Kyrgyzstan Pt3. Goat's, drunks and local kids

Goat's, drunks and local kids ...

We'd gone through a handful of villages and had numerous encounters with dogs. The day was wearing on and it would be getting dark in an hour, so we stopped in one village to stock up with provisions for an expected night of camping. In asking some locals hanging over a fence the whereabouts of a store, were pointed back along the road on the opposite side. Riding back there was nothing obvious to be seen, so circled till a guy starting waving and then gestured for us to go in between a tumbly-down stone wall. I pulled over and wandered up this path that looked more like it was a run-off from a nearby stream. I speculated whether it was run-off waste water from the houses instead ...

I went to walk further up the track, but the helpful local again called out and pointed the way to let me know I was about to pass the shop. Looking for some kind of entrance or sign to show it was something other than just another house, was confronted by nothing more than a small window, half of which was open. Looking through the gap were some small cucumbers, apples in a box and little else to be seen from where I was standing apart from the wide-eyed girl who was minding the store. Peering further in could just about make out something round and red. These were tomatoes and they were on my shopping list of items too, but try as I might the girl would not sell me any. From what I gathered, they were past their sell-by date. I didn't mind over-ripe tom's as they often made for a good sauce to accompany pasta dishes. But no ... she was persistently insistent. I wasn't going to get them and that was that!. Eventually I accepted it was going to be a a tomato-less shopping foray, then asked about vodka. To which my helper who was stood nearby suddenly took a lot more interest. His eyes lit-up and pressed closer and a smell of alcohol suddenly assailed my nostrils. It was then that I noticed he was drunk. A shout then went up as another of his comrades wobbled unsteadily down the uneven path. He was drunk too, but was in a decidedly worse state as he attempted to stumble his way closer. Once the bottle of vodka appeared through the open window and the transaction for the other items was completed, the 2^nd drunkard who'd reached us by now and was wavering in front of me, started pointing to the bottle with a sly grin on his face. He went on to mumble something incoherent in either Russian or Kyrgyz', but suspected I wouldn't have understood even if he was speaking English. Evidently he wanted me to open it then and there, and presumably share it with him and his mate. He wanted to continue his party and thought that I was his host!

“Sorry boys”, I returned in my best Oz accented English. “Gotta move on and find a campsite before it starts getting dark”. This didn't satisfy the 2^nd drunk who became more urgent in his demands, so I squared up to him momentarily. The first guy, took him by the shoulders and was evidently placating him, nodding for me to go. I took the hint and rejoined Bjorn who'd been looking after the bikes.

We moved off and followed the road where it led. In it's turn the road was following alongside a river. The one which was responsible for creating the valley we were in. A couple more villages came and went after which we slowed our progress and stopped for a couple of reccy's, in the hope of finding a suitable spot for the night. The first one we looked at was rather close to the river. I didn't fancy the proximity to the river as there was also some big puddles of standing water nearby that would likely be a breeding ground for mozzy's. Besides there was constant background roar from some white-water a short way downstream. So we then looked at another spot along a bit further that was tucked away behind a wall and in front of a cliff-face. A field-sized patch of regularly grazed grass made for a flat enough spot to pitch our tents that was some 20 or so metres away from the road. If not perfect, was sure good enough for a one-nighter.

Rather than risk the chance of our neighbours taking umbrage at our presence and visiting us in the middle of the night with loaded shotguns and a pack of their not too friendly hounds, it seemed a good idea to walk along and introduce ourselves. A lady appeared from the door of the house as I walked in through the gate. Imagining she already knew of our presence from some children that had dropped by shortly after we'd stopped. She seemed a little perplexed, but didn't seem to mind when I told her we were camping nearby, by saying 'palatca' (the Rusky word for tent) and pointing back to where I'd left Bjorn collecting fire-wood. Going on to mime a tent as an upside down vee and following up with my head to one side on clasped hands, as what I hoped was the international sign for sleep. I still wasn't too sure if she understood me and so pointed back along the road, saying “Tajikistan”, then the other way and said “Osh”, trying to convey the idea we'd be gone tomorrow. Eventually she managed a smile, though was as likely at my inane behaviour as any kind of understanding. But taking this as my cue waved goodbye to her and her two young children and went back to finish making camp and getting some tucker going.

The same children returned later in the evening to retrieve the goats that were grazing high up on the cliff. I'd not noticed the goats, but had heard the sound of stones falling so guessed there was something up there ... It was fascinating to watch these children scampering up what little path existed before encouraging their stock back down for the night. The goats clambered down over steepness that seemed impossible from where we were stood. One or two seemed to be surfing on the tracts of loose shale in the half-light, before hopping across onto something more solid. The mini avalanches continued after they'd gone, but could only be heard as a gentle skittering of stones. Darkness was complete as Bjorn lit the camp fire, which was as much to deter the insect-life as warmth or for cooking purposes. The early part of the night was still warm from the heat of the day, but it was cooling rapidly ...

We ate some bland rice or pasta based food. I don't remember which staple was on the menu that night, but really can't complain because what I do recall is that I cooked it myself. One thing I didn't forget is that we had some Kyrgyz' vodka to look forward to, a couple of nips of which warmed us against the cooling air. An hour or so later had pretty much finished cleaning and tidying the camp kitchen and was feeling tired enough for my mind to turn towards getting some sleep. In getting ready for bed cast around with my torch and could see some eyes reflecting the beam of light over behind Bjorn's tent. It was a pretty eerie sight and so walked across to investigate. There was something bulky in the shadows, but wasn't distinct enough to see exactly what it was. I had to get closer ... It turned out to be a donkey, which had wandered across onto our side of the road and was standing sentinel-like. It looked bored, so left him undisturbed and walked away to clean my teeth in the darkness. It was still fairly early but by now was most definitely tired enough for sleep and wearily took myself off into my tent, leaving Bjorn to watch the fire burn out ...

I was up at first-light with Bjorn getting up a little after me. He grumbled out of his sleeping bag and tent, complaining that the flames from the fire had mesmerised him into finishing off the bottle of vodka. In telling me he was a bit on the groggy side it reminded me to get the kettle went on for tea, with Bjorn opting for a caffeine filled coffee to chase away his cobwebs. A handful of the children we met the evening before came back in the morning to watch us pack up. I spent some time with them and asked them their names in turn, and after doing so found that three of their number seemed quite amenable. There was a fourth one that was a bit older who seemed just a little too interested in my knife, and cynically guessed he had designs on filching it given half a chance. When he made a stabbing movement with it towards one of the smaller kids, I lost patience with him and took it back. With the knife confiscated he soon got bored and wandered off, leaving the younger one's alone with me and Bjorn. I encouraged them to help rather than just dumbly watch and they became more and more relaxed. It seemed important to make an effort as there could be few westerners who came along this road, and those that did would simply hurtle by in rented 4 wheel-drives towards their next destination. These 3 young 'uns who stayed with it, were each rewarded with a pen and seemed happy with their gift. I do hope they saw this as payment for their help ... rather than a straight hand-out from stupid rich tourists.

The road eventually got better. These then were the good roads we'd heard about! On the map it still appeared to be the biggest part of a days ride to Osh, but with good roads, we'd be there in a couple of hours. Maybe less? Huh! 10 minutes of good stuff and it reverted to pot-holes and uneven surface again. Back down came the speed, back up went the day's travel times ...

It continued like this until just before Osh. In fact I'd say we were within something like 10 Kms of the city before the pot-holes and rough ungraded surface disappeared completely. The last 50 Kms or more, was a tease of new road and partially levelled road-works awaiting surfacing, that choked us with our own dust as well as that of the passing traffic. I was glad to ride into town when it came. After weeks out in the wilderness with little more than small towns and villages in between, it was a novelty to see lines of shops again. We passed a market and turned right into a main street. Nooooo! No way? Was that a pizza shop? Good god, we've must've arrived back in civilisation!

Kyrgyzstan Pt2 Dogs & dry river-beds

Dogs & dry river-beds ...

The first leg of our journey in Kyrgyzstan took us towards Osh. We'd harboured ideas of checking out the possibility of finding a truck to take us and the bikes across into China when we reached Sarytash. We had our Chinese visas, but our entry point at Torgurat was closed for that country, so if we could find some other way in, it would take much of the pressure off. At times this problem would weigh heavy as there was no telling if Torgurat would open this side of Christmas. We knew that if it wasn't open by the end of September then each successive week meant it may not be open at all until the following spring due to snow and extreme low-temperatures. The feeling of riding into a dead-end increased with every kilometre, and hung like a pawl over my mood. While not consciously thinking on it all of the time, it never the less was never far from my thoughts. I felt edgy ...

Sarytash appeared on the map to me as a tee-junction on a main-road. But I went sailing past it without noticing the turn-off. When we got there it looked like a small track off to the right, which led to a few more ramshackle buildings in a ramshackle community. It sure didn't look like a small town with a highway branching off that went into China. After passing a few trucks and riding up a hill, realised we'd just passed the place we were initially aiming for. In my mind I'd expected something more. Maybe a major truck-stop with a line of parked wagons, as we'd seen at numerous border crossings perhaps? Whatever, it wasn't like that and having fought up a steep hill strewn with loose shale while watching an ancient Russian built car picking its way gingerly down, didn't fancy turning around again, so we pressed on regardless.

The day wore on and from what I'd been told about the roads being better in Kyrgyzstan, was hoping to come across smooth tarmac soon. The tension in my arms and legs from frequently having to stand up while going over a hump or bump to take some of the pressure off the rear suspension, was starting to take its toll. But I was to discover that a major improvement in road condition was another of my fantasies ...

We gradually made our way down the altitude gradient, with the numbers on my GPS continuing to drop. We passed more and more villages and would be greeted by their dogs. Not cursory barks though. These had all the hallmarks of potentially savage beasties. For the main part I didn't take too much notice as a well placed boot would generally discourage too much persistence. But Bjorn frequently stopped to vent his anger in their direction. In doing so discovered that they were afraid of stones being thrown at them. After noticing that the moment he stooped to pick up a stone, they pre-empted him by heading for the hills. From that it was found that you merely had to bend over in a mime of stone-gathering to get rid of these pesky canines. There was little to deter them as you first entered the villages though, and recall many of these idiotic animals charging headlong across fields and ditches in an attempt to 'get us'.

Now, here again was something of interest. Why would the dogs of Tajikistan be docile for the most part, yet here in Kyrgyzstan appeared to be far from happy good-natured animals? When we'd gone through the villages of the last country the dogs barely raised their heads, and were mostly friendly when approached. The only exception was Murghab and even there, they gave little more than have a conciliatory 'woof' in our general direction. Something had changed ... The dogs we encountered now, seemed imbued with a degree of viciousness and had the feeling that if I'd been going at a slower pace that they would bite. Maybe not savage as such, but some of them definitely had wicked intent. This had to be cultural. The only reason I could find for such behaviour is that they were taught to be this way. Perhaps encouraged to attack anyone who wasn't local. But then does a dog see a man on a motorbike, or just a 'thing' on the road that makes a noise? Why then did we see this difference? We were pretty much still on the same road. The only real change being that we'd crossed a border into another country.

Though having said that, even this statement isn't entirely true as the landscape was different. My thoughts were perhaps flawed as they followed linear western logic in believing that proximity to the same roadway would lead to a certain degree of sameness. But here was proof that it was not so. The political boundary was in part a physical boundary too. A few high mountain passes and a check-point that required the correct papers to pass-thro' and along with low density of population, meant few of those people that lived out there migrated too far back and forth along the road we were on.

Was the dogs behaviour any reflection of the society in which they lived? Did a correlation exist between the aggressive dog's and the people who lived here I wondered? In short, were the people going to be the same as the dogs? Crikey, I hoped not ... The one Kyrgyz we'd met back in Tajikistan was a delightful fellow, but maybe he was an exception, or perhaps the reason he lived there was because his fellow Kyrgyz' weren't very friendly. There was little choice but to keep going and find out.

There had had some interesting river crossings during this trip, both dry and otherwise. We encountered one dry river-bed not long after the border-crossing into Kyrgyzstan and was memorable because it was intimidating enough to bring us to a temporary halt. It was sudden. One moment there was a road, albeit not in too good a condition, but a definite hard-topped surface which showed the way to go. Then we rounded a bend to be confronted by a dry river bed of loose stone. No road, no bridge, in fact there was nothing man-made in front of us ... nowhere could a road of any kind be seen, just rocks. Big one's, little one's ... some course and craggily textured and some having been worn to smoothness. All coming together to form a sea of moraine having being washed down by floods, which judging by the result must have reached deluge-like proportions at one time. But here the weather was bright and clear and therefore no issue. What was an issue though, was choosing the right direction. The normal rule of thumb for negotiating towns is to keep going straight. Straight here, meant a 5 metre drop onto boulders some of which were the size of a small car, so there had to be some other way. 50 metres distant there was something ... It might've been where the road led before the spring melt-waters had washed it to oblivion, but it wasn't really obvious. Then as I scanned the apparently haphazard rock strewn river bed, a slightly different colour could be detected. It was a bit like getting your eyes adjusted to darkness in a cave after stepping in from the daylight. With squinty eyes, could make out a definite track meandering across that moon-like landscape of rock. The early pioneers following the wash-out had indeed found a way across! From where I was standing there was no way of telling where it led exactly, as it mounted a rise that could have been a false bank of some kind, then disappeared over the other side.

Doing a U-ey to get to the drop-off point where this ghost-like track started, I left the road. Somewhat nervously began making my way forward, knowing instinctively that every gear apart from first, was redundant till I was across. Much of the time it was a bouncy ride to make any progress at all over that barren wasteland. I was pretty tense, as a fall here was fraught with a high risk of bruised bodies and bent bike things. Better to keep going, and let momentum do some of the work. One particularly difficult stretch was a combination of wet mud interlaced with fine gravel, but to add to the interest were a few strategically placed boulder sized rocks, which if hit would bring things to an instant stop. This was motorcycle 'trials' country, where lightweight bikes with low tyre pressures wobbled their way across impossible terrain for sport. The competition element being points lost for putting a foot down. On a bike loaded with luggage it was way too close to the edge (sic. reminds me of a song-lyric) for me, as lost points equalled things getting broken. And we were many miles to the nearest help ...

I got past the scary mud and gravel depression okay, but not without a degree of 'gun it and hope for the best'. In other words, was a toss of the coin whether I'd land in a heap at the bottom of this dip or make it past in one piece. But evidently Bjorn didn't fare so well. From what he told me I don't think he actually fell over, but he did come to a halt and struggled to get going again, accompanied I'd imagine by some appropriate profanities to focus his energy.

In parts the track would disappear with no way of telling if I was headed in the wrong direction. It would be impossible to turn around with such a heavily laden bike without stopping. And even stopping wasn't really an option, as it meant losing the forward momentum that carried me n' the Beemer over the loose stones and bigger rocks. It was an eerie feeling I can tell you. Maybe it was only for seconds at a time, but was how I'd imagine it would be to free-fall in darkness. For many fear-filled moments would lose sight of the 'track', as the signs of earlier traffic disappeared. The rocks would appear undisturbed for several metres, but then looking ahead would again see a definite hint of ground-settlement, which showed that the wheels of the vehicles which had preceded us had pushed some rocks down against their neighbour to create a pattern. It did however take some degree of concentration to detect those vague parallel lines, as it was little more than shades of grey and white against other shades of grey and white.

Mounting the rise in the river bed that I'd first seen from the other side, the subtle parallels meandered towards what looked like the end a collapsed roadway. The clues were an even surface along a ridge with gravel ballast spilling out from underneath. It was bit like one of those cross-sectional sketches 'for illustrative purposes'. This was the other side. I paused where the track didn't look too loose to survey things before going further. There was no way up to this bit of road that was visible from where I was, so had to carry on in the hope that a way out would appear. Bouncing another 2o metres and the track went further off to the left and eventually rose up in a gradient where the surface looked somewhat more firm. A couple of minutes more and I was up and onto the road.

I stopped to look back where I'd come from. Bjorn was still struggling, having recovered from his trial of mud & gravel in the middle section ... There was no shame in this as it was hard terrain to get across. Very hard terrain indeed. I for one was glad to have finished with it and hoped that was the last dry-river bed, and that it would be flat and easy from here on in ... for a while at least!

Bjorn got out okay too and we carried on our way. Osh was our destination, but the road we were on showed no signs of improving enough for us to fast-track it there. It meant then we'd be having another night under the stars.