No apologies or excuses for taking so damn long to finish my spring break wrap-up. Remember kids, this all happened at the end of April and the beginning of May.
After cavorting with Jalalabad's most well-heeled denizens...
From the wondrous heights of the decrepit Soviet-era sanatorium of Jalalabad, the four of us (Brian, Kristen, Jo and I) headed to Arslanbob, an overwhelmingly Uzbek (99%) village in western Kyrgyzstan. We were treated to some of the most spectacular nature scenes any of us had ever encountered.
Barely had we arrived when we found ourselves embroiled in our first little adventure. Arslanbob is a very conservative village, but we would have hardly guessed based on what we experienced within an hour of our arrival. After a sumptuous lunch at one of the town’s only two chaikhanas (teahouses), we meandered into the deserted market square. We were immediately spotted by a group of well-pissed Uzbek men who promptly staggered over and offered us shots of vodka. And this was a conservative town? We being good sports, we each in turn duly obliged - we were unable to do a group drink seeing as they only had one glass. We also learnt how pleasant it is to chase vodka with a spring onion: I can’t recommend this practice highly enough.
Our three nights were spent at the home of a traditional Uzbek couple, all organised by the excellent local Community Based Tourism (CBT) office, who have an extensive network of homestays dotted throughout the country. This was a magnificent experience, ever-so-relaxing in the splendid company of Brian and Kristen, two of my closest friends here. Brian is hands-down one of the funniest people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, and I never tire of his puerile humour (a compliment), soothingly and reassuringly similar to mine. The both of them are so down-to-earth and easy to be around. Our time in Arslanbob featured lots of rollicking laughter, wonderful bonhomie and endlessly fascinating conversation. It has to be said that this would be true of all the time we spend together, whether on the road or in Bishkek.
Enough with the melodrama, on with the story!
Alcohol is quite taboo in this part of the country, so we knew we were in for some trouble when it came time to procuring some. Not that we really needed it, but we did all fancy a beer or two to wash our dinners down, especially considering our homestay had a deck offering spectacular views of the mountains. This proved an almost impossible task, though we did manage to find an incredible little speakeasy-type place hidden in the corner of the market square. After being met with hostile glares at every shop where we enquired about beer or cognac, we eventually stumbled upon a tiny metal shack with a door just barely cracked open. Inside we were greeted by the overwhelmingly pungent aroma of unwashed bodies and a grubby, plump old woman who was more than happy to do business with us. I could only wonder how much resemblance this had to Prohibition-era America.
Of course our hosts were none too pleased that we’d brought alcohol into the house, though considering they had beer available on their menu, I’d be reluctant to say we committed any sort of faux pas.
Time for a bit of exercise
Our outdoor escapades were brilliant. Jo and I set off one day in search of an oft-talked about high waterfall. Getting there was a real challenge, especially with our [lack of] fitness levels and the treacherous terrain. That, and the fact that we’d failed to bring enough water and were suffering from dehydration in the already-scorching late spring heat.
At one point, we climbed up a steep, 75-degree angle wall of stones: it felt like scrambling up a wall of marbles and we did rather wonder how on earth we’d make it back down. But at this point in our journey we’d got so far that there was no way we were giving up. So on we persisted, slowly but surely, trying desperately to avoid being avalanched by one false footing.
The waterfall itself was nothing to rave about (revisiting my old ho-hum attitude toward nature again), but the endeavour itself was rewarding enough. Getting back down was to prove not so difficult, for we discovered a path that we’d somehow accidentally bypassed on the way up.
The next day all of us ventured out for a few hours of horse-trekking amidst the walnut grove. I had heard a bit about Kyrgyzstan’s walnut groves, allegedly the largest in the world, including stories about how some of the finest walnuts have ended up on handmade guns (worth up to $1200) in the UK. But none of this mattered to us, as instead we did our best to relax and take in yet more of the epic panoramas.
Sore asses though not on asses
I’m no experienced horse-rider and within mere minutes I was in a bit of discomfort. It wasn’t just the preservation of my manhood that I feared, but the mind-numbing drops down the sides of the cliffs. I was lucky to have a strong, obedient horse, but I still didn’t trust him on these awfully narrow mountain passes, where some of the paths were only a few metres wide. One bad step and whoosh – that would be us plunging to our untimely deaths. At the very least, this fear kept my mind off other pains.
The trek offered a vast array of vistas and we soon stumbled onto a clearing where children were playing and having a picnic: it was May Day and we were invited in for the obligatory round of photos and bread (the hospitality of the Uzbeks was incredible). At times it seemed like we were exhibits in a human zoo, as children clamoured to have their photos taken, an experience if you remember, similar to that in Kochkor where the 12 year old incessantly asked my for my phone number. They never wanted us to be in the photos, they just wanted us to take photos of them and they were always so eager to pose. All the children in the village would eagerly shout ‘Hello! How are you? repeatedly as we passed. This was the limit of their English though one audacious little girl of perhaps 10 said ‘hello baby!’ to me as she passed, her friends cackling along. All so very cute and innocent really.
Having made it back alive, we began to regale one another with tales of our pains. Brian and I could hardly walk and we were all quite sore for days. Unfortunately, we were facing a 10 hour car journey back to Bishkek, not a pleasant prospect considering the condition of our aching bottoms. After this experience, and the one in Jordan where a camel took off on a gallop while my guide had stopped for a pee break, I vowed never to mount a beast ever again. (I did, however, break this promise to ride a horse this past weekend on the shores of Lake Issyk-kul, a story to be shared another time.)
Saving the best for last
Little did we realise that our most hair-raising adventure would be the taxi journey home. We’d been expecting a beautiful ride, for the road between Arslanbob and Bishkek is said to feature some of the most visually arresting topographical relief in the world. It’s also very dangerous and requires a good, sound, responsible driver. Which we didn’t have.
I sat upfront and so had to endure the brunt of our insolent driver’s antics. He talked loads of utter nonsense (not in English), asking repeatedly about the marital status of Jo and Kristen and whether I liked young girls. At no point did I say yes (and nor did I say that it seemed young girls liked me), but he insisted on showing me clips of the collection of child porn stored on his mobile. On top of this, he had a DVD in the car showing the same loop of unbelievably wretched under-the-radar 80s pop. All this within the first hour.
It hardly got better. We could tell that this clown was having trouble staying awake and it transpired that he’d only got 2 hours of sleep the night before. I could see him fighting to keep his eyes open and we all began to slightly panic: at this point, we had yet to reach the start of the most perilous part of the journey. It was also raining fairly heavily. When we expressed our ‘concern’ in not so kind terms, he would promptly sit up straight and proclaim that he was fine. He then asked Brian to drive! Not having any experience with a stick, and considering we were heading into the mountains, he politely declined. His next suggestion was priceless: he wanted to stop at a makeshift roadside mosque to pray and take a quick nap. This was all too much for us to take and we wanted to get out and find another taxi. But this buffoon was having none of our rebellious chatter, and instead sped off to prevent us from fleeing. By the time we stopped for lunch, we had gone too far into the mountains and it was too late to change drivers.
Once we had accepted our fate, we did our best to settle in and enjoy the trip. As we were nearing home in the early evening hours, our driver answered a call from someone in Bishkek wanting to be taken back to Arslanbob that very night. With no hesitation in his voice, our driver eagerly accepted and then ever-so-proudly announced his intention to turn the car right round and head back the very same way we’d just come. As we got out of the taxi and returned to our flats, we were all left to ponder the fate of that poor sucker.
First stop: a chaikhana for lunch
Brian braves the first shot
Jo's turn: don't let that face fool you. She loved it
A spot of relaxing for our efforts
The drop got worse once I'd put my camera away
Always eager and never camera-shy
Spotted! The speakeasy safely tucked in the corner
With our kind benefactors inside
