In which I (briefly) ride a horse, and then move to the Beach Camp

July 20, 2013

I had been petting Buddy and Mocha when I realized that one of them must have rolled in something rotten. Yuck. I made my way out to the street for the purpose of washing my hands in the aryk when I noticed a rather attractive specimen of horse tied to a power pole. Thus distracted, I diverted course from the aryk and wandered over to pet her for a little bit. Shortly thereafter, her owner moseyed up. He was an elderly and slightly less than sober fellow who had been chatting with some other folks down the block. He asked if I wanted to ride her. Having been in Kyrgyzstan for nearly three months without having ridden a single horse (something rather unheard of, surely) I jumped at the chance. Not that I could ride very far, as there’s just the one main street in Bar Bulak, and I was waiting for Kuban to show up and cart me off to the London School’s Beach Camp.

The horse’s owner hoisted me up onto his horse (I really could’ve mounted her myself, but I guess he had no way of knowing that) and gave me the ever so helpful instructions of “Just don’t fall off!” before moseying back over to his friends. I rode the horse up and down the street a few times, weaving her in and out of various obstacles. She was incredibly responsive to my commands – much more so than Honey (my American horse). Of course, as she is used for transportation, she probably wondered if she had landed a drunk driver, as I kept instructing her to do things that did not involve going in a straight line from Point A to Point B. I have to admit that it was amusing to ride past locals (including former students) who had seen me every day for the past month – they all looked quite astonished by the discovery that The American was actually a competent horsewoman. After a couple of turns up and down the street, I dismounted, and the horse’s owner, complete with a freshly opened bottle of beer and a lit cigarette, mounted and rode away.

I washed my hands in the aryk and returned to my room to await Kuban’s return with the car. I had rather a long wait. My “early” arrival at Beach Camp ended up not being all that early. See, the previous day, the engine of Kuban’s old Audi had begun doing its best to emulate that of a Harley. Now, the Harley sound is great… on a Harley. But no car – especially an elderly Audi – is supposed to sound like that. As of this morning, the car had ceased running entirely. Now, getting one’s car fixed rapidly is next to impossible in a big city with plenty of mechanics and auto-parts stores. The fact that Kuban was able to have his car up, running, and purring like a kitten by 5pm in Bar Bulak was pretty miraculous. But, this also meant that despite the fact that I was up, packed, and ready to go by 10am, we didn’t leave for the Beach Camp until shortly after 5pm.

I’ll be staying at the London School’s Beach Camp for a week free of charge as a thank you present for having spent the summer volunteering for them. For someone who has spent the past two months living the life of a rural Kyrgyz villager, the London School’s Beach Camp is a veritable modern paradise. It’s a two story hotel (of sorts) located just up the hill from the yurt camp where Rita and Kuban have their yurt “hotel” and café. The hotel has 16 rooms (mostly singles, some doubles), although only two bathrooms. But get this: THEY HAVE RUNNING WATER! And hot showers! And sit down toilets! At least someone out here has had the initiative to have an electric well installed, although its water pressure seems to vary. (As I hadn’t showered since my visit to the hot springs 13 days previously, one of the first things I did was to avail myself of that luxury. That and the sit-down toilet.)

The London School's Beach Camp Hotel
My room
My view :-)

For those of you who have followed my Kyrgyzstan adventures since 2008 (or who have read through my archives), the Beach Camp is located at the spot where A. went swimming in Issyk Kul back in February 2008 when K, A, and I took our first trip to Kara-Koo, and where I rode my first Kyrgyz horse. My room has huge windows and a balcony facing the lake. It’s a lovely place to relax – although as there’s not much to do here, I suspect I will be starting to go stir crazy by the time next Saturday rolls around.

The director and several other London School folks were at the Beach Camp when I arrived, so I took the opportunity to see if they could arrange for me to have a car from here to Bishkek, so I wouldn’t have to take a marshrutka with all of my absurd amounts of baggage. Supposedly I will have a car here at 11am on Saturday to drive me and all of my crap to Bishkek. It will cost $20, which is totally expensive for Kyrgyz travel, but most definitely worth not having to be crammed into a marshrutka with all of said crap. Woohoo!

Horse in all forms

June 22, 2013

I slept in late today, and as such it was nearly 10am when I was awakened by a summons: one of my students was taking me to spend a day in the mountains with her family. Okay. The mother of this particular student is a math teacher at the Myrzamambetov School, and she is also related to the director of the London School. (She is the director’s niece, and from what I understood, her husband is the director’s husband’s nephew – although I could be wrong about that.)

My student, Burella, took me to her family’s house where her parents, brother, and cousin were waiting. Her brother, Murat, is also one of my students. Their cousin was visiting from Bishkek. He was a first-grader, and definitely a city boy. He did not seem to be enjoying his stay in the country at all. They also had an incredibly sweet, one-eyed, white-haired dog.

The family had a table piled high with boorsook, candy, and salad – and they were preparing plov. Now, before I had left *my* house, my host family had insisted that I breakfast on plov. As such, I wasn’t sure how much more plov I could eat, as it was only an hour since I had eaten breakfast! Then I learned that instead of the usual sheep-meat, this plov was made with horse-meat. My apologies to Honey and Merlin (my/mom’s horses in the US), but that stuff was delicious and I ate a lot.

Burella
Left: Cousin; Right: Murat

After our late morning feast, Burella, Murat, their young cousin, and I loaded into the family’s SUV. Murat (who just finished 11th grade) drove. We drove up into the foothills of the mountains, not far from where Rakhat and Altynbek keep their sheep. Murat and Burella’s family has a small home up there where their grandmother lives, and where they keep several horses. Murat and Burella’s older sister Aliman (who studies at a university in Bishkek) was there visiting, along with the mother of the first-grader and her six month old infant.

Their land is the location of one of the nine springs which give the village of Toguz Bulak its name (toguz = nine, bulak = spring or water source). As a Floridian, the word “spring” conjures up images of large, round, deep, crystal clear holes from which large amounts water emanate, and in which swimming is possible. In contrast this “spring” was a boggy area from which water slowly leached out of the soil, first forming mud, then a trickle, and then a small stream. They showed me the spring and their horses, and then we drove further up into the foothills to visit their neighbors.

Murat and one of his family's horses
The "spring"
Me and Aliman

We arrived at a small house near a stream (fueled by snow-melts) and surrounded by chickens, turkeys, and their chicks. We met the woman who lived there and her young daughter, with whom we then drank several cups of kumys (fermented horse milk). While kumys is a fermented beverage, it is generally considered ‘mildly alcoholic’ and even the few Kyrgyz teetotalers out there still drink it. This stuff, though, was pretty potent, and after several cups I was feeling a tad buzzed.

Turkey family
Chicken, stream, and outhouse
Stirring the kumys
Aliman

Aliman and I wandered around the jailoo (high mountain pasture) for a little while, and visited another of their neighbors. This family lived in a yurt, and had an incredibly adorable puppy – which unfortunately was terrified of me.

We then returned to the first neighbor’s house to watch them milk their horses. The nursing foals are kept tied in a row during the day, away from their mothers. At milking time, the horses are rounded up and their mothers are herded over to their babies. Each foal is allowed to drink a little bit to get the milk flowing, and then the horse is milked in much the same way as a cow.

I was offered a fresh glass of horse milk. I was worried, because while I love fermented milk products, I cannot drink straight cow milk. It makes me gag. (I can drink chocolate milk, but not straight, white, cow milk. Yuck.) I was worried that I might have the same reaction to horse milk, but luckily I did not. In fact, horse milk tasted more like soy milk than cow milk – although I found the fact that it was still warm a tad disconcerting!

Drinking fresh horse milk
After the horses were milked, we said goodbye to the neighbors and returned to the grandmother’s house for a mid-afternoon bowl of soup (accompanied, of course, by tea and more kumys), and then it was time to return home.

Eagle Fest!!

October 25, 2008

Warning: Animal Rights in Kyrgyzstan are essentially nonexistent. This post contains some graphic photography and videos which are rather unpleasant. However, there are a lot of really incredible and beautiful things to see/read in this post as well... just be forewarned.

Last Friday after work, J had arranged for taxis to meet us at the school to take us (for 650som/person) to Kaji-Say, a village just east of Bokonbaev on the southern shore of Lake Issyk Kul. J and D (being students who didn’t have to work) had left earlier that day, and eight of us piled into two taxis for the journey at roughly 9pm. We arrived in Kaji-Say around 1am, and went to our homestay. J had arranged for us all to stay at Zina’s B&B, a very nice place run by the wife of one of Kyrgyzstan’s champion eagle hunters. (It isn’t affiliated with CBT, although it is in Lonely Planet.) The B&B was comfortable, except for one small problem: they didn’t have heat. I don’t know if this was because the power was out at night so electric heaters wouldn’t run, or if it was because the state heat hadn’t been turned on yet (if there even *is* state heat somewhere as remote as Kaji-Say). We were placed (nearly) all together in the top room of the home, which – fittingly – felt very much like an aerie.

We stayed in the little room atop the house

We were all miserably cold during the night, and as a result awoke quite early. We went downstairs for breakfast and met Ishenbek, the champion eagle hunter, for the first time. We also met Tuman, his gorgeous golden eagle.

 

Tuman, looking a tad grumpy early in the morning

After breakfast we loaded into a pre-arranged marshrutka (mini-van/bus) which drove us to a site just to the west of Bokonbaev where national traditional hunting championships were being held. This consisted of numerous eagle hunters and falconers, in addition to handlers of wolf hounds, archers and skilled horsemen. I had expected maybe ten eagles at the most, but there must have been at least fifty there with their handlers, in addition to numerous hawks, dogs and horses. I got my favorite pictures of the day before the competitions began, when elderly men on horseback lounged around with eagles on their arms, chatting with one another.

Ishenbek and Tuman

The Kazakh team had really awesome costumes

This man was really nice, and I was in love with his horse.

Ishenbek had told us that there would be a captive wolf at the festival, which would be released for the eagles to hunt. He told us that he was the only person – from both Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan – who was willing to pit his eagle against the wolf at the festival, and said that she’d killed three or four wolves in the wild. He was obviously very nervous about this, and I admit I was worried for gorgeous Tuman as well. We all anxiously awaited the release of the wolf... but many events came first.

I didn’t get very good shots of the first events, as my camera simply doesn’t have that great of a zoom. We watched first hawks and then wolf hounds compete to take down pigeons, rabbits and even a fox. The hawks were incredibly impressive and good at what they did. The dogs were less impressive, mainly because there was only one poor fox. It was killed after the first round, and its maimed carcass dragged behind a horse for subsequent rounds. It was rather distressing to watch, and the poor dogs obviously felt as though they’d been teased when they discovered that their “prey” was already dead.

When they began to launch the eagles (mainly against rabbits, although some were also launched against ye olde dead fox), it began to get more interesting. B, E, and I climbed up the side of the mountain to the place from where the eagle hunters were launching their eagles, and I was able to get some rather decent shots:

Of course, these eagles are trained, but they are still wild animals and do not always do as they should. One turned away from its rabbity target and wheeled directly backwards at me and B. Oblivious to the people shouting at us to get out of the way, we stood in awe, not even photographing, as it swooped straight towards us. It landed on the ground roughly four feet in front of me.

It was while we were crouched on the mountainside, eagles being launched for attack over our heads, that we somewhat ingratiated ourselves with the local press pack, who would help us by pointing out which eagle would launch next and whatnot. Suddenly there was mass excitement as one shouted, “Davai! Volk!” and began bounding off the mountain. They were bringing out the wolf. Following the press pack (who were allowed past the annoying line behind which spectators had to stand), B, E, and I found ourselves standing, cameras poised, not far from the wooden box wherein the captive wolf was held. At one point the alleged professional wolf handler (wearing a shirt which read: Kyrgyzstan – Land of Tourism no less!) came over and told us, “You do know there is a *wolf* in there? There might be problems.” No one moved.

During this time, B and I were feeling a bit of camera envy. E can blend into the press pack with his super awesome camera and amazing lens. My camera might be able to take great photos on occasion, but it doesn’t exactly scream “professional photographer.” I felt the need to say (in Russian) a few times that just because my camera was small didn’t mean I wasn’t a journalist. We even invented a newspaper to claim we worked for: Annie Nimity’s Daily.

Finally, after what seemed like an interminable amount of time waiting, they brought out the wolf hounds. Apparently they had decided to change plans and have the wolf tired out by the dogs before setting the eagles on it; this way, more eagle-handlers had agreed to participate in the eagle vs. wolves part of the event. While I feel that eagle vs. wolf is acceptable, I wasn’t too keen on one wolf taking on a pack of trained wolf hounds. And when they released the wolf, my heart sank; he was chained to a ball of iron. He could run around and even drag the iron ball behind him, but he could not escape. (I suppose the iron ball was probably a good thing for the dumbass journalists – myself included – as the wolf immediately charged us upon exiting his box. Most of us moved out of its way, as we do have some sense of self preservation. Meanwhile, B didn’t move at all, and just stood there taking photos. I wish I’d gotten one of him almost getting mauled. He had a rather narrow escape.

Then they released the dogs. They released the dogs in teams of two, starting with the least experienced and moving up to the most experienced. It was utterly heart-wrenching to watch the poor wolf, tied to a chain, defending himself against pair after pair of wolf hounds. I got some very bizarre looks from my journalist compadres for cheering loudly for the wolf in Russian. I must say that despite his handicap, the wolf gave better than he got, injuring numerous dogs. He was still standing at the end... or at least he was until Mr. Kyrgyzstan: Land of Tourism pinned him to the ground with what was essentially a two pronged pitch fork around his neck.

Now that the wolf was tired out, he was taken to the center of the field and left on his chain to await attack by eagles. His mouth was also tied shut. Ishenbeck strongly disapproved of all of this, having wanted to prove himself and Tuman against a strong, healthy and free wolf. Additionally, eagles are trained to not attack domestic animals. As such, a tied wolf looks much like a domesticated dog, which rather confused the eagles. Not to mention that they’d had to wait an extra long time for the dogs to try to tire out the wolf. The eagles were cranky. And they were coming.

The first eagle that was launched was one of the Kazakh eagles. It started down toward the wolf, then veered sharply to the right and directly into a crowd of spectators sitting on the side of the hill, attacking one man and sending his companions fleeing for their lives. It was too far away for me to get decent pictures, but I did get some where you can see what was happening.

The man on the ground is the one who was attacked.

Madness took over. Everyone (spectators and journalists alike) ran towards the injured man – including B and me, who shamelessly sought to get photos of his wounds. (He was bleeding profusely from the side of his face, but unfortunately, I didn’t get any shots of it.) The Kazakh eagle had swooped down towards the crowd just as Ishenbek launched Tuman toward the wolf. Tuman, heroine of the day, swerved off target and took down the Kazakh eagle, which made Ishenbek quite proud.

Ishenbek, proud that Tuman kicked Kazakh eagle ass.

While everyone was clustered around Ishenbek and the Kazakh eagle hunter, watching them disengage their birds (Tuman was fine, but she injured the Kazakh eagle), the fabulous green-coat eagle hunter with the awesome stallion (pictured near the beginning of this post) launched his eagle at the wolf. I didn’t get a good shot – and it was hard to tell what happened. The eagle definitely scored a hit, although it’s hard to tell how successful she would have been had the wolf been unfettered.

At that point, the festival was over. We walked back into Bokonbaev, had dinner at a local café, then met up with our marshrutka driver who took us back to Ishenbek’s home.

The next morning we again rose early, and piled back into the marshrutka – this time with Ishenbek and Tuman for company. Only in Kyrgyzstan!

We drove for about 45 minutes to another nearby village where horses were awaiting us. The horse-handlers first asked who among us had experience riding a horse. I said that I did. They looked me over and pointed at the horse and asked me if I was sure, as this horse was tough to handle. I said fine, and immediately mounted up. They even asked me if it was ok several times before we left, although I have no idea why. My horse was perfect. He did everything I asked, would turn on a dime, and was incredibly surefooted. And he never once tried to toss me, even though he had several decent opportunities (Val would not have passed those up!). Perhaps he just required someone with confidence to handle him? I have no idea what all the fuss was about. Plus, some of the horses my companions got were incredibly ornery and disobedient. (Although I suppose this might have been the reaction of the horse to the rider’s inability to control it.)

We set out over the steppe following Ishenbek and Tuman, and wound our way up into the mountain hunting grounds. We stopped atop several cliffs from where Ishenbek launched Tuman after several foxes. She came close to capturing them, but in the wild, the foxes have a fair chance; they were able to scurry under shrubbery and into holes just in time.

Ishenbek prepares to launch Tuman

We rode for a total of about six hours. After about four, we stopped for a break in a high mountain pasture, and relaxed on the grass with Ishenbek and Tuman and with our horses grazing unfettered nearby.

Isn't she gorgeous?

My trusty steed :-)

We made our way down towards a lower pasture, a scenic spot where Ishenbek allowed each of us to hold Tuman and have our photos taken. We were instructed to remain quiet; she had her mask on, and would panic if she heard the voice of someone other than Ishenbek holding her. She was incredibly heavy, and I could barely hold her up. Perhaps she could tell by the way I held her that I was not her master, and she began flapping her wings violently, but I was able to get some decent shots with her.

Almost immediately after we finished taking our photos, it began to storm, a painful mixture of rain, snow, sleet and hail. Our horses initially got a little spooked; B’s wouldn’t even let him mount for the longest time. We had a good hour or more of our ride left, and within minutes we were soaked to the skin and freezing cold. At one point as it was hailing, the horses began to slip and slide on the little balls of ice covering the trail. Both J’s and B’s horses fell down. J was able to jump clear in time, but B’s horse landed on his foot. Afterwards, B’s horse was so spooked that he wouldn’t let him remount, and he had to walk back.

By the time we returned to the village, we were miserable. The heater in the marshrutka helped a little, but not much. We returned to Ishenbek’s house in the early stages of hypothermia. K and I were so cold that we wanted nothing more than to get out of our wet clothes and into dry ones; meanwhile, we were so cold that our muscles wouldn’t do what we asked. All we could do was stand there, shivering and laughing hysterically. Eventually we got changed and hid under the covers until the marshrutka which we’d hired to drive us back to Bishkek arrived. Not surprisingly, I came down with a pretty horrific cold!

Our weekend was quite an adventure and I had a wonderful time, despite the sickening feeling that the wolf-torture left in my stomach. I don’t believe in Hell, although I do rather feel like I might be going there after watching the wolf vs. dogs event.

Internet has been slow and uncooperative of late - thus the delay in getting all of this online. 

Anger, disappointment, and a dead goat.

July 27, 2008

Just a warning: this post is going to be quite bitchy.

For months now I have been looking forward to the National Horse Games Festival near Kochkor, mainly because of the opportunity to see Ulak-Tartysh, colloquially known among foreigners as “dead goat polo” – a pretty apt description. Unfortunately, while I did get to see dead goat polo, and while I did get some good photographs, the weekend was quite frustrating, and rather a disappointment.

Eight of us had planned to go to the festival together, and the idea was to leave the school after work on Friday, get a van or two taxis from the bus station to Kochkor, spend the night in Kochkor at a CBT homestay, then take the CBT bus to the festival in the morning. It kind of worked out like that. Kind of.

T and L had had a bad experience with the taxi they got a couple weekends when they went to Kochkor, so they were not looking forward to going to the bus station and negotiating for transport. They asked us if it was OK if they got the school to arrange our transport. While we knew this would be more expensive, we agreed, as we also knew it would be easier that haggling with taxi vultures in the dark. N, one of the school’s office staff, found a company which agreed to transport us for roughly 400soms/person (the cost from the bus station is usually 250-350soms/person, depending on your haggling skills and the availability of drivers to your destination), and we agreed. They called back later in the day and said that they’d made a mistake: 400soms was for seven people; it would be more expensive for eight people. Fine. We agreed. I guess at this point this company figured they’d take the foolish rich foreigners for all we were worth and called back to say that it turned out they didn’t have any vans available; they could get us 2 cars for 750soms/person. At this point we said no and figured we’d just go to the bus station and tough it out.

There is a person currently studying Russian and Kyrgyz at the school that we thoroughly dislike. He is unpleasant, rude and constantly says and does things which are inappropriate and offensive. Well, it was at the point where I’d just learned that I’d be haggling at the bus station after all (I being the best Russian speaker of our group), when this guy came up to me and informed me that he was coming with us. I blatantly told him that he couldn’t tag along, because our homestay only had 8 beds; he said this wasn’t a problem, as he had already been to CBT and booked himself a homestay for the night! When I asked *which* Kochkor homestay, he said he didn’t know, “number 27, some street” – as ours was #32 “some street” that was at least a small relief. However, at that point I was beginning to feel a bit stressed as to how I was going to negotiate taxi space for 9 people to Kochkor. Vans usually hold 8 people, and taxis usually hold 4. Taxi space for nine people was going to mean an extra car, at extra expense for everybody involved.

Luckily, at this point N came out and said she’d found someone with a 12-seater van who was willing to drive us to Kochkor for 466som/person. I admit I was relived. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure the driver of this van had never been out of Bishkek before. Not only did he not know how to handle the winding mountain roads, but he didn’t know where Kochkor was! On all my previous trips to Kochkor, it’s taken between two to three hours to get there. This guy crept along at a snail's pace, constantly stopping to ask directions (not listening to me try to give him directions, even though *I* know how to get to Kochkor), and it took us a full four and a half hours to get to Kochkor.

At this point I should back up and say that about fifteen minutes after we left the school, the Person Whom We Dislike realized that he’d left his receipt for his homestay in his apartment and didn’t know the address of where he needed to go. I told the driver that he had forgotten something important and needed to go back, but the driver refused to go back. He said that if we turned back after starting our journey, we would have bad luck on the road and simply refused to stop. Of course the Person was getting quite upset. I dialed CBT on my cell and handed it to him. CBT ended up talking to the driver and telling him the address in Kochkor where we would need to go. It turned out that he was staying at 27 Omuraliev Mambetsadyk, which was just a stone’s throw from where we were staying at 32 Omuraliev Mambetsadyk. Or at least that was the plan.

We arrived in Kochkor at 1:30am, which was much later than expected. Of course when we got to the village, the driver had to ask directions to 27 Omuraliev Mambetsadyk, and someone showed us the way to the street. There was one house on the street with lights shining and doors open, so he drove there. It turned out to be #32, where our hosts were up waiting for the 8 of us. I told the Person that his homestay was just down the street (which it was, dammit), but he refused to go there! He said he didn’t “want to wander about in the dark” and he would just stay with us. I pointed out that our homestay only had 8 beds, that they were only expecting 8 people, and that the people at *his* homestay were probably waiting up for him. He shrugged all this off, tossed his stuff on a bed (!) and then essentially demanded that our hosts make him tea, despite the late hour.

He went off to drink tea and left the rest of us fuming. Luckily one of the 8 beds was a double bed, and with T and L being a couple it ended up not being a problem, but still! Of course, in the morning, the Person said that he’d paid in advance for his homestay, so he refused to pay. Who knows whether or not he had actually paid. Our host was gracious and said that she’d simply ask CBT to give her the money – although as he hadn’t reserved a room at her place, I’m worried she won’t get it.

Anyway, we got up a little before 7am, had breakfast and made our way to the CBT office in Kochkor, where we were to catch the bus to the festival. The place was overrun with foreign tourists. I swear every foreign tourist in Kyrgyzstan was there! I generally detest spending time in large groups of tourists, so this discovery did little to improve my mood.

We loaded into several buses and were driven about an hour and a half north of Kochkor into a high-altitude jailoo known as Sarala-Saz. We approached the jailoo, and I noticed that while the place was crawling with tourists, there weren’t all that many Kyrgyz about, and my heart began to sink. It should have occurred to me. See, here in Kyrgyzstan, people have a tendency to use the word “national” in the way that I would normally use the word “traditional.” (ex: Bullfighting is the national sport of Spain. Kilts are the national costume of Scotland.) It’s not exactly incorrect, but it does leave a certain ambiguity. We had been expecting the National Horse Games Festival to be a *national* event, with people from all over the country coming to participate. (People do still play these horse games, so it could have happened…) Instead, the moniker Traditional Horse Games Festival might have been more appropriate; it was essentially a demonstration of traditional Kyrgyz horse games, put on for tourists by CBT. It was okay, but not at all what I had expected. And not worth the trouble we went through getting there. Or the fact that the Person stuck to our group like glue the whole day.

I did get some decent photos:

The Sarala-Saz jailoo where the festival was held was gorgeous, and we were lucky that the weather was as well.

The first exhibition of the day was Kurosh, traditional Kyrgyz wrestling.

Then came Oodarysh, wrestling on horseback. The goal is to knock your opponent from his horse.

Next was Tyiyn Enmey (of which I got my best shots of the day). Traditionally, men pick up a coin from the ground while on horseback at a gallop. These guys used paper.

And lastly, Ulak-tartysh, dead goat polo. It was difficult to get shots showing the goat as it was dark like the horses. That fuzzy thing hanging off the black horse is the goat.

Just as rain clouds began to make their way over the mountaintops, we boarded our bus back to Kochkor.

On our way back from Kochkor to Bishkek, K, M, and I shared a taxi for 250soms/person which took only 2 hours 15 minutes to make it from the Kochkor bus station to our apartment building. Yeah.

Journey to the Jailoo

July 16, 2008

Sometimes I complain about how small my salary is; other times I worry that coming to Kyrgyzstan knowing how small my salary would be was a terrible mistake. But then I have weekends like this past one which I wouldn’t trade for any amount of money, and I know that I made the right decision when I decided to move to Kyrgyzstan.

Last Friday after work, K, B, J and I piled into our boss’s van, although she wasn’t there; we were in the company of her husband and son. We were driven eastward to Kara-Koo, the small village on Lake Issyk-Kul’s southern shore where we stayed both last month and in February. We arrived late and went straight to bed, and awoke bright and early the next morning, setting off without even having breakfast. We drove south from Kara-Koo, and wound our way over the mountains and into the valley below. We drove through several villages, and then began making our way slowly into the mountains.

Our destination was the jailoo (pronounced jai-low), or the high mountain pastures where the Kyrgyz traditionally spend their summers. Navigating the “road” (more like a vague, rock-strewn path leading up the mountainside) to the jailoo was difficult for the van, and it took us quite a while to reach our destination… but it was definitely worth it. Our boss and her daughter as well as a school staff member and her two children were waiting for us outside their yurt. Additionally, they had spread a large blanket next to the yurt, and on it was spread a gargantuan picnic, enough to make up for our lack of breakfast.

The day was perfect. Prior to our departure from Bishkek, our boss had called to tell us to bring warm clothes and rain gear, as it had been cold and rainy all week. However, we were greeted by perfect blue skies and ideal temperatures. From our breakfast blanket, we could look out across the jailoo, dotted with livestock, to the valley below. Beyond the valley, behind a small rise of mountains, we could even see the glistening blue waters of Lake Issyk-Kul. Paradise.

While we were breaking our fast, an elderly couple, distant relatives of our boss who reside nearby, ambled over. The man was 87 and the woman was 78. They both continue to live in the jailoo and care for livestock as they have for all of their lives. They invited us to come with them to watch them milk their horses and prepare kumis, a traditional Kyrgyz beverage made from fermented mare’s milk. They care for a small herd of horses, and had perhaps 20 mares and at least 10 foals. The man would lead a foal to its mother and allow it to nurse briefly. Then, as he led the foal away, the woman would begin milking the mare. They did this with every mare/foal pair, then invited us to their home to sample the kumis. The fresh milk was added to a large barrel of kumis, then stirred briskly. We were each poured a small bowl of kumis. The milk tasted sour, and had a smoky taste from the barrel. It was good, but difficult for us to drink quickly. Meanwhile, the man had an incredibly large bowl of kumis which he chugged in one gulp.

We returned to “our” yurt, and found that horses had been rounded up for our ride. Kumar, our boss’s son, rode the head stallion of the herd we’d just seen milked, while the rest of us were given horses rented from Kul-Tur, the nearest village in the valley below. I was quite pleased with my horse (although I would’ve much preferred the beautiful and spunky stallion) as he was both energetic and well-behaved. I felt quite comfortable riding him. B also had a pretty good horse. K’s horse was sluggish, while J’s was just plain lazy. Plus, I swear these were the gassiest horses in Kyrgyzstan. As mature as we all pretend to be, we couldn’t help laughing; a seven hour trek and these beasts were just as gassy at the end as they were at the beginning!

We rode up a steep valley lining a small stream, zig-zagging back and forth to make the journey easier on the horses. After about three hours, we reached a high point, with an incredible view of the valley. There we dismounted and unpacked our stellar picnic. We ate and then had a pleasant nap before saddling back up and continuing to head upwards towards Sunken Pass.

For most of our trek, we were not following any recognizable path (although occasionally a well-worn track would appear out of the weeds only to vanish again); however, as we neared Sunken Pass, the “path” widened to the point that it almost looked like a road! We reached the top of the pass and the view of the next valley was stunning. We all wished that we had time to continue on, instead of returning back the way we came. But, we had to get back. After four more hours in the saddle, zig-zagging our way back down the mountain, we returned to the yurt.

After a delicious dinner, eaten while watching the sun set through the yurt’s door, we quickly made preparations for bed. B and J were given a tent, although K and I got to sleep in the yurt with everyone else. The yurt had a stove inside (fueled by wood and dried manure) which meant that even though the temperature dropped rapidly outside once the sun set, we remained warm and cozy all night.

In the morning, the plan had been for us to go hiking; however, this was hampered by two things: we were all incredibly sore from having spent seven hours in the saddle, and the weather was overcast and chilly. We went on a short hike, but were relieved to return to the yurt to relax.

After lunch (this time joined again by the elderly couple as well as by a middle-aged couple who were also living nearby) we packed up our things and piled back into the van. By the time we reached the valley floor, the jailoo was already masked from view by rain.

The plan had been to stop at Issyk-Kul for a brief swim before starting our journey home, but the weather had turned cold and rainy, so that was not to be. Instead, we took some shivery photos of the lake then popped back into the van for the trip home.