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Riding Kyrgyzstan
Minette Marrin rides out into remote and dangerous Kyrgyzstan with her intrepid and fearless Aunt Susan, 82
My Aunt Susan is fearless. At 82, she rides all over central Asia, camping in the open and sleeping on the ground for days on end. She once rode a camel across the desert in Ethiopia, following the trail of a grandfather who had been with General Napier’s famous expedition of 1868 – though, admittedly, she was only seventysomething at the time. Long ago she hunted jackals in Iraq, there being no foxes, in full English hunting fig. She is still the sort of aunt who makes one feel rather feeble.
So, last year I tried to imitate her spirit of adventure. “Are you going riding anywhere this summer?” I asked her, feebly. “Kyrgyzstan this time,” said my aunt. “Do you want to come?”
Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan or Uzbekistan – I hardly knew where they were on the map, though I had a vague memory of dissidents being boiled somewhere in the vicinity. “Yes,” I said nervously. “Very much.”
However, the Foreign and Commonwealth Office website mentioned terrorism in the south. “Is it safe?” I asked Aunt Susan.
“That depends on what you mean,” she said, dismissively, making me feel yet more feeble.
So that is how I found myself flying to Kyrgyzstan, due east from the Caspian and on until you almost reach China, just behind the great Tien Shan mountains.
Our trip was arranged by Aunt Susan’s friend and guide Domenico in Kyrgyzstan, through Ride World Wide here in Britain. It sent us a long list of camping necessities that reminded me of Boot of the Beast’s trip to the Army & Navy Stores to be kitted out for the tropics in Evelyn Waugh’s Scoop. Not only boots and riding trousers and an everything-proof jacket, but half-chaps, waterproof overtrousers, a silk sleeping-bag liner, long johns, a photographer’s jacket with multiple pockets, an aerated riding hat, a pharmacopoeia of medicines, binoculars, presents for any Kyrgyz hosts we might meet, a water bottle, a compass and, most important of all, a torch on a headband, like a miner’s headlamp, for that rare thing, real darkness.
Arriving at the airport, Aunt Susan was enveloped in the arms of her Kyrgyz friend Mambet, Dom’s partner, who drove us into Bishkek, the capital, to our monumental Soviet-style hotel. Bishkek is a sad place, just as much of Kyrgyzstan’s history is sad. Lying between Russia to the north and the great prize of India to the south, crossed and recrossed by the ancient Silk Road from China, this land has been brutally fought over for centuries – by murderous Mongol armies and Genghis Khan, by Muslim proselytisers, tribal warriors, Russian and British imperialists, traders, spies and chancers. It was eventually taken over by the Soviet Union, which, until it left in 1991, tried hard to destroy the nomadic traditions, the language and the Muslim religion of the Kyrgyz. It failed: the country may now be poor and damaged, but the Kyrgyz themselves seem irrepressible.
Bishkek merits a detour for anyone interested in the tragic history of central Asia, but I was glad when Mambet drove us out and up into the mountains to join Dom and the horses, bringing along his exceptionally good-looking young son Ruslan. Tastes in beauty vary, but I have always thought that tall men with the high cheekbones, high colour, Sino-Tibetan eyes and Mongol look of the central Asians are some of the most handsome in the world. Even the quaint white felt hats worn by many Kyrgyz do not detract much from the effect.
Mambet drove us with a great deal of skill and laughter. We zigzagged right up into the mountains, into total darkness and driving rain, and on and off a flooded road so broken, dangerous and generally desolate that I began to wonder why I had come. My aunt was quite unconcerned and, sure enough, after many hours, we found ourselves in a real yurt being introduced to our team of Kyrgyz horsemen – Anabek, Kapek, a boy called Maxat and, later, Dom himself.
Only Dom and Mambet spoke any English. That night, for the first and last time, I tried kumiss – the national drink made of fermented mare’s milk. It is truly revolting. My aunt, needless to say, drank hers with pleasure and we ladies retired into the dark for the night.
“You’ll find a meat hook very useful in a yurt,” said my aunt, handing me one as we unpacked. I was too tired to wonder why, and fell asleep on the beautiful felt carpets and bright padded mattresses, in the warmth of the dung-burning stove, with no idea at all of where we were.
I woke very early and opened the felt door-flap; I was immediately dazzled by bright summer-morning light reflected off a vast expanse of water of great beauty, with mountains beyond it and an immense meadow of gentians and edelweiss at my feet. This was Lake Songkul, 9,800ft above sea level, and the first of many moments of euphoria on our fortnight’s ride.
That morning, we began our journey, riding rather regretfully out of the lovely plain towards a mountain pass. En route, the dogs we had with us caught and killed a screaming marmot, which turned out, in fact, to be a young badger – that night we had badger stew, though Anabek kindly provided mutton stew as well, for the squeamish. We camped beside a stream and rode on the next morning.
And so we continued, forgetting about days and time, riding through remote high valleys and mountain passes to the ancient caravanserai on the Great Silk Road at Tash Rabat, and back to Lake Songkul by a different route. It was euphoric, strange, fascinating and, on a couple of occasions, slightly frightening – some of the stony ravines we rode down were 40-degrees steep and rather treacherous. Luckily, our Kyrgyz mountain horses were sure-footed as well as quite fast – much better mounts than I had expected, though I was alarmed to be told they were all stallions.
We rode in a kind of high-altitude dream from one astonishing, almost-empty landscape to another, through vast wild-flower meadows, bleak moonscapes and red rocky gullies straight out of Colorado. Up barren, grey-stone slopes we went, and down sunny, scented passes with pine trees and wild roses, or among the willows of a winding, green river valley. I didn’t like to mention it to Aunt Susan, but I was constantly reminded of The Lord of the Rings – and of the enormous emotional power of strange and immense landscapes and constantly changing light.
Mostly, the weather was hot and dry, but one day we were caught in a snowstorm and took a wrong turning in the poor light; up and up we went, missing the pass, and found ourselves instead at the desolate summit of Mount Kumbel, in bitter cold, 12,400ft high.
“I am not sure I like this,” said my aunt on the escarpment, as well she might: just below us were many hundreds of feet of free fall into nothingness, interrupted only by huge, fantastical, pointed peaks, as if a monstrous child had been dribbling wet sand through its fingers.
Going back the way we’d come was an alarming prospect too, and ahead of us we could see another snowstorm approaching fast. But we had confidence in Dom and our horses – and then, miraculously, a tiny ant appeared in the distance, hastening towards us. This turned out to be a herdsman on a donkey who had seen us in profile on the summit and come to guide us down another way.
All was well, and on we went again. We passed ornate but lonely Muslim cemeteries, decaying Soviet communal farm buildings and solitary herdsmen’s yurts with children and chickens. We stopped for elaborate feasts with Kyrgyz hosts, and idyllic picnics with chunks of salt fat pork, yoghurt and local jam on every occasion, though remarkably few vegetables.
Along the way there were no telephones, no running water and no washing – at least not for me. My aunt was to be seen at first light dousing her face and combing out her hair in the icy waters of a stream, whenever available.
Every evening we talked with Mambet and company, despite sharing little in the way of language, and they plied us with vodka and sang wonderful folk songs. On being pressed, we tried too, but our rendering of Early One Morning meant we weren’t pressed again.
Afterwards, we’d fall asleep to the sound of the men laughing and joking, or to the rustling of a stream. It was the closest thing I can imagine to a spiritual retreat.
This was not a journey for people who are unused to riding, or who insist on plenty of vegetables. Otherwise, the entire trip was a kind of bliss, full of strangeness and beauty, and at times a palpable silence.
Next time, I want to ride the remote Pamirs, the so-called roof of the world, in Tajikistan. But only, of course, if I can travel with my redoubtable aunt.
Travel details: Ride World Wide (01837 82544, www.rideworldwide.co.uk ) has a 12-night trip from £1,400pp, with accommodation in twin rooms or tents, all meals, riding and equipment, the services of a local and a western guide, and transfers, but not flights. Expect to pay from about £500 for flights from Heathrow to Bishkek with British Mediterranean, bookable through Ride World Wide. Or try Equine Adventures (0845 130 6981, www.equineadventures.co.uk ) or Wild Frontiers (020 7736 3968, www.wildfrontiers.co.uk ).
The Sunday Times | Sunday, May 06, 2007
