Karakol and first yurt experience

Trip Start May 16, 2005

Trip End Nov 01, 2006

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Flag of Kyrgyzstan Karakol, Kyrgyzstan
Thursday, June 16, 2005

The hot and sweaty 7 hour shared taxi ride to Karakol in the east in a tiny Lada was improved by the majestic lake and mountain scenery and eventually we arrived in a comfortable homestay in Karakol. We had our first experience of backpacker interaction with couples from Belgium and Holland. Not sure how these people were managing to travel in the region as none of them knew any Russian. The crazy dutch had also dropped in on Turkmenistan, a mad place where Turkmenbashi's gold statue of himself rotates to follow the sun. This nutter has also built a 37km staircase in a hillside up which he makes his ministers walk once a year, meeting them at the end from his helicopter.

The following day, another taxi ride in a terminally-ill taxi took us to a yurt camp near Djety Orguz, a popular spa town in soviet days

at least the bread was fresh

. The driver got his directions slightly wrong and we ended up at the more authentic yurt - facilities were basic to say the least. Cooking facilities consisted of a small fire with an old pot under a tree, personal washing facilities didn't exist as far as we could work out and the animals were free to roam where ever they liked. We tasted the dreaded Kumis, fermented mare's milk -just as disgusting as it sounds. The Kyrgyz adore it though and it was for sale outside every house along the roadside. Another culinary delight that we were forced to endure was the heavily salted rice pudding for breakfast. The family we were staying with move up to these lush summer pastures every year to fatten their animals and enjoy a relaxed way of life. In fact, it seems as though just about everyone living outside of Bishkek undertakes this annual semi-nomadic ritual.

The next afternoon, Sonia was off riding so I decided to go for a walk up the valley to find a suitable fishing spot. I didn't make it that far before being accosted by a group of school teachers on a day trip from Karakol. Or at least that's what I think they
were. For they knew collectively about as many words in English as I did in Kyrgyz. This very friendly bunch insisted that I join their picnic and I was soon downing vodka shots and tucking into greasy lamb and potatoes

Dinner with our hosts

.

They wanted to know what I was doing there, where I was from, what I did for a living etc etc. I eventually made it back to the yurt after being sent off with a bag full of food despite insisting that I had already eaten. This was one of numerous examples of how friendly the Kyrgyz people are.

That evening was spent back at the homestay in Karakol trying to figure out how the hell we were going to make it to Mongolia in time to meet Keiran...
Conflicting stories from other travellers and some information from the owner's son led us to the annoying conclusion that the only place in the entire country to book train and plane tickets was in Bishkek.

On our return to Bishkek we were immediately aware of a change in atmosphere. The street were virtually deserted for a Saturday evening, even the small street traders and photographers were nowhere to be seen. The looming presidential elections and the recent
revolution have seen many protests, all of which have been heavily policed. In fact its more of a joint police/army operations with hundreds of riot police and troops camped out in the city's main park, ready to crush any demonstrations that get out of hand

home sweet home

.

Surprisingly enough we decided not to linger in the vicinity of the demonstrations, instead our efforts focussed on buying tickets from Irkutsk to Ulan-Batur.

That night was spent in a ramshackle homestay well away from the centre of town. More backpacker stories were exchanged with Aussies, Norwegians and Americans. Hardcore typical backpackers they were too - you would have to be to have anything more than one night in this particular guesthouse. Most of them had also had just been up through Afghanistan! The night before some of them had seen some of the riot police in action.
The water cannon had not been used but the Norwegian girl had taken a picture of a policeman throwing a rock at the protesters. She promptly sold the picture to the Norwegian press for $150...

The next morning was dedicated to buying tickets for our onward journey. The lady at the train station didn't want to sell us a train ticket, mentioning about needing a bit of paper to leave the country. The policeman that she sent us to appeared equally
confused about the mystery piece of paper, shrugged his shoulders and sent us back to Herr Fuehrer ticket matron. By this point, her considerable attitude had softened slightly and she was entertaining the idea of selling us a ticket. With some mild procrastination and general inefficiency, two tickets were eventually forthcoming.

With our dire onward transportation arrangements now at least partly sorted out, we headed back out of town, this time towards Kochkor and beautiful Song-Kol Lake.