We returned to Karakol after an unusual breakfast of rice wrapped in pancakes and began our attempt to extricate The Aussie's washing from the local laundry to enable us to leave. However, a tree had fallen on the laundry building and no one could get hold of the owner. This left us rather stuck. We went back to Valentin’s to mull things over.
That evening we got to know another couple staying at the Yak Hotel – who happened to be celebrating the Jewish New Year with a special meal. By bizarre coincidence it turned out that Valentin’s wife was also Jewish and so more than willing to prepare a speciality of stewed pears mixed with cream with crushed raspberries on top and pomegranate seeds. Delicious. Valentin also told us more about his life – the fact that his hobby was to dress up as Father Christmas (with photos to prove it) and of his smallholding outside the town where he keeps yaks, horses and a grumpy Shetland pony. This pony was responsible for a very unusual operation when plastic surgeons from Bishkek were flown in to operate on the lip of a yak that had been torn off by the Sheltand. He was probably rather bemused at finding himself living in the Kyrgyz mountains after an adolescence in Europe.
The next day, held hostage to the laundry, we’d decided to see the sights of Karakol; albeit somewhat minimal. We stopped first at the end of our street at the Russian Orthodox Church. This is a pretty, old building (completed in 1895) which was ransacked by the Red Army at the beginning of the 20th century. Just to rub it in they then used the church as a stable, and a dance hall, before it was turned into a school during WW2. It has now been re-consecrated and sits in the centre of the town with renewed pride glowing from its shiny onion domes.
Another attraction are the ‘gingerbread’ houses built in neat rows by the Russians. They are so called as they really do look like the sort of house in Hansel & Gretyl illustrations – all steeply pitched roof, thick wooden doors and windows that look like eyes nestled under the eves. Sadly (but not surprisingly) they are now falling into disrepair and are often found with a horse/cow/chicken pecking about outside. They are juxtaposed by crumbling soviet apartment blocks that appear on their last legs and that no one seems overly keen on doing up. Throughout the town are squares and parks being choked with weeds and long grass, but are filled with monuments and statues. Against the odds they maintain an impressive air with their avenues of trees turning gold in the autumn, and the stupendous backdrop of the mountains.
We took a detour through the back streets to visit the local mosque but got a bit lost. We were rescued by a very friendly local woman who said she was a teacher at a local school and seemed to want to become our new best friend. She escorted us to the mosque. Karakol mosque was designed by a Chinese architect in 1907 and constructed in wood without the use of a single nail by the Dungans who’d arrived as refugees in 1887. The Bolsheviks closed the mosque from 1933 until 1943, but it was then reopened and has operated as a place of worship since then. Set in its own garden the mosque has distinctive decoration, painted in vibrant red, green and yellow - and bears reliefs depicting various types of flora as well as mythical animals such as dragons and the phoenix, giving it an original character. Our new found friend then insisted on following us to the internet café and asking for The Aussie’s address so that she could send her a Christmas card – very friendly – but a bit full on.
On our last morning The Aussie did get her laundry back – and only 3 days late…. We had a great moment of Central Asian weirdness waiting outside the laundry in a garden of hollyhocks and roses, amongst the damaged trees that caused it to close. Glancing across the road we noticed a local park – proudly displaying a disused tank as its centre piece. OK. Then two workmen turned up to work on reopening the place. The owner wasn’t there so they waited around for 10 mins or so and then got a bit bored. At that point one of them calmly wandered into the middle of a bonfire of tree bits and pulled out a bottle of vodka, the other chap crouched down at the side of the road, put his arm into a drain pipe up to his shoulder and also emerged with a full bottle of vodka – they then adjourned to sit on the tank at 9am looking quite pleased with themselves! Such is the joy of living in a country where the vodka costs more than the mixers.
Eventually someone with a key did turn up (having explained our predicament to all and sundry as they passed by) and David and The Aussie were able to retrieve their clean clothes. The Aussie would have been very upset to loose her purple and silver striped knee high socks. Even the Russians look a bit speechless when she goes out wearing them with sandals; I think its just jealousy.
After all that, we set off from Karakol on the long trip along the southern shore of Lake Issyk-Kul on a 2 day trip over the mountains to Osh. The 1st leg of the journey included David the Aussie, luckily we ditched him in a small town by the lake, and a 6 hour journey with one early 90s tape constantly blaring out Ace of Base and 2 Unlimited – nice.
Thursday, 21 February 2008
Epic Poetry in Kyrgyzstan
We followed our ablutions with another interesting dinner of potato soup flavoured with lumps of bacon fat and had an early night; when the fire died down it was just too damn cold to stay up without it. The next morning was beautifully clear and I took my book out to enjoy in the fresh air. After finishing it I found myself disinclined to return to the lodge and content to just contemplate stuff whilst gazing down the valley. This was a revelation and a sure sign of having removed myself from London life. At home I am constantly rushing – trying to get things done and pack as much as possible into every hour. I never spend time actively doing nothing or giving myself time to think – but it was wonderful.
I’ve always thought that having the sort of life where you spend all day out herding sheep etc would be incredibly boring, but this has changed my mind. Once you are out of the mindset of having to be doing something every moment of the day I think it would be very peaceful and give rise to other possibilities. If you aren’t constantly stressed about work/catching the tube etc then how much more possibility is there for art and poetry? It can’t be a lack of coincidence the prevalence of the oral tradition in places like this, with spectacular traditions of verse, epic stories and music being passed through the ages.
Kyrgyzstan has its own version of the traditional epic poem. Manas, a Kyrgyz folk hero, is immortalised in stories handed down in the oral tradition. He personifies the unique power, freedom and unity of the people. These stories are, even today, recited by highly respected ‘manaschy’. As a nomadic people the Kyrgyz have very little written history. Much of what is known about their origins has been gleaned from this epic – the longest poem in the world (over 500,000 lines) and easily comparable to the Iliad of Odyssey.
The Mamas epic describes the great struggles in the battle for independence, chronicling the hero’s brave actions and incredible feats. Nicely echoing the recent split from Russia these ancient battles for freedom are equally relevant to Kyrgyz today as to those 10 centuries earlier, and most generations in between. In Post Communist Kyrgyzstan the government has grasped the ancient figure of Manas as a means of embodying and encouraging the virtues of the Kyrgyz they wish to see: justice, honesty, dignity, love, patriotism, respect, tolerance, hope and peace.
As valuable to historians are the accounts of the minutiae of life in ancient Kyrgyzstan, including facts about states, geography and ethnicities etc. The epic names over 530 cities, villages, rivers in Europe, Asia and Africa. The Talas valley is synonymous with the epic poem with many of the events in its lines taking place there. By tradition the valley is seen to be Manas’ last resting place with the 14th centuary Mausoleum of Manas being the focal point. It is a popular belief that this was built by Manas’ wife, Kanikey, who was ordered to write on the walls the name of a woman to deceive Manas’ enemies and protect his body from defilement.
I’ve always thought that having the sort of life where you spend all day out herding sheep etc would be incredibly boring, but this has changed my mind. Once you are out of the mindset of having to be doing something every moment of the day I think it would be very peaceful and give rise to other possibilities. If you aren’t constantly stressed about work/catching the tube etc then how much more possibility is there for art and poetry? It can’t be a lack of coincidence the prevalence of the oral tradition in places like this, with spectacular traditions of verse, epic stories and music being passed through the ages.
Kyrgyzstan has its own version of the traditional epic poem. Manas, a Kyrgyz folk hero, is immortalised in stories handed down in the oral tradition. He personifies the unique power, freedom and unity of the people. These stories are, even today, recited by highly respected ‘manaschy’. As a nomadic people the Kyrgyz have very little written history. Much of what is known about their origins has been gleaned from this epic – the longest poem in the world (over 500,000 lines) and easily comparable to the Iliad of Odyssey.
The Mamas epic describes the great struggles in the battle for independence, chronicling the hero’s brave actions and incredible feats. Nicely echoing the recent split from Russia these ancient battles for freedom are equally relevant to Kyrgyz today as to those 10 centuries earlier, and most generations in between. In Post Communist Kyrgyzstan the government has grasped the ancient figure of Manas as a means of embodying and encouraging the virtues of the Kyrgyz they wish to see: justice, honesty, dignity, love, patriotism, respect, tolerance, hope and peace.
As valuable to historians are the accounts of the minutiae of life in ancient Kyrgyzstan, including facts about states, geography and ethnicities etc. The epic names over 530 cities, villages, rivers in Europe, Asia and Africa. The Talas valley is synonymous with the epic poem with many of the events in its lines taking place there. By tradition the valley is seen to be Manas’ last resting place with the 14th centuary Mausoleum of Manas being the focal point. It is a popular belief that this was built by Manas’ wife, Kanikey, who was ordered to write on the walls the name of a woman to deceive Manas’ enemies and protect his body from defilement.
Going Native in the Hot Springs
Back down in the valley we made use of the local natural hot springs. Although they do bubble up into natural basins along by the river – we headed to those under the aegis of the bearded Russian women who act as guardians for the springs and live in battered huts next to them. Both a husband and wife appeared to live in this small house, attended by numerous snarling, yet wagging dogs, but Mr. Bearded Lady was huddled next to the tiny heater and not in the least interested in 2 western girls carrying their bikinis in temperatures below zero.
Having made our minimal fee we were handed an enormous key by Mrs. Bearded Lady who pointed through the gloaming towards 2 concrete structures at the end of their compound. This is where the hot water was channelled into several concrete pools. The very Russian huts had little (if any) lighting and consisted of one changing room (freezing!) and a room with the pool in (boiling). On the wall was pinned a report from some Russian institute that has tested the waters listing what the minerals that appeared in them in staggering quantities – and sounding more like a warning about additives. The water itself was about 40 degrees.
We shivered our way through stripping off in the changing room, toes curling at the slimy mould on the bare floor, teeth chattering at the madness of stripping off below zero! Rushing into the pool the sound of chattering teeth was replaced by the “oh, h-h-h-HOT” as we slowly lowered ourselves in to the water. The heat made my head spin and my limbs turn lobster as I acclimatised to the temperature. The bath is about 4 metres square with a shallow end for sitting in and a deep end where it was possible to swim. We could feel the strains of the day’s activity melting away – along with most of our muscles!
Shortly, David appeared and took a little persuading that although he claimed to be a hippy that was really no excuse for wanting to use the baths naked, we insisted on pants. The pools were lovely and warming on tired legs but so hot that I kept on having to get out to recover.
David, being the eccentric that he was – declared that he was going to do the traditional thing and dashed off out of the hut in his pants. Thinking that the heat had turned the balance of his mind we waited to see what he was doing. Soon enough he returned, glowing, and sunk back into the pool. Evangelising about this invigorating treatment I began to be persuaded. After all, I might as well give it a go… So, the next time he suggested it, I went too; dashing down to the river to douse myself in snowmelt water from the glacier, before running back to the hot springs. Dancing across the pasture in nought but a bikini, trying to avoid stepping on frozen yak poo or icy thistles it did cross my mind that this was faintly ridiculous. A thought seemingly echoed but the expressions of Mr. and Mrs. Bearded Lady. But it was fantastic! Once I had negotiated the rocks to the river’s edge, bashing my head on a pipe taking water to the huts and skidding on slippery stones on the river bed, I found a spot deep enough for semi immersion. Squatting down I splashed snow melt water all over, gasping as I did and forcing myself to continue. Unexpectedly this made me feel not cold, but tingling all over. The tremendous heat of the pool was enough to insulate the body against the cold, only allowing the tingling as a sign that freezing water was coming into contact with the skin. This wasn’t a place to hang around in however and the return journey was made with haste back into the bosom of the steamy Russian huts and a very bemused Aussie. She wasn’t attempting the Yak Poo Dash for anyone!
Having made our minimal fee we were handed an enormous key by Mrs. Bearded Lady who pointed through the gloaming towards 2 concrete structures at the end of their compound. This is where the hot water was channelled into several concrete pools. The very Russian huts had little (if any) lighting and consisted of one changing room (freezing!) and a room with the pool in (boiling). On the wall was pinned a report from some Russian institute that has tested the waters listing what the minerals that appeared in them in staggering quantities – and sounding more like a warning about additives. The water itself was about 40 degrees.
We shivered our way through stripping off in the changing room, toes curling at the slimy mould on the bare floor, teeth chattering at the madness of stripping off below zero! Rushing into the pool the sound of chattering teeth was replaced by the “oh, h-h-h-HOT” as we slowly lowered ourselves in to the water. The heat made my head spin and my limbs turn lobster as I acclimatised to the temperature. The bath is about 4 metres square with a shallow end for sitting in and a deep end where it was possible to swim. We could feel the strains of the day’s activity melting away – along with most of our muscles!
Shortly, David appeared and took a little persuading that although he claimed to be a hippy that was really no excuse for wanting to use the baths naked, we insisted on pants. The pools were lovely and warming on tired legs but so hot that I kept on having to get out to recover.
David, being the eccentric that he was – declared that he was going to do the traditional thing and dashed off out of the hut in his pants. Thinking that the heat had turned the balance of his mind we waited to see what he was doing. Soon enough he returned, glowing, and sunk back into the pool. Evangelising about this invigorating treatment I began to be persuaded. After all, I might as well give it a go… So, the next time he suggested it, I went too; dashing down to the river to douse myself in snowmelt water from the glacier, before running back to the hot springs. Dancing across the pasture in nought but a bikini, trying to avoid stepping on frozen yak poo or icy thistles it did cross my mind that this was faintly ridiculous. A thought seemingly echoed but the expressions of Mr. and Mrs. Bearded Lady. But it was fantastic! Once I had negotiated the rocks to the river’s edge, bashing my head on a pipe taking water to the huts and skidding on slippery stones on the river bed, I found a spot deep enough for semi immersion. Squatting down I splashed snow melt water all over, gasping as I did and forcing myself to continue. Unexpectedly this made me feel not cold, but tingling all over. The tremendous heat of the pool was enough to insulate the body against the cold, only allowing the tingling as a sign that freezing water was coming into contact with the skin. This wasn’t a place to hang around in however and the return journey was made with haste back into the bosom of the steamy Russian huts and a very bemused Aussie. She wasn’t attempting the Yak Poo Dash for anyone!
An Invocation of Kant's 'Sublime'
This climb didn’t look to be too challenging – roughly 200m up a tufty slope to the ridge – and then out along a point that projected like a dislocated vertebra from the spine of the ridge out, over the valley. But at that altitude is wasn’t easy and I resorted to very lowly ambitions – aiming to scramble up the slope bush by bush, and stopping to catch my breath at each one. Eventually I reached the saddle at the top and set out across the ridge at about 3,800m. Either side of the arête were slippery, boggy patches of ground – I presume due to the snow that frequently covers the area. I inched my way along the top, fearful of the drops down either side to the valley floor below – but it was thoroughly worth it.
From the point at the end I had a view that spanned the Tien Shan mountain range in all directions – glistening peaks rearing out above the tree line and towering above shadowy valleys. On several of the closer slopes I could make out avalanche trials evidenced by the husks of fallen pine trees pointing away from the source of their destruction. I had a sense of freedom, clarity and an appreciation of the enormity of nature that I know is hard to find. I studied Kant’s theory of the “sublime” in aesthetics and I think this is the best description of this emotion. To explain: Kant states that there are two kinds of finer feeling: the feeling of the sublime and the feeling of the beautiful. Feelings of the beautiful "occasion a pleasant sensation but one that is joyous and smiling" for example the relatively pedestrian sight of flower beds, grazing flocks, and daylight. Feelings of the sublime however “arouse enjoyment but with horror" and can be the result of seeing mountain peaks, raging storms, and night.
Kant subdivided the sublime into three kinds. The feeling of the terrifying sublime is sometimes accompanied with a certain dread or melancholy. The feeling of the noble sublime is quiet wonder. Feelings of the splendid sublime are pervaded with beauty. I think the Tien Shan inspires a potent mixture of each of these, the exact proportions of which depend on the viewer.
At this point David decided descend by going straight down the face of the mountain through the pine woods (at lower altitude) and Sacha shrugged and left him to it. After his disappearance last night I decided to follow Sacha rather than trust David’s relaxed attitude.
From the point at the end I had a view that spanned the Tien Shan mountain range in all directions – glistening peaks rearing out above the tree line and towering above shadowy valleys. On several of the closer slopes I could make out avalanche trials evidenced by the husks of fallen pine trees pointing away from the source of their destruction. I had a sense of freedom, clarity and an appreciation of the enormity of nature that I know is hard to find. I studied Kant’s theory of the “sublime” in aesthetics and I think this is the best description of this emotion. To explain: Kant states that there are two kinds of finer feeling: the feeling of the sublime and the feeling of the beautiful. Feelings of the beautiful "occasion a pleasant sensation but one that is joyous and smiling" for example the relatively pedestrian sight of flower beds, grazing flocks, and daylight. Feelings of the sublime however “arouse enjoyment but with horror" and can be the result of seeing mountain peaks, raging storms, and night.
Kant subdivided the sublime into three kinds. The feeling of the terrifying sublime is sometimes accompanied with a certain dread or melancholy. The feeling of the noble sublime is quiet wonder. Feelings of the splendid sublime are pervaded with beauty. I think the Tien Shan inspires a potent mixture of each of these, the exact proportions of which depend on the viewer.
At this point David decided descend by going straight down the face of the mountain through the pine woods (at lower altitude) and Sacha shrugged and left him to it. After his disappearance last night I decided to follow Sacha rather than trust David’s relaxed attitude.
Into the mountains
It was absolutely freezing in Altyn Arashan, the sort of cold that knocks the breath out of your body when you try to inhale and forces you inside around a dying fire. To preserve as much warmth as possible we made the executive decision to go to bed as soon as the fire started gasping for wood we did not have. Heat conservation drove me to wear PJ shorts, trousers, skiing socks, T shirt, 2 long sleeve layers, a fleece and a woolly hat to bed, and also to use - but also in a sleeping bag liner, sleeping bag (mine) and a US army sleeping bag for arctic regions! Very warm - if a little smelly (the army sleeping bag)! If you ever want to wipe out a battalion of US army, attack them at night, somewhere cold. Once you get into one of those things it is nigh on impossible to get out! Having bundled ourselves sup in as many layers as possible and rolled into bed we subtly tried to persuade David to go to his own bed rather than sit on the end of The Aussie's bed and talk AT us. It was also imperative to go to bed early and say tucked up until morning as any night time forays to the long drop could include a risk of frostbite on some rather delicate areas!
We got up bright and early the next day for a long walk into the mountains, and a chance to get used to the altitude. Tania (still giggling with Sacha) produced an interesting breakfast involving cold noodles covered in powered pepper and fried potatoes. I think I preferred the cake in Khiva. Having consumed this unusual feast we set off.
The path took us along the valley floor and then began to wend its way up along the wooded flanks of the mountains. It was dry underfoot and obvious that we were following the paths made by the nomad’s animals earlier in the season. We could see the highest peak veiled in snow at the end of the valley and meandered our way up a neighbouring valley, stopping at the glacier melt streams along the way to fill up our water bottles – and catch our breath.
It was too late in the season for any domestic animals to be about, just dry pasture made upof peppermint that released a subtle fragrance when crushed by our walking boots, delicate little gentian plants and a kind of purple geranium. Dotted around the landscape were clumps of juniper (a smell reminiscent of gin) and blackcurrant bushes laden with late berries - blackcurrants are apparently a local cure for mountain sickness. It was a sort of infinite landscape – rolling hills and mountains scrolling into the distance with no sign of human intervention – no fences, habitation or rubbish. Occasionally we came across an area where yurts had been erected during the lush summer – obvious due to the circular scars on the ground from the tents; but other than that it was just us and an eerie hush broken only by the sound of gurgling springs and calls of soaring birds.
After several hours of huffing and puffing following Sacha who was skipping all over the place like a mountain goat we crossed over a river very precariously using a fallen free trunk as a bridge and climbed up to the snow line. This fresh snow was testament to our remoteness as it did not display any other footprints and crunched satisfyingly under our feet. We soon reached a glacial lake for lunch. The lake was what was known as a cwm in our GCSE geography lessons (Miss. Mansergh would be proud) sitting in a hollow below a triangular snow clad peak. It was a limpid jade green silently reflecting the slopes above it and the eagles catching thermals circling above us.
Lovely fresh snow was all around us, but the day was sunny and flopping down to lean against a sun warmed boulder we felt we’d earned our pack lunch (fried bread, tomatoes and cheese that had been sweating in plastic bags – as well as a large chunk of our own chocolate!). After we’d eaten, we left The Aussie smoking (not great for mountains sickness at altitude) and I followed the others to climb up to a pass and a peak nearby to get a decent view.
We got up bright and early the next day for a long walk into the mountains, and a chance to get used to the altitude. Tania (still giggling with Sacha) produced an interesting breakfast involving cold noodles covered in powered pepper and fried potatoes. I think I preferred the cake in Khiva. Having consumed this unusual feast we set off.
The path took us along the valley floor and then began to wend its way up along the wooded flanks of the mountains. It was dry underfoot and obvious that we were following the paths made by the nomad’s animals earlier in the season. We could see the highest peak veiled in snow at the end of the valley and meandered our way up a neighbouring valley, stopping at the glacier melt streams along the way to fill up our water bottles – and catch our breath.
It was too late in the season for any domestic animals to be about, just dry pasture made upof peppermint that released a subtle fragrance when crushed by our walking boots, delicate little gentian plants and a kind of purple geranium. Dotted around the landscape were clumps of juniper (a smell reminiscent of gin) and blackcurrant bushes laden with late berries - blackcurrants are apparently a local cure for mountain sickness. It was a sort of infinite landscape – rolling hills and mountains scrolling into the distance with no sign of human intervention – no fences, habitation or rubbish. Occasionally we came across an area where yurts had been erected during the lush summer – obvious due to the circular scars on the ground from the tents; but other than that it was just us and an eerie hush broken only by the sound of gurgling springs and calls of soaring birds.
After several hours of huffing and puffing following Sacha who was skipping all over the place like a mountain goat we crossed over a river very precariously using a fallen free trunk as a bridge and climbed up to the snow line. This fresh snow was testament to our remoteness as it did not display any other footprints and crunched satisfyingly under our feet. We soon reached a glacial lake for lunch. The lake was what was known as a cwm in our GCSE geography lessons (Miss. Mansergh would be proud) sitting in a hollow below a triangular snow clad peak. It was a limpid jade green silently reflecting the slopes above it and the eagles catching thermals circling above us.
Lovely fresh snow was all around us, but the day was sunny and flopping down to lean against a sun warmed boulder we felt we’d earned our pack lunch (fried bread, tomatoes and cheese that had been sweating in plastic bags – as well as a large chunk of our own chocolate!). After we’d eaten, we left The Aussie smoking (not great for mountains sickness at altitude) and I followed the others to climb up to a pass and a peak nearby to get a decent view.
Altyn Arashan - Alpine Shangri-la
The journey up to Altyn-Arashan a bone shaking ride in Valentin's 50 year old jeep. We spent the 14k journey up squished into the back of the jeep with our luggage, the cook (Tania), the guide (Sasha) and a selection of fence posts that Valentin was talking the opportunity to bring up to the camp. The jeep is a relic from the Russian army that actually starts using a hand cranked starting handle in the front. It constantly sounds as though it is on its last legs – but made is successfully up something that even an avowed optimist could not call a road. We eventually reached the “lodge” - in the loosest sense of the word, with The Aussie, David (who was refusing to SHUT UP! Not that annoying me of course) and a bunch of very friendly mice.
The only people we spotted on this journey were some hard looking men riding back down from the pastures – the equivalent of Kyrgyz cowboys or frontiersmen – not someone you’d want to get into a fight with, or be close enough to smell….. They sat stoically on their scruffy ponies with dirty, white Kyrgyz hats atop swarthy weather beaten faces. Bedrolls attached to their pack saddles indicated their nomadic tendencies – it seems facetious to say that it didn’t look like an easy life.
Altyn-Arashan is remote. The only sign of people were the squat concrete huts next to the hot springs, manned by scary, bearded Russian women and the tents along the track up from the road which were being used by local loggers with noisy dogs chained to their logging equipment outside. The drive up to the valley stutters across pine clad slopes with steep pine clad slopes to the left and a stony drop t the river on the right. At times the road was so blocked with chunks of rocks from winter avalanches that we had to get out and skirt around them on foot, leaving Valentin to coax his beloved jeep up vertiginous rock falls to make it through. It was music to our ears (although maybe not those of the local people!) that bears are known to frequent the area during the summer and that wolves move in during the winter.
The name of the valley translates as “Golden Spa” in Kyrgyz – a reference to the abundance of natural hot sulphur springs to be found. The valley itself sits at 3,000m – an alpine Shangri-la with lush pasture carpeting the valley floor, bathing in golden sunlight – with little stirring but the eagles riding the thermals overhead. At the head of the valley is the 4,260m Peak Palatka (Tent Mountain) looming as a snow capped benevolent giant in the shape of a giant marquee and supplying the snow melt water that courses in a fast, shallow Arashan river down to Karakol. Local peaks (of the Ak Suu rage of the Tien Shan) reach up to 5,022m. That’s quite high!
On our first afternoon Valentin sent us out to climb a local hill to get a breath of fresh air and see how we found the altitude. It was pretty knackering – but had amazing views. Our acclimatisation walk was fun, if slow going, and we came down as it started to get dark to have a warm up in the hot springs. David had sprinted on ahead and disappeared further up the slopes from us and we did get a bit worried waiting for him as it was pitch black and we started to think that he might have missed his footing somewhere. We went and told Sacha who didn’t seem to care at all and eventually dragged Tania out to wave a torch around and look for him. Luckily he turned up – just as we were wondering what on earth to do – and got thoroughly told off.
Our food was provided by Tanya in a leaking coach. There were many giggles as she kept disappearing behind a ragged curtain to giggle with Sacha. It didn’t take us all that long (even with the altitude making us feel a bit peculiar) for us to realise that they were getting it on with a bit of alpine passion between courses.
The only people we spotted on this journey were some hard looking men riding back down from the pastures – the equivalent of Kyrgyz cowboys or frontiersmen – not someone you’d want to get into a fight with, or be close enough to smell….. They sat stoically on their scruffy ponies with dirty, white Kyrgyz hats atop swarthy weather beaten faces. Bedrolls attached to their pack saddles indicated their nomadic tendencies – it seems facetious to say that it didn’t look like an easy life.
Altyn-Arashan is remote. The only sign of people were the squat concrete huts next to the hot springs, manned by scary, bearded Russian women and the tents along the track up from the road which were being used by local loggers with noisy dogs chained to their logging equipment outside. The drive up to the valley stutters across pine clad slopes with steep pine clad slopes to the left and a stony drop t the river on the right. At times the road was so blocked with chunks of rocks from winter avalanches that we had to get out and skirt around them on foot, leaving Valentin to coax his beloved jeep up vertiginous rock falls to make it through. It was music to our ears (although maybe not those of the local people!) that bears are known to frequent the area during the summer and that wolves move in during the winter.
The name of the valley translates as “Golden Spa” in Kyrgyz – a reference to the abundance of natural hot sulphur springs to be found. The valley itself sits at 3,000m – an alpine Shangri-la with lush pasture carpeting the valley floor, bathing in golden sunlight – with little stirring but the eagles riding the thermals overhead. At the head of the valley is the 4,260m Peak Palatka (Tent Mountain) looming as a snow capped benevolent giant in the shape of a giant marquee and supplying the snow melt water that courses in a fast, shallow Arashan river down to Karakol. Local peaks (of the Ak Suu rage of the Tien Shan) reach up to 5,022m. That’s quite high!
On our first afternoon Valentin sent us out to climb a local hill to get a breath of fresh air and see how we found the altitude. It was pretty knackering – but had amazing views. Our acclimatisation walk was fun, if slow going, and we came down as it started to get dark to have a warm up in the hot springs. David had sprinted on ahead and disappeared further up the slopes from us and we did get a bit worried waiting for him as it was pitch black and we started to think that he might have missed his footing somewhere. We went and told Sacha who didn’t seem to care at all and eventually dragged Tania out to wave a torch around and look for him. Luckily he turned up – just as we were wondering what on earth to do – and got thoroughly told off.
Our food was provided by Tanya in a leaking coach. There were many giggles as she kept disappearing behind a ragged curtain to giggle with Sacha. It didn’t take us all that long (even with the altitude making us feel a bit peculiar) for us to realise that they were getting it on with a bit of alpine passion between courses.
Karakol - gingerbread houses and the mountains of heaven
Karakol itself is at the far eastern end of the lake near the old military torpedo area. It is situated in a bowl of the ancient flood plain just in front of the mountains. Karakol, which for reasons best known to themselves means “black wrist” in Kyrgyz, is roughly 150 km from the Kyrgyz-Chinese border. It is pretty; crumbling but peaceful. From about 1860, the town was a Russian military outpost, it grew in the 19th century after explorers came to map the peaks and valleys separating Kyrgyzstan from China. In the 1880s Karakol's population surged with an influx of Dungans, Chinese Muslims fleeing persecution in China whose influence can be seen in the local mosque.
In 1888 the Russian explorer Nicholas Przhevalsky died of typhoid in Karakol, while preparing for an expedition to Tibet, and the city was renamed Przhevalsk in his honour. After local protests, the town was given its original name back in 1921 - a decision reversed in 1939. Karakol then remained Przhevalsk until the demise of the Soviet Union in 1991. Not known for being decisive it seems….
We arrived at the out of town bus stop and decided to walk to the planned hostel as the scale shown on the map in The Book looked doable. Unfortunately we totally misread the map and ended up wandering around in the dusk trying to get our bearings. Eventually, and very hungry, we found it – Valentin’s Yak Hotel!
The beautifully named Yak Hotel was a B&B that was almost comfy, if chilly at night as it had snowed and the doors didn’t completely shut. But it did have hot water (some of the time) and the obligatory yurt in the garden to make us feel at home. The rest of the place was decked out in what can only be described as a Kyrgyz take on Swiss Chalet style – not quite Homes & Gardens but nice enough for weary travellers. We were also pleased again meet some more randoms - this time an Aussie couple cycling from London to Sydney who were having a rest as they found cycling after lunch too dodgy with all the drivers setting out after a vodka based meal. Their dinner looked delicious and I was thoroughly looking forward to ours – until a couple of greasy fried eggs were rustled up by an ageing cook with the dirtiest fingernails, but a very welcoming smile. The hostel owner proudly began his welcome spiel and then entertained us with what must be the only video created by the Kyrgyz tourism department and a series of photocopied newspaper articles in a variety of languages, mentioning him and his yaks, as well as an unexplained collection of maps and info about Kazakhstan “Land of Tourism!” - and this was before Borat.
We also learnt more about the hostel owner, Valentin, a man in his 60s with some stories to tell. A stocky figure with a yak stained moustache and a twinkle in his eye, Valentin looked as though he had Russian ancestry and, with his hotchpotch of cold weather clothing, was clearly far more interested in practicalities than fashion. He was obviously a well known figure in the town we couldn’t tell whether this was due to the yaks, his international flavour (so many foreigners!) or just his ancient American jeep. But, whatever it was – he was pretty unmistakeable. As if these weren’t enough claims to fame, Valentin filled us in on his life and family too – all illustrated with newspaper articles. For a generation this man ran the Kyrgyz rally car team and his daughter spent 10 years as the national women’s weightlifting champion. I’d be prepared to bet money that they are the only family in the world with that demographic.
Having warmed up and wound down The Aussie, David and I made plans to head up into the mountains, to Ala-Arushan where there is an alpine valley, some hot springs - and where the President has his holiday yurt. That definitely beats Margaret Beckett and her caravan as a politician’s holiday destination. You frequently hear of Tony Blair taking up the offer of accommodation from a variety of world leaders and international personalities – but I don’t think he’s ventured this far so far… The camp is at about 3,500m so it is quite high up. But the highest peak here is over 7,000m!
These mountains go proudly by the most romantic name I have ever heard: the Tien Shan meaning Celestial or Heavenly mountains. Mind bogglingly beautiful and wreathed in ancient myth these they were considered by early Persians to be the roof of the world. Standing proud to the north and west of the Taklamankan Desert in the border region of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Province of western China, they link up with the High Pamir to the south. The now widely-used name Tian Shen is a Chinese translation of the original Uyghur name Tengri Tagh - Mountains of the Spirits. Incredibly, second highest peak of this celestial range, Khan Tengri (in Uyhur – meaning ‘Lord of the Skies’) marks the farthest north eastern point reached by Alexander the Great in his travels.
The highest peak in the Tian Shen is Pik Pobedy (Victory Peak) which, at 7,439 m or 24,408 ft, is also the highest point in Kyrgyzstan and is on the border with China. Mountaineers class Pik Pobedy and Khan Tengri as the two most northerly peaks over 7,000 m in the world. The Tien Shan are purported to be one of the coldest mountain ranges on earth and one of the least explored. If we had a bit more time (and money!) we'd have the opportunity to go skiing on the glacier that forms the base of one of the high peaks - but that would entail a helicopter in and sadly our budget is not that flexible – and they tend to fall out of the sky!
In 1888 the Russian explorer Nicholas Przhevalsky died of typhoid in Karakol, while preparing for an expedition to Tibet, and the city was renamed Przhevalsk in his honour. After local protests, the town was given its original name back in 1921 - a decision reversed in 1939. Karakol then remained Przhevalsk until the demise of the Soviet Union in 1991. Not known for being decisive it seems….
We arrived at the out of town bus stop and decided to walk to the planned hostel as the scale shown on the map in The Book looked doable. Unfortunately we totally misread the map and ended up wandering around in the dusk trying to get our bearings. Eventually, and very hungry, we found it – Valentin’s Yak Hotel!
The beautifully named Yak Hotel was a B&B that was almost comfy, if chilly at night as it had snowed and the doors didn’t completely shut. But it did have hot water (some of the time) and the obligatory yurt in the garden to make us feel at home. The rest of the place was decked out in what can only be described as a Kyrgyz take on Swiss Chalet style – not quite Homes & Gardens but nice enough for weary travellers. We were also pleased again meet some more randoms - this time an Aussie couple cycling from London to Sydney who were having a rest as they found cycling after lunch too dodgy with all the drivers setting out after a vodka based meal. Their dinner looked delicious and I was thoroughly looking forward to ours – until a couple of greasy fried eggs were rustled up by an ageing cook with the dirtiest fingernails, but a very welcoming smile. The hostel owner proudly began his welcome spiel and then entertained us with what must be the only video created by the Kyrgyz tourism department and a series of photocopied newspaper articles in a variety of languages, mentioning him and his yaks, as well as an unexplained collection of maps and info about Kazakhstan “Land of Tourism!” - and this was before Borat.
We also learnt more about the hostel owner, Valentin, a man in his 60s with some stories to tell. A stocky figure with a yak stained moustache and a twinkle in his eye, Valentin looked as though he had Russian ancestry and, with his hotchpotch of cold weather clothing, was clearly far more interested in practicalities than fashion. He was obviously a well known figure in the town we couldn’t tell whether this was due to the yaks, his international flavour (so many foreigners!) or just his ancient American jeep. But, whatever it was – he was pretty unmistakeable. As if these weren’t enough claims to fame, Valentin filled us in on his life and family too – all illustrated with newspaper articles. For a generation this man ran the Kyrgyz rally car team and his daughter spent 10 years as the national women’s weightlifting champion. I’d be prepared to bet money that they are the only family in the world with that demographic.
Having warmed up and wound down The Aussie, David and I made plans to head up into the mountains, to Ala-Arushan where there is an alpine valley, some hot springs - and where the President has his holiday yurt. That definitely beats Margaret Beckett and her caravan as a politician’s holiday destination. You frequently hear of Tony Blair taking up the offer of accommodation from a variety of world leaders and international personalities – but I don’t think he’s ventured this far so far… The camp is at about 3,500m so it is quite high up. But the highest peak here is over 7,000m!
These mountains go proudly by the most romantic name I have ever heard: the Tien Shan meaning Celestial or Heavenly mountains. Mind bogglingly beautiful and wreathed in ancient myth these they were considered by early Persians to be the roof of the world. Standing proud to the north and west of the Taklamankan Desert in the border region of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Province of western China, they link up with the High Pamir to the south. The now widely-used name Tian Shen is a Chinese translation of the original Uyghur name Tengri Tagh - Mountains of the Spirits. Incredibly, second highest peak of this celestial range, Khan Tengri (in Uyhur – meaning ‘Lord of the Skies’) marks the farthest north eastern point reached by Alexander the Great in his travels.
The highest peak in the Tian Shen is Pik Pobedy (Victory Peak) which, at 7,439 m or 24,408 ft, is also the highest point in Kyrgyzstan and is on the border with China. Mountaineers class Pik Pobedy and Khan Tengri as the two most northerly peaks over 7,000 m in the world. The Tien Shan are purported to be one of the coldest mountain ranges on earth and one of the least explored. If we had a bit more time (and money!) we'd have the opportunity to go skiing on the glacier that forms the base of one of the high peaks - but that would entail a helicopter in and sadly our budget is not that flexible – and they tend to fall out of the sky!
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