After 2 nights of rough camping our first reaction was to jump into the water. It was glorious. This really did seem an idyllic spot until we revealed our sleeping intentions to our neighbours. Horror across the girls face as she announced But the horsemen will come and will drink vodka and you will not be safe. Now this type of statement on the first day of visiting a country is not healthy for my vivid imagination. I immediately had visions of the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse, pissed up, ransacking the tent.DISTANCE DRIVEN IN COUNTRY: 1,300 miles/ 2,080km

DISTANCE FROM HOME: 8,647 miles/ 13,835km

WEEKS COMPLETED: 14/74

Paddy fields (well just one and thats enough for me)
Ability to make nasty tasting drinks and salty balls out of mares milk
Ability to make even nastier tasting fizzy drink from boiled fermented millet and barley
Visit to police station no 3
Fish count to date = 1
Roadside stalls selling dried fish; yellow, red and black succulent cherries, watermelons
HorsesTRAVELOGUE

You may have gathered that we were both really looking forward to Kyrgyzstan, a land which is 94% mountainous, the average elevation 2,750m and 40% over 3,000m.

Now isnt that bliss after scorching hot deserts? Our 3 weeks in the country were action packed, heart stopping and nerve shattering. Simon described the place as having no half measures. He was right. This was a country that we will never forget

Kyrgyzstan is Central Asias most forward thinking nation and was the first to declare its independence during the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Still much poorer than virtually all of its neighbours it has been able to stabilise its economy, hence no black market, and wise enough to simplify its entry requirements to foreigners. Religion is tolerated though the state is officially secular, unlike the Uzbekistan government which has banned the Muslim call to prayer and harasses those Muslims brave enough to attend mosques.

It is possible that tourism will be the trump card for Kyrgyzstan since it offers mountains, pastures, animals and people to die for.

The border crossing from Uzbekistan was comical this was their major international border into Kyrgyzstan and we approached it along a narrow track weaving our way in between the traders pulling barrows stocked high with goods.

They too would be crossing the border to the market on the other side. Standard procedures and numerous forms with the Uzbek customs, we expected the same on the Kyrgyz side. But the Kyrgyz authorities were so laid back it was unbelievable no registration of the bike, no declaration of money and no stamp in the passport, too good to be true. When would they start to extort money from us? Beckoned into another stinking hot corrugated army personnel caravan (the country is littered with them) we get asked to pay the Air Pollution Tax. Warning them that we only have dollars, the calculation of 1.2 x 100 / 45 is clearly too much for the struggling official and he waivers it! We like this country.

Petrol smugglers at the border

Our first destination is Bishkek the capital, not far on the map, but requiring a 3 day pull up through 2 passes of over 3,000m. Within 2 hours of being in the country we found ourselves at a rather official checkpoint where we were asked for our bike details.

These sounded rather familiar questions so dreading the affirmative answer that I received, I curiously asked if it was Uzbekistan on the other side. Thank you Mr Stalin for drawing the borders so ridiculously that we cant take the direct route to the capital. There was no way we were going to risk attempting to get back into Uzbekistan without a valid visa, so around we turned and made a massive loop, bumping our way along horrendously potholed excuses for roads until 3 hours later we rejoined our original road. We were exhausted and filthy and decided to find a campsite as soon as possible.

Normally on the look-out for tracks to take us into the hills we both spotted a glistening lake. After a small reckie we located a deserted bay away from the frolicking locals on the other side. Not surprisingly though we were joined by two other cars within 5 minutes. I was immediately struck by the apparent freedom of the youth. Not since Europe had we seen young people of both sexes, with a car, out on their own enjoying themselves. This really did seem a liberated country.

After 2 nights of rough camping our first reaction was to jump into the water. It was glorious. This really did seem an idyllic spot until we revealed our sleeping intentions to our neighbours. Horror across the girls face as she announced But the horsemen will come and will drink vodka and you will not be safe. Now this type of statement on the first day of visiting a country is not healthy for my vivid imagination. I immediately had visions of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, pissed up, ransacking the tent. Perhaps the most sensible decision would have been to stop cooking, pack up the tent and look for another site, but dusk was falling and we were both exhausted from the days riding. Umming and ahhing, we looked to the skies for help. It came in the form of the most amazing weather front approaching us. Seriously angry clouds broadcast the fact that a storm was looming. The winds built up and we decided that not even the most ardent alcoholic would bother leaving town and his booze booth to get drunk and drenched by the lakeside. So we stayed put while everyone else packed up and left us struggling against the wind to cook an over-chillied tough beef stew on a rather knackered Coleman stove! We watched the storm clouds moving closer and then all hell let loose. I prayed that it would last all night fearing the arrival of The Horsemen (pronounced in a deep voice). Of course it passed eventually and they didnt descend upon us, but we were left half sleeping, constantly listening out for horses neighing and our own vodka having no effect.

An early start the next morning, I was desperate to see the mountains that the Lonely Plant guide kept promising. We gradually started climbing as we hugged the side of a river flowing off a series of jade-blue reservoirs created as part of a huge hydroelectric power generation system. The rocky slopes became more and more impressive, not really surprising since we were in the foothills of the Tian Shan range which were formed at the same time as the Himalayas when India crashed into Asia. There was no traffic around, the roads were clear of potholes, all we had to do was find a TV to watch the World Cup Final on shouldn;t be too difficult, surely everyone knew about Brazil vs Germany? We stopped at Kara-Kul, sadly missing the graffittied greeting; Welcome to f*cking Kara-Kul that our guide book said would be well worth viewing. In our best Russian we asked for a bar where we could watch the match but got various useless responses. We gave up and decided we (I) could live without this event. We were nearly swayed into hanging around for 1.5hrs at the petrol station where the attendant kindly offered us prime bed seats squinting in front of a snowing black and white picture in the stations pokey attendants room. With Simon starting to feel queasy we declined and carried on with our haul to Bishkek.

The scenery was stunning and we started to get glimpses of summer pastures where cattle and sheep herds were driven during the warm months. The road was slow as the gradients got steeper and steeper. Large Russian built trucks laden with produce toiled to get over the summit avoiding the worst potholes.

Luckily, for us though, the Kyrgyz government was investing a lot of labour and money into improving (asphalting) the road that connected the north and south of the country. Currently during winter months bus services stop running and cars get through at a pinch and with a lot of pushing. Once over the summit we hit a recent patch of new asphalt, bliss we thought until we spotted an overturned tomato truck on a tight bend. Contents spewed everywhere, the drivers body was laid on the road with a blanket covering him. God knows how many other people were in the cabin with him, we had often seen entire families out on excursions with their father. It seemed ridiculous when we realized that if the road hadnt been fixed then he wouldnt have been doing the speed he was and hed still be on this earth today.

Sobered up we continued and found an ideal campsite on the verge of a large lake. I cooked dinner listening to Steve Wright on BBC World Service the only football coverage I could find was in German and thats one language I dont speak. Immediately after hearing the result on the news we were informed that there had been two fatal shootings in Bishkek. Great.

Needing more than the usual reheat of last nights dinner (Georgian sardine stew) we stopped at the first café where all we could recognize in the kitchen were eggs. We hoped to be presented with an omelette for our troubles but each got 5 greasy salty fried eggs instead. We washed this down with tea whilst being serenaded to by raucous Kyrgyz women. They heard we spoke English so thought we might like to hear their appalling renditions of Oh my darling Clementine and some wartime ditty that I vaguely recognized. Having said that, it was refreshing to see yet more examples of a genuinely happy nation.

Clementine

With our meal sitting heavily on our stomachs we started on our final stretch through the high passes to the capital. As the pillion, to keep my mind from decaying, I set myself mini projects on observation (theres nothing I cant tell you about car number plate systems in each country). I was surprised to note that 99.9% of all signposts indicated that approaching inclines would be 12%. I came to the conclusion that the Dutch Ministry of Transport had done a typo on its signs and had managed to flog them all to the Kyrgyz. The other extreme was during the stretches of new road where they had done some proper surveying, the resulting signs were to 2 decimal places, I distinctly remember climbing a 5.84% slope!

Our first 3,200m pass approached. The temperature dropped considerably, nomadic yurts started cropping up in the valleys and compacted dirty snow formed year-long bridges over rivers.. The yurt is the national symbol of Kyrgyzstan, its apex is shown on the heart of their flag. Seeing them for the first time was brilliant along with the horsemen in action. We couldnt stop waving, we were just as much a novelty to them as they were to us. A tear was brought to our eyes as we watched 3 galloping horsemen plunge into a river and wave enthusiastically at us. This was the essence of our trip.

The damp and cold required us to wear our biking trousers, so we took the opportunity to stop at a yurt-cum-café to get a bite to eat. I chose the yurt with the sheep entrails hanging outside as it seemed most authentic. Inside we drank a rather insipid broth and chewed at a sheepss ankle bone. At this point Simon was feeling increasingly shivery and weak from his oncoming food poisoning. He rested for a while and as we left he shrugged at the owner who suggested that the oil was leaking a little. As a precaution though we stopped to check it a few kms later. Holy smoke, the rear wheel was splattered with lubricant. Time to remove the useless oil cooler by-pass and reinstall the dodgy oil cooler absent since Seki, Azerbaijan. To our relief the fix worked and filled Simons body with adrenalin so he could continue the journey.

Cafe with the fresh entrails

The next pass included a tunnel. As we approached it we were waved down to stop. It seemed that the tunnel was closed, our hearts dropped as we assumed we would have to retrace our steps and find another way of reaching Bishkek. Luckily though, due to road works, it only allowed one-way traffic and we just had to wait in the pouring rain as cars and trucks eventually came through. The road downhill was a zigzag of sheer bends, fun for me but not for Simon as he contended with the greasy surface. Eventually we left the mountains and reached the plain. Bishkek was beckoning us, but Simons body wasnt interested. I worried for our safety as we wobbled into the centre. We made it, however Simon was a wreck and slept for the next 72 hours.

We stayed in Bishkek for 5 days whilst recuperating and organizing our visas for Kazakstan. Its a pretty unremarkable capital city but it served our purpose. Theres still a huge statue to Lenin which surprised me since I thought all monuments to him had been removed. Apparently though, because Kyrgyzstan wasnt as deeply Leninised as other Central Asian countries, it hasnt taken part in the wholesale, hypocritical race to cleanse all Soviet terminology from their nation.

Changing the guard

Bishkek biker

We stocked our panniers up with dry foods and swapsies for the herdsmen and headed for the hills and lakes. En route, our stomachs rumbling, we taste our first Dungan food. The Dungan pride themselves in making the best noodles, similar to the Chinese. They are obviously hand made since the thickness varies tremendously. I could hear a lot of noise from the kitchen and guessed they were making them. I peered inside just to take a picture, but the women gestured me to come in and have a go. In true Generation Game style I made a complete hash of first folding the prepared rope of mixture in two then pulling and slapping it on the table to make it thinner. The process should be repeated several times not my few efforts. At least it made them giggle.

Simon chose a route that took us initially to Song-Kol, a less visited lake at 3,000m. We needed first to tackle the 23km dirt track taking us over the 3,500m pass. There was absolutely no traffic apart from the 2 drunken horsemen who appeared from nowhere inviting us to ride their frisky beasts. Luckily they failed to see our 2 bottles of one dollar vodka sticking out of the backpack. It was during this journey that we sighted our first gofer (aka marmot/groundhog/fat bastard). These are the most wonderfully furry and chubby of animals (we saw a skeleton of one the size of a small dog). They scurry away at the slightest smell or sound of danger, whistling loudly to their mates to get in the burrow. However we managed to fox the little devils by inventing Gofer Gear turning the engine off and free wheeling down tracks. In this way we could sneak up on them undetected, we cornered one poor soul who was too far from his burrow and had to pretend to be a rock. Got me fooled until I slowly approached him, realized what he was doing, then hopefully got some fantastic photos.

Marmot in flight

Having crawled to the summit with me leaning down to the side of Simon as close as possible to the ground to stop us from doing wheelies, the bike suffering from altitude sickness and power loss, we turned the corner to be confronted by a herd of frisky, long haired, horned beasts. We had at long last discovered the yak, or at least the cross-breed between cow and yak that yields more milk. Scattered around the countryside they stood and stared at us in an evil way. A quick photo shoot and off into the basin where Song-Kol lay surrounded by impressive mountain ranges.

We watched the storm clouds move leisurely towards us, tickling the peaks, until we realized we were in danger and could spend no more time looking for the perfect campsite. Simon spun the bike off the dirt road onto the grass and parked it behind a small knoll. The temperature dropped amazingly quickly leaving me standing there like a lemon. The freezing cold hail stones literally stunned me into a daze as Simon put the tent up in record time. I slowly warmed up by stripping off and getting into thermals and dry clothes. That night we ate delicious Russian pea soup, then woke up the next morning to find snow forming a pelmet around the tent base.

Song Kol

The downpour had changed the dirt tracks into slimy quagmires. Our journey that day was therefore only 3km long and took us to the lakeside where our guide book claimed was an area jumping with fish. Whilst sheltering in the tent waiting for the rain to pass we heard a whistle surely not the gofers teasing us we thought. Poking his head out of the tent, Simon greeted a sodden horseman with dog. Have you got a fag? We couldnt refuse this poor guy, so out came the Malboroughs we had brought all the way from England to be used as bribes. Feeling sorry for the horse we offered him some sugar cubes, but they got hastily secreted away in his pocket. We discovered later that sugar was a luxury only for humans. Simons homemade bread was snuffed at and thrown to the dog!

Our horseman turned out to be a 15 year old lad whose family grazed sheep and horses at Song-Kol during the summer. He would return on various occasions scabbing cigarettes and urging us to visit his tents to partake in kumys, the dreaded fermented mares milk. We knew that eventually we had to take the plunge, so the following morning, he having refused our breakfast of rice because it was of the Indian variety and having already gulped down a litre of kumys we met him at his home. The whole family came out and we were presented with the guest sheepskin to sit on. His mother poured a lumpy grey-white liquid into bowls and surprisingly Simon took the first sip. Now I like yoghurt, but this was a most disgusting acidic concoction.

The real Marlboro man

His young brother delighted in gulping his down. We eventually managed to finish it, an experience we vowed never to repeat, we suffered repercussions for the rest of the day as our stomachs battled to digest it.

Oh the views

We spent another couple of days in the area in absolutely idyllic surroundings no tourists, max half a dozen cars, perfect weather, no fish. Eventually we had to leave because we were running low on petrol, so we joined the real world again and headed towards Issyk-Kul lake and Karakol to do some trekking. As we passed through the small villages, boys hung around street corners on their horses. The animals were definitely the equivalent of bicycles for these youths. Only about half of them would even have saddles.

Camelherder with Kyrgyz hat

We reached Karakol in the afternoon, erected our tent in the hostel, then hit the internet café to catch up on mails. It was whilst reading long family epistles (keep sending them), that some toe rag nicked my bumbag containing 2 passports, 150 USD, credit cards, jewelry I was dumbfounded. We had always been so careful with the valuables, but somehow they managed to crawl under the desk and grab the bag. Simon fetched our hostel owner who called the police. The place was crawling with feds as they took my statement. Luckily a young mountain guide, Taher, helped with the interpretation. A couple of hours later we were driven to the police station where we spent the evening sitting on cinema seats, watching the officer banging away on his typewriter very Cagney and Lacey.

That evening we learnt that the wife of the hostel owner, a fearsome woman, had telephoned the Chief of Police to threaten that if my bag was not found by the next day she would contact the President of Kyrgyzstan! Consequently that night ALL off duty policemen were recalled and sent around to ALL shops in the town to warn them of the theft and the possibility that kids may come in with large wads of notes. It seemed that everyone was worried about how this one incident might affect the tourist trade which the whole town relied upon.

The following day we busied ourselves in cancelling cards and contacting the British Embassy. Fortuitously for us we also carried second passports - top tip for any serious traveller. This meant that all we needed to do was arrange new visas. We obviously didnt tell the police this in case this decreased their resolve. I swear the whole town knew who we were because of the hassle we were causing them. At one stage we were in the Post Office and I was informed there was a telephone call for me! Talk about a grapevine. We returned to our hostel where the owner had taken matters into his own hands. He had placed an advert on the local TV station a slot every 30 mins during the evening for 3 nights, all for 9 USD! Apparently this is the traditional way of communicating lost and found. Well within 2 hours Taher and I were back in the station sitting next to 2 young boys who had found my bag when playing in the park. Their parents had gone to the TV station too. Unfortunately only half the contents were returned, the police officer questioned them some more to discover the parents had kept most items. The mother was sent back home to retrieve everything. By the time they got round to me, the officer apologised for the Force not working any faster but they had to take away resources to investigate the recent murder of 2 children. I tried to explain that their service was exceptional and that I would never be treated this way in England. It was now dark and with no light bulb I identified my possessions including credit cards, some burnt, with difficulty. But still missing were our passports and these were the most important items.

Simon and I were determined that this episode would not spoil our upcoming trip to Altyn Arashan where we would do some more communing with nature. That journey was eventful in itself and Simon will send a separate mail describing how he trashed the bike! We spent 3 days in an Alpine paradise, exhausting ourselves on a days horse ride and another days walk to two disappointing glacial tarns.

Proper sorebums!

The mountains were full of wandering horse herds, each with a dominant male. Each morning fresh milk was delivered on horseback. In the evening you could relax in a natural spa bath. We played with the GPS and for the first time we were closer to Vladivostok than home. We were also shocked to read that the bearing to take us home was not west, but north-west taking us over the North Pole! Now thats scarey.

With our visa for Kyrgyzstan running out we reluctantly returned to Karakol. And then another miracle the TV advert had worked and our passports had been returned directly to the hostel, all for a reward of 10 USD. We were advised not to involve the police since this would have me wasting a third evening at the station. Simon spent the afternoon trying to repair a very sickly bike (see other mail)

So the next morning we slipped quietly/noisily (wrecked starter motor) out of Karakol, mightily relieved to be returning to the capital. The only items still on the loose were 150 USD, a hand mirror and a months supply of contraceptive pill. Police are on the look-out for two rich vain young boys growing breasts!

Our final days passed quickly in Bishkek whilst we organised replacement parts for the bike. For this we have no qualms in plugging www.motorworks.co.uk and DHL who both provided us with an excellent and invaluable service and saved our bacon.

On the final day of our visa we coughed and spluttered our way to the border. All we needed to do was get to Almaty to perform open heart surgery on the bike

STOP PRESS TURKMENBASHI UPDATE: Thanks to Dad and Kenny for confirming to us that the Turkmenistan president is officially insane. He has recently announced that the months of the year and days of the week are to be renamed after heroes Himself will be January, his deceased mother and his political writings, which he compares to the Bible or Koran, will also be new months!