cookies and cheese spreads that Oksana hastily handed us.

Half past three. Six kilometres from the border, some buildings emerge. Undoubtedly, that is the Chinese border post. The inspection is quite limited; only the large suitcases need to be opened. Probably more to satisfy the curiosity of the border guards about luxury products and lingerie than for legal reasons.

No, emphasizes Abdul as we continue driving, this was not the Chinese border post. We will encounter it after another 104 km. Quite peculiar because it means that the no-man's-land between Kyrgyzstan and China is more than a hundred kilometres wide. You probably won't find that anywhere else in the world.

The no-man's-land between Kyrgyzstan and China is more than a hundred kilometres wide

 

In long straight stretches, the unpaved road descends through a wide valley. Despite its altitude, Torugart hardly fits the image that a mountain pass spontaneously conjures up. Steep slopes or hairpin bends are not visible on either side.

Then the Chiakmak makes its appearance, a river named after lightning. Currently, the river does little justice to its image of an untamed force of nature, although the extremely wide riverbed suggests otherwise. That's correct, agrees Abdul. Not long ago, on July 1, there was so much rain in Kashgar that the Chiakmak overflowed, causing problems in the city's power supply. However, the water from the Chiakmak never reaches the sea; the river simply drains into the desert.

 

 

Quarter to six. The road is now paved. Finally, we reach the official Chinese border post. A stern Chinese border guard with a red and a green flag in his hands to regulate traffic climbs aboard. He immediately pinches his nose ostentatiously. That's how it goes with people like us who come from beyond the Tianshan – we are barbarians and we stink. After all, our last shower was six days ago. The flagman quickly finishes counting and makes his way off. Once again, it's time to wait.

Ostentatiously, the Chinese border guard climbing aboard immediately pinches his nose. After all, we are barbarians and we stink

Twenty to seven. Hand luggage and main luggage must pass through the X-ray control – which once again proves that the visual inspection of the suitcases earlier was unnecessary – and we must queue at three counters in succession. But we can't complain. Once it's your turn, things go quite smoothly here, all in all.

Quarter past seven. The bus departs. Nothing stands in the way of our journey to Kashgar now, except… a closed barrier. With the list of our names in hand, a soldier once again counts our noses. Shortly afterward, we are definitively on our way to our hotel. It took us almost seven hours to cross the border.

Just after eight, we reach Kashgar.

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Jaak Palmans
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