Kyrgyzstan 2024
Introduction
Roughly 1000km south of Russia,
squashed between China to the southeast, and Kazakhstan to the west, lies a
small country called Kyrgyzstan.
Kyrgyzstan is a poor country; the
average annual salary is around £2500. However, what it lacks in economic power
is compensated by its natural riches; Gold, Silver and Uranium are all mined.
Aside from the economic value these provide, they are found in and form part of
many large mountain ranges that are of interest to me as I enjoy climbing.
In soviet times two valleys in
Karavshin gained popularity for their solid rock climbing. These are the Kara
su and Ak su valleys . In December 2023 I received a message from a friend of
mine (Gordon) asking if I would be keen to visit these.
Journey to Kyrgyzstan
It was in this capacity, that at
12pm on Friday the 5th of July, instead of working on excel
sheets I found myself boarding a Pegasus plane first to Istanbul, and then to
Osh. In Istanbul we met a grandmother from Osh. She spoke limited english but
was very cheerful. She used her status as an elderly lady to carry several
extra boxes onto the plane, 2 of which she persuasively asked others to carry
for her!
On the flight to Osh I was blessed to be sitting
behind two very masculine Russians, one of whom was desperately showing the
other videos of him sword fighting and posing topless with other equally dark,
burly, bearded men.
Between time changes and the two
4-5 hour flights we touched down in Osh International Airport in the early
hours of the 6th of July. As a rule, seatbelts don’t count for
much in Kyrgyzstan- and seconds following the very bumpy touchdown on the
runway, the plane was crammed full of Kyrgyz citizens jumping to their feet in
a frenzy to leave.
Obediently following procedure, we ended up leaving the plane almost last alongside 4 others, all equipped in some variety of climbing kit. Two of these were Austrians we had met earlier, headed to Pik Lenin- a 7000m peak with a soviet popularity akin to that of Everest. As the queue to passport control lengthened, we started talking to the two others, more Russians. One was a short but muscular man (also headed to pik Lenin), the other – a woman called Marina- who was also headed to Karavshin. The man bluntly informed us that Pik Lenin was a “fucking walk in the park” compared to visiting Karavshin. We were quickly left with the impression that where we were going was not the place for coffee-brewing instagrammers, but rather a spot for tough and hardened Russian alpinists. I can’t say I’m either, so I felt uncertain as to how well I’d be able to hack living off grid for the next month.
Kyrgyzstan
As the morning beams of sun shone
through the large windows of the hot and humid airport, the queue gradually
shrank, and we were left to walk up to the border guards. These were dressed
like generals, in posh khakis with large green and red caps, their uniforms
full of symbols and medals. It was like they had come out of a TinTin cartoon.
Eventually we were through,
reunited with our luggage and ready to take a taxi to the air bnb. Or at least
we thought we were ready. It turns out taxis in the 3rd world
are slightly different from those in the UK. We offered a man 500 som and
followed him over to his car. It was a tiny silver VW golf, probably over 20
years old, full of dents and cracks on the windscreen. Driving to Osh crammed
in with all our kit was quite the experience. Main roads don’t seem to have
road barriers, with the exception of gas and water pipes that are dual purposed
as such. Often there are no lanes, and cars from both sides of the road swerve
in and out narrowly missing collisions. Speed limits either don’t exist, don’t
apply or both.
City planning is not a Kyrgyz
strong point: On either side of the road were many las Vegas-esque
half-finished buildings that were surrounded by a multitude of corrugated iron shacks and houses
of various descriptions.
I can’t remember the name of the
Taxi driver, but I can remember his gaze and golden teeth glinting at me while he
drove, swerved and waved his military credentials in my face. A conversation
compiled of broken Russian, Kyrgyz and sign language followed, in which he
explained to us that he had been a colonel in the army, and fought in the 1999
war against Tajikistan.
In the southwestern corner of
Kyrgyzstan there has long existed conflict. Neither Uzbekistan, Tajikistan nor
Kyrgyzstan seems to have been able to determine a clear border, and so the
Kyrgyz maps remain undefined with small Tajik and Uzbek enclaves dispersed
throughout. The Tajik quarrel stems from a shortage of water; the glaciers high
up on border feed rivers flowing through the valleys that are fought over.
Previously there was a war. Climbers (most famously Tommy Caldwell and Beth
Rodden) were taken hostage and the beautiful valleys best suited to climbing
were filled with soldiers and machine gun fire. Presently the situation is
calm, although infrequently there are small outbursts of fighting. In 2022 a school
was blown up in the village nearest to Ak- su.
The taxi driver dropped us off at
the Airbnb where we met our host Samat. He was a lovely soft-spoken local, who
had gone on to work for an NGO, and coincidentally had a girlfriend that lived
in Manchester. After a 5 minute nap Gordon, Jo and I got to work starting the
shopping. We would be away from civilisation for just over 3 weeks- and given
that in total there were 4 of us- that meant buying a lot of food. We guessed
what most of the foods in the local ‘Globus’ meant: there was an array of
different pastas, rices, oats and snacks all of which we bought in large
quantity. Noticeably the family sized Haribo packets were rather much smaller
than in Europe- and were all advertised as having a “recipe from Germany”.
Among the more exotic items there were dried kiwi and canned horse meat. We
opted out of the latter.
In between shopping sprees we
visited the main city park in Osh. It was largely composed of half working
rusted fairground rides and antiquated arcade boxing punch machines. All the trees were covered up to a
metre high in white paint presumably to protect them from sun damage or disease.
Some sections were overgrown, however most symbolically the bland concrete
pavements surrounding metallic soviet statues remained clean.
Alex flew across from Bishkek the
next morning and so we met him outside the Airbnb. Team complete, Jo, Gordon,
Alex and I loaded all of our kit onto a large Mercedes Sprinter (think minibus)
and started the drive. We were going to Ak tatyr, a town in the region of
Batken. We left Osh following the one large highway that extends south and
westwards of the city. The road was quite a phenomenon in of itself. Sometimes
it was little more than 10 metres wide and covered with sand and then it’d
switch to being half covered in tarmac half in gravel. Other times it had more
of a resemblance to a western road; however, it was littered full of bumps and
potholes over which we drove with such haste, that we passengers were jolted
half a metre into the air.
We passed green, almost Tuscan
landscapes, with large fields and thin dark trees spaced out randomly. Followed
by arid desert hills, and then more desert. Our speed would slow when passing
through villages that were attached to the highway, indeed the ‘major road’ was
sometimes pedestrian. The other vehicles on the road were somewhat fascinating
to me too, working vans had horses, cows and other animals stuffed in them, and
toddlers leaned outside of windows. As was previously mentioned, both speed
limits and seatbelts were optional extras- although in the sprinter we were in
there were no seatbelts and so they weren’t even optional!
We stopped once for fuel and go to
the loo. As became habit, the sprinter engine was left running even while
filling up.
After almost 5 solid hours of
driving we made it to a residential area off of the highway. Here there were
grid like road systems, all roads were wide, made of gravel and sand, and
flanked by metre high walls composed of either mud, painted white, brick or
fencing. On and next to the roads, young children played football, thousands of
apricots laid drying in the sun on white towels and old soviet cars are parked
outside the houses. Every 30 metres there would be a building, attached to
which I inferred there was a 30-metre squared compound. My impression was that
these were mostly filled with apricot trees, and other plants such as roses.
The air here was dry, and there were many mudhouses.
We entered what I believe was the
home of the sprinter driver. On a small patio his wife laid out a red mat and
beckoned us over. We sat here without shoes and were given tea- or as its known
on the silk road “Chai”, a presumably homemade jam, and some plain dry
biscuits. In Kyrgyzstan the biscuits, snacks and pastries are often mouth
numbingly dry. The Chai tasted good, and it felt nice to be pleasantly sat in
the shade.
Two men turned the corner and
approached the patio. One was Kyrgyz, tall, had short dark hair, was slightly
roundly built and carried a big grin across his face. The other was pale,
thinner, and had a small brown-haired goatee but was otherwise largely bald.
The grinning chap was Jean Uzbek. It’s no surprise he seemed pleased, he’s the head
of tourism for Batken, and he was here to get paid. The other man I later found
out to be Sergei, a Russian software engineer from Moscow, who was going to
Kara-su to join the already 30 or so other Russians based there.
Jean Uzbek greeted us all warmly,
other than Samat he was the first Kyrgyz man I’d met who spoke fairly good
English. He and Alex went over to one side and negotiated the prices for a 4x4
for the next step of the journey, following which Alex paid him handsomely.
Jean Uzbek is the glue that sticks travel to and from Karavshin together: he
arranges travel from Osh to Ak-tatyr, 4x4s from Ak-Tatyr to Egiz Jar and horses
and food from Egiz Jar to the valleys. On this day we had the option to stay in
a guesthouse for $100 or to drive onwards and pitch our tents there. Alex asked
if we might stay in a guesthouse in Egiz Jar to which Jean Uzbek heartily
laughed and said, “you’ll see”.
Our many bags of kit were loaded
onto two black 4x4s. Alex and I joined a slightly older driver in one vehicle.
In typical Kyrgyz fashion, the man spoke no English, and had a row of shiny
gold teeth that covered his smile. We travelled 500 metres down the road where
he pulled over and stepped out. I commented on him leaving the engine running
to which Alex responded “yeah I don’t think they’re too worried about the
environment here, maybe if he switches the ignition off it won’t start up
again”. While our driver chatted to his wife in the nearby house, the engine
cut out. Indeed, when he returned the ignition only required 3 attempts to
start up properly again. 500 metres later we stopped once again at a shop- Alex
and I bought 30p ice creams, our driver topped up on tobacco supplies- and then
we were ready to go again. Even when it was not sought after, I was often
struck by the generosity of the population here. Despite likely living in
relative poverty, throughout this drive our driver often offered me both
cigarettes and tobacco.
All I knew about the drive to Egiz
Jar was what Jean Uzbek had communicated to us while we drank Chai: “3.5 hours
for 30 km”. We left Ak Tatyr on the last section of highway and followed this
for 20 kilometres, which, given Uzbeks’ estimation, left an awful lot of time
for the last 10 kilometres. To our left towered the Pamir mountains, the desert
like hills that lead to higher mountains were engulfed by a menacing
thunderstorm. To our right relatively calm weather, and more arid desert land.
Suddenly we turned sharply left,
driving across a sand covered gravel track of some description. The other 4x4
sprayed out a plume of sand that flew high into the air. We abruptly halted. I
spotted the green truck half hidden by a trench on the side of the road. In
front of the other jeep was a barrier, flanked by some sandbag walls and
guarded by two soldiers. The one who approached us asking for documentation
can’t have been much older than 16. Slung on his back was a Kalashnikov of some
description. Like most Kyrgyz people I’d met, he had a friendly smile, but I
couldn’t help feeling a little intimidated. I handed over my passport- and Alex
got out of the 4x4 to look for his- tucked away in a packed bag. Once he’d
given his over, the soldier came back and asked for mine again. Confused, I
exited the 4x4 and went over to the checkpoint to chat. We all shook hands, and
then in a funny mixture of sign language and waving our hands in the air we
made it clear I’d already given my passport to them. The barrier was lifted,
and we passed through the camp. Like most military bases there were several
large green tents accommodating the soldiers. Many walked round with their
rifles handy, others trained, chopped wood in the heat and some just stood
round watching the world go by. We passed rows of military vehicles, people
carriers and tanks. In particular it struck me that this camp really was
prepared for war- it wasn’t the pompous ceremonial military base you’d see in
the UK. The trenches, fortifications and vehicles weren’t for show.
We exited the camp and continued
driving uphill. As we gained height, the density of the shrubbery and
vegetation increased. We passed more mudhouses, mudwalls and pastures, on which
cows grazed. Alternatively, they laid down in the middle of the road (gravel
track) we were following. The driver switched to 4x4 mode- the terrain
steepened; hairpin turns couldn’t calm the gradient. The gravel track turned
into a mix of rocks, mud and dust, often half eroded by recent rain and
streams. We were surrounded by wonderful limestone alpine mountains.
Over an hour later we reached the top of the pass. We exited the 4x4 took a photo together and marvelled at the glaciated peaks half concealed by rolling clouds. To the east we could see the passing thunderstorm as it battered sandy hills. At one point our driver stopped and got out to look at the tyres. I gave him an optimistic thumbs up to which he replied with a 50-50 gesture. Having a car that struggled to start up wasn’t confidence inspiring, the thought of a flattening tyre was nerve racking. He now drove even more slowly and carefully. After a short 20-minute-long chat with some passing shepherds we continued. The descent really steepened and at valley bottom we crossed a bridge made of rusted metal sheets. We carried on up this valley alongside a fast-flowing muddy river that we followed upstream.
Both vehicles came to a stop. The
road had ended. So, this was Egiz Jar; not a village or collection of
settlements as one might’ve imagined, but a layby where there was just enough
room for the 4x4s to turn around. We all agreed it was probably the bleakest
place we’d ever been to. Around us were arid hills with sparse vegetation, in a
gorge 40 metres below us rushed the river, and in the far distance of the
valley one could make out the silhouette of one steep rocky peak.
We quickly pitched 2 tents, the Russians
had left one for Sergei and it had collapsed under the wind. He re-pitched it,
and kindly helped us with ours. We sat and cooked rice, Sergei kindly offered
us sausage and dates. Soon it was dark, and the long day had come to an end.
After a restful nights’ sleep, I
woke up to see the early morning light shine through the valley. Despite the
bland and monotone nature of Egiz Jar, it was interesting to me. It was how I’d
imagined a place like Afghanistan to be. A steep sided valley, remote and desolate.
We weren’t very far from Afghanistan at all, in fact we were closer to the Afghan-Tajik
border than we were to the airport we’d flown into the previous day. As the
crow flies, we were equally spaced between Bishkek (the capital of Kyrgyzstan)
and Kabul.
We had been told the horses would
arrive at 11 the next day. When they didn’t, we placed bets on when they’d
arrive. There was still a full day of hiking ahead and the more time passed the
later our arrival to the valley would be. We were at the mercy of Jean Uzbeks’
word- not that he’d have any reason to screw us over- but if he’d wanted to, he
could’ve left us in Egiz Jar with no signal or contact to the outside world,
unable to do anything. At long last, a jeep turned up. Inside it, a young
Kyrgyz man with a black hoodie who made no effort to say hello. He slumped
across the front seats and fell fast asleep. Alex and I drew a chess board on
some cardboard and started killing time.
Over an hour later, the horses came
trotting along from upstream. Every day these horse guides would walk and ride
to and from the Ak su or Kara su valleys. Despite our impatience, the horse
guides were tired and hungry, they sat among themselves, ate bread and sausage
and drank Chai. There were 7 horses, most were tied up to the 4x4s , one pale
white/grey donkey strayed around aimlessly. He sniffed in our bags looking for
food, and seemed to enjoy the attention we gave him. The horses on the other hand
were not as well behaved. Some of them took interest in each other, and it
ended with them neighing and kicking around.
A guide stood up from his lunch,
walked over and slapped the horse brutally across the cheek. It behaved
thereafter. When a small slap didn’t suffice, I remember seeing guides fly
kicking the horses in the neck. Animal welfare is as important in Kyrgyzstan as
road safety. After carefully weighing the packs, only 4 hours late, we were
ready to go.
We walked through a steepening
valley, over creaking wooden bridges and to a previously inhabited settlement
in the middle of a sandy plain. From here you could see higher mountains, and
the many scars of mudslides. We then entered a colossal gorge; on each side
muddy sandy conglomerate cliffs towered for hundreds of metres. One could
easily imagine the whole slabby cliff face collapsing. The path eroded into the
fast-flowing river- and we hopped over rocks and scrambled on the cliffside to
keep our feet dry. The horses had to wade through the muddy currents. As we
exited the gorge a rock fell and almost hit Jo and Alex. We’d come to a halt as
the guides repaired the path, that had been covered in many metres of mudslide.
With shovels and other tools they hacked away for half an hour until the
terrain was manageable for the horses. One valley split and another began,
slowly we could see higher alpine peaks, with meadows and snow patches in the
far distance. At points the path was made of very loose eroded scree. A slip on
such terrain would have been very unpleasant, probably even fatal for the
horses who carried 60 kilo loads each. When the path became less technical, the
guides stopped pulling the horses and jumped on them instead. It was amusing
how precious they had been about loading the bags- and yet how happy they were
to jump around on them.
After several hours trudging
through the sand and the scree, we turned a corner into a wider valley. Above
the arid desert were forests and meadows, and towering thousands of metres
above these touching the clouds, were the huge granite peaks, topped with snow
and ice.
We ate our lunch at the same time
as the horses, on a large green meadow. It was early evening by now, however
the weather was pleasant and low down in the valley it still felt suitably
warm. Once I had eaten, I went for a little run ahead. It felt special, to be
in such a remote wonderful place all alone in the middle of these gargantuan
peaks. The higher I climbed, the more the scenery livened up and the prettier
the view became. There were small shepherd huts, and fences that consisted of a
few stripped-down branches. I passed small streams, flowery meadows and pockets
of woodland.
Eventually I paused, my legs were
tired and we still had a long way to go. Before we parted ways with Sergei, I
made an extra effort to talk to him as much as I could, and to find out a
little more about his life in Russia. We talked about climbing in the Caucuses,
his objectives for the trip and life back at home. I’m sure there are some
people in Russia who are warmongers, but while we did not explicitly discuss
politics, Sergei was not one of these. He was a truly gentle person, who, in
the little time I spent with him was incredibly kind and pleasant.
After an hour of chatting, I could feel the air thinning and myself struggling for breath in-between conversations. Time seemed to drag on until we reached the shepherds’ huts, where continuing straight leads to Ak su and another path to the right leads to Kara su. Here we partly repacked the horses and parted ways with Sergei. Once we reached the Ak su “basecamp” it was very dark. I said hello to two friendly Slovenians, and they advised camping further uphill so we carried on walking another 15 minutes. The air felt very thin, the horses were wheezing and tripping over, my legs were regretting having run ahead earlier. We were all rather exhausted by the time we finished putting our tents up. At 1am I went to bed.
Time in Karavshin
The first night at altitude (around
3000m) was a little tricky to adjust to, I found myself short of breath even
when lying down motionless. My tent shook and rattled like crazy in the wind; a
couple times I unzipped the inner to check it wasn’t collapsing but thankfully
it held up. The next morning we had a slow start. I unzipped my tent to the
most incredible view directly onto Odesa; the giant 4810 metre granite
peak that sits between the Ak su and Kara su valleys.
On one side of our camp was
Slesova, a steep giant spire that is particularly prominent when viewed from
below- home to the famous Perestroika crack. On the other side, Odesa and peak
for a thousand years of Christianity. The middle of the valley is scarred by a
wide grey streak, where each year spring floods had turned up the soil and
replaced it with pebbles and stones. In the middle of this raged a glacial
torrent, turned light brown by the sediment. Between the river and the granite
slabs were blossoming green meadows, strewn with yellow and purple flowers.
Wherever there wasn’t grass, there were boulder-fields, gargantuan masses of
scree and huge blocks of granite that had fallen from high above. Further up
the valley there were the endings of a glacier, and peaks of a darker rock
type-some sort of schist. Further back still there were snow and ice covered
peaks that marked the border to Tajikistan. Conversely down the valley were the
arid desert hills surrounding Egiz Jar, that we had passed to walk in.
After rigging up the large green
kitchen tent we had hired from Jean Uzbek, we got to work rationing food for 3
weeks and organising our kit. The antiquated redfox tent was spacious enough to
accommodate kit, some rocks for sitting on, the gas stove and kitchen utilities
(primitive as they were). It was torn in some places, and had clearly seen past
reconstruction efforts: several stitches and Gaffer tape. Jo did a brilliant effort contributing to these, patching up
one particularly large tear in the side. The frayed and old nature of the tent
was cause for some concern. The previous month I had seen a large kitchen tent
in Mingulay collapsed by the wind- I really didn’t think our redfox tent stood
much chance of lasting the full 3 weeks. We pinned the guidelines down with
rocks, doubled these up with some 8 mil climbing cord, covered the bottom of
the fabric with more blocks and hoped for the best.
I spent some hours building a wall
around my tent. It wasn’t a very restful activity- but I hoped my early on
efforts would pay off over time. I hoped the wall would block out the wind. While
it was really quite ineffective in doing this, it did help keeping the cows
from trampling on the tent (an all too frequent habit of theirs). I found one
of the poles had split in half, so strengthened this corner of the tent with a
wooden stick I had used for walking the previous day.
The remainder of the day was spent
sorting out water supply, sourcing and establishing a nearby toilet and
exploring the area around. Then I met Nimat for the first time.
Nimat was the shepherd in Ak Su. He
lived in a little stone house, on the other side of the river to our camp. I
got quite the shock when I first met him, for some reason or other I was
squatted on the floor-probably doing dishes- and I suddenly looked up to an
impressive muscular black horse. On top was sat a short Kyrgz man. He had
generally dark clothes, scruffy trousers, a long brown coat and a black hat. He
pointed at himself: “ I Nimat” then pointed at me. I introduced myself and in
very confused primitive English we chatted a little.
The next day was set to be the
first climbing day. Gordon and I were going to try an E3 called ‘Reluctant
chief’, Jo and Alex were going to try a 6b called ‘Missing mountain’. Gordon
and I agreed to take a haul bag, I wanted to practice hauling and ascending in
preparation for the bigger climbs around. After the ritual morning porridge
with honey and raisins, our day started with a walk up the scree slope to the
base of the climb. Walking with a pack at 3000 metres still felt slightly tricky
and we were both pleased to reach the base of the climb. The first pitch looked
easy enough, and Gordon started leading. We climbed a couple pitches but were
generally a bit slow and all over the place with our systems.
The weather was worsening and we weren’t
climbing quickly enough to finish the route in good time. We decided to turn
around. Not in too much rush to get off the rock face, we sat, had lunch and
enjoyed the view while it lasted before beginning the abseils down. Gordon
really didn’t care much for abseiling off one sideways placed nut which
surprised me. His attitude did concern me a bit.
It started to rain as we strolled
back down to the valley floor, and as we reached this I saw Nimat’s large black
horse stood tied to a tree next to a light blue tent. This was the tent of the
Romanians. They had come to Karavshin both well prepared and well informed.
They’d managed to get sponsors for their trip: they had a huge portable solar
panel, kit for a 20 day siege and had picked what was almost certainly the best
spot in the valley for pitching their tent. It was surrounded on every side by
boulders, trees and a hefty wall that put my little effort to shame. Before
Gordon and I knew it we were sat on two small camping chairs in their porch,
sheltered and cozy while it poured with rain outside.
One Romanian was called Alec, he
was a middle aged software engineer from Bucharest. He enjoyed fishing,
smoking, winter climbing, drinking vodka, more smoking and rock climbing. He
was quite short, had glasses and a grizzly black beard. In Romania he was part
of a mountain rescue team, and it turned out that he knew the brother of a
Romanian friend of mine. The other Romanian was called Ionut (pronounced
Yanutz). Ionut was a climbing instructor also based in Bucharest. He was also
quite short, very skinny, had long black hair.
Both were very welcoming and it was
nice to be able to communicate with relative ease to some others. While Nimat
was a lovely man, manners weren’t his strong point and he’d point or simply
take Alec’s phone to use google translate to chat with us. In large part thanks
to the Romanians, I learned a lot about Nimat. He had 5 children and a wife who
all lived in Ak Tatyr. His wife was currently pregnant with his 6th child,
which slightly to the annoyance of the Romanians, meant that every day Nimat
was visiting them asking to use their Satellite phone. Nimat had 500 sheep, and
he seemed to divide his time equally between herding these and shooting
marmots. He provided a very detailed clear sign language interpretation of how
he would shoot a marmot in its head, and the bullet would come flying out the
other side. He mentioned snow leopards and so I asked if he had seen one. “No”,
he firmly shook his head and cocked his imaginary rifle before signalling that
he’s very happily shoot one if he saw one- after all they’d hunt his sheep.
Nimat loved to look through our camera rolls and he’d show us random excerpts
of his life too.
After 2 hours or so in the tent,
Nimat departed to look after his sheep and it dawned on us that Jo and Alex
still hadn’t returned. By now the rain was heavy, it collected small puddles on
top of the tent and started to drip through, when we looked outside the walls
were completely soaked. We drank more teas and coffees with the Romanians- and
after another hour of chatting around sprinted back to camp. Rather stupidly,
under the assumption it wouldn’t rain much, I’d only taken a synthetic belay
jacket as my waterproof. Alec lent me his while I headed back.
It continued to rain. By now the
walls were covered with gushing streams and waterfalls. There wouldn’t be
anywhere else for the water to runoff to. We couldn’t see Alex or Jo, they must
still be several hundred metres up the pamir pyramid, and they must surely be
soaked and very very cold by now. The situation was becoming progressively more
serious. The rain subsided a little, and while it pitter- pattered on our
kitchen tent I cooked dinner- some variant of tomato pasta with a lot of
oregano and some soft cheese. While I did that, Gordon walked back to the
Romanian’s camp to try and get a view of Jo and Alex, it was almost dark and
they had been caught in the rain for many hours by now. I figured the odds of
them being alive were quite high- as nothing so far could’ve likely killed them
and they’d just be rather cold. It was however worrying that they hadn’t turned
back early and that we hadn’t seen them. When Gordon returned he said he could
make them out abseiling from the 8th pitch. It was 9 now, and
he figured given the bad weather they’d likely take another 4 hours to get
down. Before I went to go to bed I ran back to the Romanians to return the
hardshell jacket Alec had lent me- as I did so the rain became ferocious, and
again I found myself in their porch chatting with them while they made dinner.
Alec smoked and hotboxxed the
tent with the smell. An hour later when I left it was pitch black and I could
see one of Jo and Alex’s headlamps still high on the wall. I couldn’t imagine
just how cold they must be now, and they were still getting rained on. I really
hoped their abseil were going smoothly and their ropes hadn’t gotten caught.
This seemed to be a semi frequent occurrence in the valley, made all the more
likely by saturated wet ropes. I was glad to see their torches, at least
now if they were careful then they’d come down alive.
I headed to bed. I had set an alarm for 1am to walk up to the climb and bring Jo and Alex food, water and clothes. I drifted off to sleep and then woke at half 12 to hear Alex’s voice outside my tent- something along the lines of “alive and alright”.
The next morning we had a slow
start, ate some more porridge and despaired over the weather situation. We’d
use the garmin sat phone for daily weather updates. The forecast was fairly
unreliable, but no matter in which way we interpreted it, it looked rather
crap. Every day it would be sunny in the morning, by 12 cauliflower clouds
would start forming and in the afternoon thunder would roll in bringing with it
a random quantity of rain. It was not a weather pattern conducive to climbing,
let alone climbing big walls.
As I remember it the next few days
were spent mostly killing time. Every morning I’d wake up to the sound of Nimat
whistling, herding his many sheep. He was often up quite early, and much to the
annoyance of the Romanians, as soon as he’d finish his work he would sometimes
invite himself to their tent- even when they were asleep! I’d always wake up
somewhat cold. My tent was rather big, and so stayed chilly throughout the
night, and even with a bivvy bag on top, my sleeping bag was old and not good
enough to sufficiently keep me warm. After an hour or two spent contemplating
how hungry I was versus how chilly it’d be to leave the tent, I’d eventually
crawl outside and head to the kitchen tent for a breakfast of oats and honey or
raisins. Occasionally, as a luxury, I’d add some nuts from my personal supply
of snacks.
Much of the daytime was spent doing
necessary chores. Washing dishes in the stream, washing clothes in the stream,
washing myself in the stream. In the mornings the stream was clear and the
water clean, in the evenings it was full of sand and silt. Therefore we’d tend
to refill water in the early hours.
More time was spent cooking,
purifying water and gear sorting. In the time left over we played chess, did
some drawing, bouldered on small blocks and often the Romanians would come
round to ours or we’d visit theirs. Nimat would frequently invite himself over
and welcome us to make him some chai. Judging from the colour of my piss I was
constantly dehydrated. Since all water had to be purified by some means it was
never in large supply, and so this was also a good excuse to drink some more
chai.
It was on the second evening,
during one such chai drinking encounter, that Nimat gestured that an alpinist
had hurt themselves, and so the helicopter might fly the 500km+ over from
Bishkek. It turned out one of the Slovenians had broken their arm. It was late
and raining, but being a doctor Gordon felt the urge to go over to their camp
and try to help out. For the sake of company I joined him. The Slovenians were
in the robust white dome like tent. One was tall, slim and had white hair. The
other slightly short and burlier in build. He had his arm firmly wrapped up and
supported in a makeshift sling. It was a rather sad and sombre feeling. Like
everyone else that had made it here, they had invested much time and money, and
now 3 days into their trip it had abruptly come to an end. The accident
had happened while pulling ropes from an abseil on the little Russian tower.
This had dislodged some rocks one of which had hit the guy’s arm. We sat
together in the dark with a dim candle and some headtorches lighting the tent,
snacking away at some cashews on the table while Gordon tried his best to help.
I think Gordon diagnosed him with a greenstick fracture, which is apparently
one of the better arm breaks to have. I chatted to the other Slovenian about
the Alps, it turned out he’d done some climbing in the UK on bmc run
international meets.
In the end there wasn’t much
Gordon could do to help, he gave the Slovenian some codeine and then we passed
some time keeping them company. They had contacted the AAC about what to do, and
were waiting to hear back. The injured man wasn’t keen on riding a horse back
down the valley but realistically no helicopter was going to fly 500kms for a
broken arm. Before we left they gave us extra gas and vacuum wrapped salami. By
the time we actually left it was going on midnight, walking back in the rain I
felt really sorry for them. Their accident was a sobering reminder that no
matter how able, the mountains carried with them objective risk, that one could
only minimise to an extent. All the more reason to be really careful, I had no
doubt in my mind that the Slovenians were much better and more experienced
alpinists than we were.
One day I woke up and decided to
run up to the glacier. As the effects of altitude and elevation gain kicked in,
that run very quickly turned into a quick walk. I followed the glacial stream
upwards, past the Romanian camp through the little woods and up alongside a
pretty meadow. A subtle but noticeable difference to the alps was that these
meadows oftentimes had no established paths crossing them, everywhere the grass
grew tall, and little purple, light blue and yellow flowers poked out. I
reached the glacier, ate a handful of dry biscuits and admired the view around.
Here the mountains up above me were covered in snow and ice. The rock type had
changed from golden solid granite to a dark black type of schist that covered
the lower slopes in big chossy clumps. Upon my arrival back at the camp, the
others told me they’d helped Nimat build a bridge, and that I should go to
check it out. I walked downstream with them and they showed me the scree gully
they’d used to descend down to the river. Where the river’s width was at its
smallest it also flowed most quickly. Between two large boulders balanced
precariously were three logs. These were tied together in some fashion that one
could not easily describe as a bridge. I walked across a metre, balancing as
though I were slacklining before proceeding to get scared and resort to
crawling and shuffling across the obstacle until I reached the other side.
Nimat had taken the others to his hut for lunch after their shift, and he’d insisted they eat at his. Alec was not at all keen on food poisoning, and as such refused to eat the sheep and pasta stew that Nimat had cooked. Despite Nimat’s insistence that he eat, apparently he was only silenced when Alec pointed out that in Nimat’s religion he would not eat pork and so in his religion he would not eat sheep.
Oftentimes the weather was such
that the sun would hold out until 11 in the morning, and the rain would set in
3 or 4 hours later. On one such day the 4 of us got up early and headed up to
climb Pamir pyramid. This was the fore-peak to the Russian tower. It reached up
to around 3700m according to our French topo. You could follow animal paths to
the base of the wall, and then skirt around this to the left before following
the huge scree gully below the tower. The walk was uncomfortable. Where the
scree was small (think marbles) one would gradually slip ones way upwards,
middle sized scree (think football-pillow) all gave way and had ankle breaking
potential, large sized scree (bedside table+) infrequently moved, but when it
did it had leg snapping potential.
We reached what we thought might be
the start of the route. It looked doable, I climbed up to find myself
runout, on wet smeary granite half
covered in lichen. I downclimbed and went to the loo while Jo and Gordon
started up the correct way. Eventually all four of us were together at the
first proper belay. Alex went awkwardly left, Jo headed up right. Jo then made
another intermediate belay and Gordon continued climbing above a corner system
because the intended route was wet. I seconded Alex’s lead, the climbing was
well protected but tricky and at points very blank. I got going on the next
pitch. I heard Jo scream. She had ripped off a giant block that Gordon had
placed a nut behind. She was lucky it only grazed her leg, if it had hit her
head she’d have probably died. It was poor decision making like this that
made me nervous. At lunch we reached the top and promptly descended before the
bad weather kicked in.
We started devising a plan for
climbing the main objective of the trip : Perestroika crack. This stunning
climb follows 900 metres of incredible quality climbing up a huge face in the
middle of Slesova (the Russian tower). I’d assumed Gordon and I would try
Perestroika since neither Alex nor Jo were strong enough to free climb the crux
pitches. However they’d decided they wanted to give it a go, and so it seemed
inclusive to try as a four. Jo and I were to climb ahead of Gordon and Alex
while they hauled kit up to the ledge. From there we’d hopefully have time to
fix the next pitch or two to give us a headstart for the next day. We’d take 15
litres of water, cooking kit and enough food for 2 days each. On the second day
we’d split into different pairings; Gordon and I would climb and fix the two
hardest pitches, and would then aim to summit independently. While I was
sceptical of Jo and Alex’s odds of getting to the top it seemed that if we’d
make it to the ledge Gordon and I would have a decent shot at finishing the
route. I had too many reservations to list here, but we’d gone all the way to
Kyrgyzstan so I figured I’d go along with what Alex and Gordon proposed.
So despite my many mixed feelings,
in the first halfways decent weather we decided we’d attempt Perestroika. I
woke up earlier than the others. Someone would have to carry the big load up to
the base of the route and I figured I was best placed to do so. I also wasn’t
hauling, and while I’d have happily tried to do so, I figured it made sense
that I contributed as much as I could to the effort in a way that suited my
strengths.
Sometime around 2am I left the
kitchen tent. The air was cold, and so was I, but carrying 30 kilos warms the
body up quickly. I could easily make out the animal paths in front of me, the
moon shone brightly. The sky was filled with hundreds of stars, I felt quite
alive, fresh and excited. The excitement wore off as the reality of walking
with such a heavy pack kicks in. It dug uncomfortably into my lower back, and
rubbed there with every step. My steps were very small, and my legs were
hurting. Slowly but surely I slogged steeply up past the base of the pyramid.
As the scree got worse I found myself traversing several metres left and
rightward to avoid big steps upward. I’d test every block I stepped on. If they
had given way it wouldn’t have been ideal. 300 metres up I saw some headtorches
move around in the valley below, tiny dots wobbling around in the dark. I
carried on some more, continually hoping that the climbing would start soon.
Eventually I reached the base of the route. I started up the easy slabs and
fixed some ropes for the others. By the time we were all at the starting
anchors it was 6 in the morning. Having waited for them, my fingers were very
numb from the cold and I was eager to get going. The first pitch was a little
awkward, so again I avoided the intended route as the corner was wet. My
fingers were numb, I could feel nothing in my hands or feet. Three pitches
later on top of pamir pyramid we were met with slightly unpleasant and
particularly chilling winds. I tried to go to the loo and the experience was really
very awkward. Once I’d finished- Jo decided she needed the toilet, and so by
the time we reached the first actual pitch of Perestroika it was getting on.
After my fingers numbed out on the
first pitch back at the saddle Jo questioned whether we ought to continue. I
wasn’t entirely convinced it was necessary to turn around, but I did think such
winds could be problematic when it came to abseiling. Gordon seemed to agree
with Jo, and since I felt as though I was normally the most risk averse out of
us we agreed to bail. Before that Alex went and climbed the slab to get the
gear back. It was quite a remarkable lead in the wind; I was very close to
getting knocked over belaying.
On the last abseil the ropes got
caught. Gordon and Jo clearly weren’t keen on climbing up to get them so I did.
It was a rather terrifying pitch of climbing, despite being very technically
easy, absolutely every feature was loose. Even cracks that would normally be a
safe bet for solid rock, were bulging full of precariously balanced skrittle.
It all worked out and we descended in a rain shower.
The next day the weather looked
stable so Gordon, Alex and myself went climbing on a smaller objective. The
little Russian tower was a spire below Slesova (the Russian tower). It was
dwarfed by the surrounding walls- however we were agreed that had it stood on
its own it’d have been one of the singularly most impressive and prominent rock
faces in the UK. We chose a route up an obvious central crack- good climbing
that was well protected. It was a pleasant day out – and even better that it
ended reaching the top of a route.
The next day two Russians passed the camp. Following another similarly poor attempt at Perestroika I got to spend some more time venting to them in camp. Their names were Nikolai and Anar. I became good friends with them both. Nikolai was a physicist. He failed to mention he’d won several awards for his work, and also that he happened to be one of the strongest alpinists in Moscow, if not Russia. He was quite skinny, had long hair, and glasses. Anar was built slightly more firmly. Born in Azerbaijan, he was a businessman who lived in St Petersburg and had been a tourist on other expeditions. Tourists were the people who supported main climbers in Russia. It was a concept that seemed slightly bizarre to me, but essentially they exist to facilitate the successes of others.
Nikolai and Anar had set up camp
500 metres upstream from us. Both had a small tent to themselves, and these
were covered by a specially designed tarp that they had strung between various
trees. Confusingly in Russia the tarp is referred to as a “tent”. Nikolai and
Anar were clinical in their methodology for most matters, and had bought a
ratchet to tighten the cords on which the tarp was placed.
In spending time with them both, I
learnt about Russian people. Their national go to food is “gretschka”
(buckwheat), and they all drink many cups of Chai per day- always with snacks.
Nikolai used “unrefined
oil” he proudly showed us, as well as his own dried meat which he’d bought
along. Like other Europeans in the valley they’d also bought vacuum wrapped
sausages, and so unlike us they were well equipped with flavoured foods for
their stay.
Once we’d got to know each
other better we did chat about politics. Anar worried about being conscripted,
as a researcher Nikolai would not be signed up, and so was not worried. In general the
Russians I met were split on politics and the war. Without mentioning names,
some cursed it, ridiculed its being referred to as a “special military
operation”. Others viewed it as a civil war- and Alexei Navalny as a “blogger”
(he was a political opponent of Putin’s murdered in a penal colony last year).
I also learnt about Russian
climbing. The nearest rock climbing to Moscow is hundreds of miles away.
Alpinism is not viewed as a practice, but a sport that one can compete in.
There are alpinism competitions at climbing centres and on huge big walls. On
these parties record the time each pitch takes them, the style in which
they climb, the average angle et cetera.
The Russian climbing grades vary from 1 (a snow slope or easy ridge) to 6 (extremely difficult and/or very committing). Aid climbing is commonplace among Russian alpinists, smacking metal hooks into the rock is tolerated where it wouldn’t be in mainland Europe, especially not in the uk. Drilling bolts is however not permitted; it’d make the climbs too safe. In general Russian teams were well known for going onto a rock face and using whatever means and time it took to reach the summit. They’d ignore weather, and climb several days past running out of food and water. I remember Nikolai telling me about an exploit of his where he and a team of 5 climbed a huge big wall 40 kilometres away in siege style, spending 8 days on the route in the middle of winter. An extraordinary effort I can’t really imagine, I think average daily temperatures were around minus 20.
There is an alpinism federation of
sorts, and climbs can be done (and logged) within “the system”. Here you must
progress through the grades in order, all while adhering to rules. I think for
some reason Anar was not eligible to climb routes of the 6th grade,
and so on this trip he and Nikolai were climbing “out of the system”.
Having relentlessly used the
Romanian’s satellite phone, halfway through our trip Nimat decided he’d go down
to Ak tatyr and see how his wife was doing with his sixth child. He would be
replaced by his brother and nephew who would be heading up in a few days. He
kindly offered that they purchase some foods and bring them up for us. So it
was that one evening we found ourselves having dinner in our kitchen tent,
bearing witness to Nimat, confused on the satellite phone to his brother.
Together with the Romanians we had created a list of foods written in kyrgyz to
minimise confusion.
“Honey, 1,2?”
Nimat held up fingers asking how
much honey we wanted? It took a little while before we understood he was asking
how many litres and kilograms of each item we’d like. We reassured him that a
litre of honey might be a bit much for the remaining 1 and a half weeks.
It was an amusing conversation,
some of which I caught on a camera, which I unfortunately lost after my last
attempt on perestroika.
The others in our group were not
keen to try Perestroika crack again. On one relatively good weather day I chose
to go for a run into the valley next to where we were staying. This was called
the Kara su valley. It was popular with Russian teams, as it also contained many
big walls and hard aid climbing routes. Running down the valley was pleasant, I
crossed the stream on a little wooden bridge and then ascended up to a saddle
of sorts. From here, there was a brilliant view into Kara su but I wanted to
explore a little more. I couldn’t follow where the path went so I just dropped
straight through a forest. At points there were animal tracks, but often I’d
find myself ducking and squeezing through dense thickets. I made it down to the
Russian camp where I was instantly welcomed with Chai. I chatted a bit to
Marina (the girl we’d met in the airport) and two other guys, Andrey and
Vasily. They were all really friendly, and recommended that I head up further
in the valley to see the rock faces on and around Odesa. This was the same
mountain I could see every morning from my tent in Ak su but from the other
side. I headed on up through a long and steep boulder field. I paid
careful attention to where I put weight, and how I placed my feet. An hour
later I made it to the view that had been talked about. I was in an
amphitheatre of El Cap sized granite domes, with the peaks around soaring into
the sky, all alone and insignificant. I spent 30 minutes or so lying on a
boulder, absorbing the views, before running back to Ak su to try and avoid the
inevitable evening thunderstorm. On my way back again I bumped into the
Russians, they were finalising packing before heading over to the valley where
we were based. I didn’t beat the thunder, and got soaked in torrential rain 30
minutes before arriving back at camp. It was one of the loudest and most
dramatic storms I’ve ever experienced, huge booms echoing from every angle.
It had been a good experience to
run alone through the mountains. However my legs were tired and rather than run
more I really wanted to give Perestroika crack another go before we had to head
home. Two days later, in an evening spent hanging out with Nikolai, Anar and
the new Russians I got my chance. Marina seemed keen to have a go. With the counsel
of Nikolai, we packed kit in a couple of hours.
We were going to try to climb the
route fast and light, which means climbing with as little weight as possible in
order to cover ground as quickly as possible (minimal food, water or gear). There
was one sleeping bag, two tin foil survival blankets (together they made up the
size of a pack of cards), some jackets, about 5 litres of water and a little
food. I was fully aware the odds of success were low but figured it might be
the only opportunity to give the route a proper go.
I slept about 2 hours that night.
At 2AM I got up and made myself another porridge breakfast and 30 minutes later
headed over to the Russian tent. The walk up to Perestroika was not much easier
than the previous few times but at least I didn’t have the full 35+ kilos on my
back this time!
Where previous attempts had seen us
take 4 hours for the first 3 approach pitches Marina and I quickly simul
climbed these before sunrise, overtaking Micha and Yulia who had been on the wall
a day already. We reached the halfway ledge in the early afternoon. Our aims to
fix the next pitch or two were inhibited by the rain, a kick in the teeth
considering we were already quite knackered following some tricky offwidth
pitches. By the time the weather improved it was fairly late. Dehydrated and
hungry, Marina insisted we carried on climbing and fixing at least one more
pitch. In this time Micha and his wife Yulia arrived and set up a small tent on
the biggest spot of the ledge. It was very late by the time we’d finished
fixing the pitch, thankfully the others had kept us some tea which warmed a
little. Exhausted I settled down on a half rope that Marina had laid out on the
ledge as matting. The spot we were on was particularly uncomfortable. Marina
had a flat bench like length of rock to lie on and I was awkwardly positioned
as though sat in a reclined car seat. I was rather exposed to the wind that hit
me from the side, and my position was such that I had very little space to
move.
What followed was certainly
the worst shiver bivvy I’ve experienced. My body shook uncontrollably
throughout the night as my torn survival blanket proved useless at sheltering
me from the biting cold. Marina had our one sleeping bag and I did not have the
guts to deprive her of it, nor was there space to share it. The hours dragged
on. I kept hoping someone would stir and suggest that we continued climbing but
no such luck. At around 4am I had had enough and sat upright. At least like
this I could move around and warm myself marginally.
The next morning it did not take
many pitches before we realised we should turn around. I was especially tired,
and I think she was too. It figured that abseiling 20+ pitches of crack would
be dangerous while fatigued, so continuing seemed like a bad choice. I’d had
two nights with a total of two hours of sleep. It had been a good adventure,
and had given me the challenge I’d hoped it would. At camp I said goodbye to
Marina, Andrey and Vasily before falling fast asleep.
I felt relieved to be
finished with climbing for the short term. I had taken on enough risk for the
moment and felt content to relax a little and enjoy the remaining day or two.
On the penultimate night the
weather seemed stable and I slept on a boulder next to my tent. The cool breeze
hit my face and kept me awake a while, I looked up at thousands of stars and
life felt wonderful.
On our last evening together I
visited Nikolai, Anar, Micha and Yulia. They had all become good friends. Yulia
didn’t speak much English, but she was nonetheless friendly and made an effort
to communicate. Micha loved telling me about his mission to become a snow
leopard (an alpinist who summits a specific list of 7000m peaks in Kygryzstan
is given the title), he sincerely and kindly invited me to Moscow, an offer
I’ll gladly accept after the war. With Nikolai I talked more about climbing and
alpinism tricks and strategies. I really liked his quirky personality, and
despite some political opinions I could not justify, he was thoughtful and
would generally not speak without having really considered what he’d like to
say. With Anar I chatted about his job, his family, life in St Petersburg,
future plans and so on. There were endless conversations about all manner of
topics.
It was nice to play cards with them
a final time. We had a tasty dinner followed by some sort of fruit compot. It
tasted better than anything I had eaten for weeks! As Nikolai and Anar would
start early on their push at Slesova’s main face the next day we said our
goodbyes and parted ways. So came to an end my time in Ak su.
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Journey home
The walk back to Egiz Jar started
pleasantly. It was a pity to be leaving such a beautiful place, knowing the
realities of city life and responsibility were only 2 full days of travel away.
I walked downstream to the main base camp to look for the porters and horses as
they were late. I chatted with the Austrians, Slovenians and Norwegians here.
Eventually all was sorted and the
long march began. The gushing green alpine meadows slowly faded into gravel and
dirt and the cold air of the valley was replaced by dry air and clear skies
that offered no protection to the brutal blazing sun. The horses were roped
together in groups of two or three, and then tugged along the more technical terrain.
They often struggled on the steeper rockier sections of the descent. Once these
passed the porters would jump back onto the horses and relax. After a few
hours of walking and jogging to keep up I remember crossing a
particularly loose thin, scree covered path. It felt very insecure to walk
along, and I would imagine very scary to cross holding onto horses. I hardly
spoke to the porters, but exchanged smiles with one who was a little taller and
had a wide grin.
After many hours, I took one final
turn to look up at the mountains that had been my home for 3 weeks, and turned
a corner into the next valley. My trousers were sweaty, and slightly loose so
they rubbed uncomfortably on my leg. My mouth was dry, and no matter how I
rationed the remaining dribble of water I knew this feeling would remain for a
while. I had none spare for when we reached the road, and from there it’d
certainly be another 6 or 7 hours until we reached relative civilisation. I had
some remainder of a snack we’d saved for the walk back- and now I was down to
my last 5 almonds. I plodded along dreaming of the life I’d return to where I
could eat as and how I wanted to.
The muddy gorge we’d walked through 3 weeks ago had changed shape since we’d been there last. The path was now at points squashed beside steep cliffs and the fast flowing river. The porters would walk here while the horses were forced to wade along. By the time I reached Egiz Jar I was exhausted. I rested myself on a plastic barrel, and laid back. Both 4x4s had already arrived and were parked up, one with its bonnet up. This one in particular was of great interest to the two elderly kyrgz gentlemen that were presumably there to drive us back.
The porters sat and squatted in a
little circle of sorts. The oldest driver among all waved his hand to me and
grinned a gold covered smile. He could see I was shattered, and knew we’d be
waiting hours for the others before any driving began. I came over, and
although a little hesitant the others encouraged me to eat and drink among them.
It was a really sweet gesture, and one that I really appreciated. Watermelon
had never tasted so good, nor had bread and sliced sausage. I felt little
uneasy about being given food by people that so clearly lived generally much
poorer lives, but they handed me slices and my quiet protests were worthless. I
was slightly afraid of maggots in bread, having seen a couple of the living
creatures burrow their way through Nimat’s supply.
I got chatting to the tall bloke
who had struck me as the friendliest on the walk down. In primitive English
mixed with sign language he explained he could speak a little as his wife was
the English teacher in Ak tatyr. He had three children, and owned two horses
and cows. The horses were some of those used to carry our kit, a few looked
rather crippled and as they were tended to it became clear to me how valuable
they were to the porters.
It turned out the 3 porters I’d
walked down with were all brothers, and their father owned one of the 4x4s we’d
use to depart the valley. The more time I spent with them the more I realised
how hard their lives were. One brother in a long black jacket sat up on the
side of the car, took off his halfways ripped through shoes and started
inspecting his feet. They were torn to shreds, completely broken and blistered,
yet to feed his family he still had to repeat the walk/ride back up the valley
to camp later the same day. It was quite humbling to spend time with the
brothers, and a friendly reminder of the kind side to human beings, that they
so openly welcomed a privileged brat like myself.
After at least another 2 hours the
others turned up. Alex and Jo had both felt ill for much of the descent and all
three were wrecked. The father of the porters smiled at me and ushered me into
his 4x4... the one that had been the subject of the through engine inspection.
With bags thrown into the boot, we sat comfortably in old leather seats until
the driving started. The road/track was bumpier than I had remembered and I was
tossed and thrown around.
We stopped, the family elder
stepped out and whacked open the bonnet. I looked through the cracked
windscreen but couldn’t really make out what he was doing. Another 5 minutes
driving later the same. This time he exited with a screwdriver and spanner.
Professionally equipped he and the other driver proceeded to walk to the river
and splash muddy water onto the engine.
Soon we had crossed the old
metallic bridge and the 4x4 revved up the next steep hill. This was the main
climb of the drive, at a guess at least a thousand vertical metres in the space
of maybe two kilometres. The gravel track really kicks back at an angle that would
not be conducive to stopping and starting a car. The other 4x4 drove 50 metres
ahead of us until suddenly BANG. I thought the tyre had blown out at first- but
it turned out to be something from the engine.
Our driver looked at us and smiled
wryly, as if he’d known all along that this would be the outcome. We rammed all
our kit into the other 4x4 and squeezed in tightly together. I’m not really
sure what happened to our driver, there wasn’t space for him in this 4x4 and we
left him strolling back down the valley in the blistering heat. He didn’t seem
too concerned.
20 minutes our new driver pulled
over. He must’ve been between 50 and 60 years old, wore baggy jeans, a baggy
beige t shirt and a dull blue/grey flat cap. Using all fingers and thumbs he
signalled we’d have a ten minute long break. He lit a cigarette and pointed
down the valley. I exited the vehicle to stretch a little; I still felt thirsty
and hot and sat tightly the black jeep was not comfortable. Below us in the
distance was a shack and a shepherd. After quite some difficulty the new driver
communicated that his son lived there. The distant figure was approaching us,
and when he eventually made it to the 4x4, the son was accompanied by his tiny
daughter, the granddaughter of our driver. Following the short reunion I
squashed myself back into the 4x4 to have our driver them place this small girl
in the back. We continued until she was dropped off at a small house on the
other side of the valley.
More hours driving passed. By this
point Jo, Gordon and Alex had all fallen rather fast asleep, with mouths wide
open their heads bounced around lifeslessly to the beat of the potholes and
bumps in the track. We passed the military base, now getting an even better
view onto the many covered vehicles and the soldiers going about their day to
day lives. Some chopped wood, others hung up washing. Presumably the most high
ranking among them sat around and smoked.
We’d made it back to Ak tatyr.
Without any questions asked we were brought to the guesthouse. This was one of
hundreds of square compounds in the village. Apricots were drying in the sun,
and we were invited to sit ourselves on some benches and tables clad in thin
white cloth. All of us were very thirsty and hungry.
Having become desensitized to
eating plain meals without much flavour, seeing jam compot in a bowl was too
much to handle. We all ravenously ate away at the food on offer; chunks of
bread,dried apricots and jam in equal measure. I could’ve happily drunken
several gallons of water, but instead we were left with boiling hot Chai.
Trying to drink as much as physically possible without incinerating my mouth
was a difficult balance to strike.
I felt a great sense of
relief to be alive and in one piece, able to refuel and relax properly for the
first time in such a while.
The guesthouse was comfortable and
pleasant to stay in. The rooms were large and spacious, we could shower fand
wash properly for the first time in a month. We slept on the floor on some thin
mat and and rugs. The hosts were accommodating and friendly. Despite not
understanding much of what we’d say they’d always smile and respond in a
confused manner of mixed English words and hand gestures that we’d become
accustomed to.
The drive back to Osh was worse
than the drive in. We all slept in good amounts, and ate funny kyrgz chocolates
and drank coke and fanta. In the time in which we were awake I almost witnessed
two head on collisions, it was probably the closest we’d come to dying all
trip. Back in Osh we wandered around the city, visited the markets and
inspected the damage that previous weeks of flooding had done. Some of the half
destroyed buildings didn’t look all too out of place, but there was the
occasional tell tale sign. Google maps wanted us to cross a concrete bridge
that no longer existed.
After another mini taxi trip we met
up with the Romanians for a meal. It was very cheap and to my mind the food
tasted great. Driving back through Osh at night,I remember talking to a
particularly friendly taxi driver, whom I felt pity for. He spoke really quite
good English and explained how he worked several jobs, often construction
related in Russia, UAE and even Wales in order to pay for his sister’s
education.
And so our trip came to an end.
From a climbing point of view it was a complete failure. I didn’t complete any of the routes I’d set my expectations on doing. Thankfully there is a lot more to life than climbing! The people I met, cultures experienced and memories made the trip the fun time it was!
OS Maps for reference:
Osh to Ak su
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