Week 14-15 :The Land of Mountain Nomads
I left Kazakhstan with a sense of trepidation, stepping out of the endless steppes into a land of high mountains and nomadic horsemen, Kyrgyzstan. Before this trip, my knowledge of the country was so minimal I could barely place it on a map. I crossed into Kyrgyzstan from the most eastern Kazakh border crossing, after camping a night in Charyn Canyon, a smaller version of the Grand Canyon. That morning, I woke up alone for the last time in the desert steppes of Kazakhstan, watching the sun slowly rise above the deep red canyon. At first, it was a bright orange sliver of light peeking on the horizon, burning away the last of the night sky. The sun rose majestically, becoming a golden orb not yet powerful enough to blind the human eye, warming the arid land as it claimed its place at the zenith.
I hopped on Tara, my bike, and rode across the desert on an off-road track until reaching the main road that led to the border. What joy it was to finally encounter some twists and turns after the long stretches of the vast Kazakh steppe. I whooped and screamed with joy in my helmet as the road rose into the mountains. As I gained altitude, the beginnings of the Pamir mountains towered above the horizon, splendid, magnificent, and powerful. I was back where I belonged, in the hills. The air freshened and the land turned greener. Herds of horses galloping on mountain pastures became more frequent as the towering 7,000-meter summits of the Pamir approached. I kicked Tara into sixth gear as we raced up the long infinity roads that climbed higher and higher.
My soul was overcome with a sense of awe, but my body struggled with the sudden drop in temperature due to the altitude. I went to put on my warm jacket that I had stuffed somewhere in my saddlebags, but then I remembered it had caught fire in the Uzbek desert. "Forget it, it's just a bit of cold," I thought. I had spent enough time in Dartmoor and various freezing places to know that I could cope with a bit of cold. I would have to get a new knock-off Chinese jacket somewhere.
As I climbed, I felt like I was getting closer to God—alone but not lonely. I remembered Altai's kind and encouraging words: "Go forwards unafraid."
The border crossing into Kyrgyzstan was the shortest and friendliest so far. I befriended a cauliflower-eared captain; we discussed MMA and the UFC, and he waved me through. I was in the land of the nomads! A sense of awe, joy, and trepidation overcame me.
That evening, I made it to Lake Issyk-Kul, a giant saltwater mountain lake over 100 kilometers long. Surrounded by snow-capped mountains, the lake's crystal-clear turquoise water contrasted sharply with the various yurt camps along its banks, smoke rising from their chimneys. The weather was still nice and warm. After pitching my tent on a small peninsula that offered a view of the surrounding 6,000-meter mountains, I went for a swim. The feel of the water on my skin was overwhelmingly good; I could feel my pores soaking it all up after the last weeks in the desert. I swam around naked on my back and settled in for the night.
The next morning, for the first time, I woke up cold. So, after a bit of morning PT and another naked swim, it was time for breakfast—a simple meal of dried fruit and porridge. My morning contemplations of the mountains were pleasantly interrupted by a loud "Bonjour!" Behind me stood a middle-aged couple beaming with energy after their morning swim. They had spotted my motorcycle and its French number plates and decided to come say hi, as Marat, the husband, was a keen biker and their daughter lived in Marseille.
Marat and his wife, Surat, were Almatians on holiday by the lake. They invited me to have coffee and a second breakfast at their summer house. How could I refuse? So, I followed them for 20 kilometers along the banks of the lake to their quaint little house, where I met Marat's Uighur best friend and their son. Marat, a Kazakh, was a biker who had worked for USAID all over the world. His wife was an Uzbek doctor working on a program to curb the spread of TB in rural areas across Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. We had a lovely breakfast of eggs, more porridge, and copious amounts of deliciously home-brewed coffee.
Their hospitality and generosity filled my heart with warmth and a renewed sense of respect and love for these people who invited a complete stranger into their home to break bread and just talk, with no other expectation than reciprocating the exchange.
I left Marat's with the intention to head for a high-altitude pass at 4,000 meters south of the town of Karakol. As I engaged onto the dirt tracks, a local herdsman stopped me and told me I couldn't get through due to a landslide. I had to take the long way round to the town of Naryn, a crossroads for adventurers in southeast Kyrgyzstan. It’s the access point for the restricted border regions with western China, as well as access to the ancient gateways of the Silk Road and the mythical high-latitude lake of Kel Suu, a natural gem of Kyrgyzstan.
On the way to Naryn, I met the nomads for the first time. At the top of a 3,500-meter mountain pass, I stopped to warm my hands and have a cigarette by a yurt camp, perched on the side of a lush green mountainside. In the distance, a nomad was herding some horses by firing his pistol in the air, accompanied by his two giant dogs enthusiastically chasing the scared horses.
Suddenly, my reveries were broken as the giant face of a horse appeared inches before mine. I looked up and was greeted by a leather-faced, green-eyed, aquiline-nosed Kyrgyz horseman offering me his hand in greeting. We stared at each other for a bit and then shared a cigarette. He invited me to his yurt for some kymyz (unfermented horse milk, both sweet, sour, and bitter), which felt like an alcoholic drink. He explained to me in broken Russian and Kyrgyz that he spends the summer in the mountains with his flock, then returns by the lakes in the summer to sell some of it and keep his family fed.
After waving goodbye—me mounting my mechanical horse, him on his biological one—I headed to Naryn to base out from before heading to the border regions.
When I arrived in Naryn and settled in my hostel for a hot shower and a warm bed, I was overcome by a sense of ambivalence. When traveling alone for so long, one often misses home. One wonders if those at home miss us. Breakfast with Marat had filled me with the warmth that only a kind and loving home can provide. Something I had walked away from when launching on the trip, something I missed. Clearly, the antidepressants were wearing off; I was starting to feel again, the chemical veil that had bound my emotions was wearing off, and life was starting to go from black and white to Technicolor again.
To add to the sense of isolation and loneliness, things between Emily and I started going downhill the further I headed up into the Pamir mountains. The romantic idea of dating a motorcycle nomad was wearing off for her, and despite wanting to spend time with me, the logistics of it were wearing her down. I don’t blame her and certainly had no expectations of her. Her choices were her own, but it hurt all the same as she canceled coming out to see me in Pakistan, and our plans to travel across Iran on the Trans-Iranian Railway together were derailed. I sensed the end was coming; some people are in your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. It was yet to be determined, so I decided to dig into my stoic reserve, put those emotions in a box, close the lid, and meet them with equanimity and continue on my journey. If it was meant to be, then it would be—mektoub.
The lake on the mountain
The next morning, I woke up early to head for the Kel Suu Lake, a geological gem sat at the top of Kyrgyzstan’s natural crown at 3,500 meters. Twelve kilometers long, with turquoise ice-cold snow water surrounded on all sides by steep cliffs running up to 500 meters above it.
Before getting to the lake, I had to get through two mountain passes and get clearance from the Army to enter the border zone. There is underlying tension between Kyrgyzstan and China. Kyrgyzstan, being a majority-Muslim country, poses a threat to Chinese hegemony across the region, especially concerning minority groups such as the Uighurs or Tibetans. Access is tightly controlled, and one has to pay for a special permit to come in. If one were to be cynical about it, one might notice that the mountains there pose a good natural obstacle, and the risk of any political disruption from adventure-hungry tourism poses very little security risks to either party, making it a good little money earner for the Kyrgyz tourism board.
The road to the Kel Suu yurt camp from which to dismount and climb to the lake is breathtakingly beautiful. As it rises up above the treeline, the mountains remain green and grey, with natural minerals coloring the rocks and ice rivers flowing through the bottom of steep valleys. Horses roam freely on the hills, often galloping next to me on the bike. I truly was exactly where I wanted to be—among mountain horse riding nomads, my dream had come true. I stop after a mountain pass and realised that a year earlier, when in the midst of depression and the only thing I had in my life was the hope of going on this trip, I had designed an artificial intelligence picture on chatgpt of what I wanted my trip to look like. The prompt I used was: lone motorcyclist on a Triumph Scrambler heading from the desert into snow-capped mountains. I saved the image on my laptop screen to remind myself that even if, in that moment, all hope of a better life was faint, I still had a dream and was going to do everything in my power to go after it. So there, in that moment on that mountain pass, the image that I had artificially conjured had come to life. I was living my dream. Tears of joy started streaming down my cheeks inside my helmet.
I arrived at the yurt camp in the late afternoon as the sun cast its last orange and golden rays against the snow-capped peaks and the surrounding green meadows, turning the landscape to gold, purple, and silver. The yurt camp lined the side of a small riverbank in the middle of the meadow, with horses running freely around it. Upon arrival at the camp, I was greeted by a 5’2” stocky nomad with cauliflower ears; within minutes, we established that he was a wrestler. We bonded over fighting, and he invited me to stay at his camp. Surprisingly, and maybe a little annoyingly, the camp had Starlink. “Damn you, Elon Musk, for making even the most remote places feel ‘connected,’” I thought. Even here, it was hard to escape one’s ego's need to fill the blanks of social media and advertise oneself to the ever-growing narcissistic digital world we live in. I felt that as this journey progressed, I had to make a concerted effort to be more disciplined in my use of social media and be more mindful of when it was my ego driving its use rather than using it for better ends. As the saying goes, if the product is free, then maybe you are the product. Our attention and lives are so short; can we really justify spending them staring at these black mirrors we carry everywhere?
Halthan, the wrestling nomad, had a small Chinese dirt bike he was working on. I helped him and his brothers work on it and get it running. As the engine started to the jubilant screams of the kids watching us, Halthan’s brother jumped on the small bike and tore off into the hill, only to come back 10 minutes later having crashed and broken the clutch and brake pedal. They all raised their eyes to the sky and sarcastically said, “China good…” We laughed and headed in for some chai.
In the camp was a group of what I at first thought to be a group of taciturn-looking young Russians. They nodded at me as I came in and nothing more. A few hours later, while smoking a cigarette on the porch, one of the young Russians, Andrei, approached me and asked me where I was from. This led us into a long conversation about our cultural differences and how both countries perceive one another through the often negative lenses of our mainstream media channels.
Andrei was 25, lived in Moscow, and worked for the Russian trade department. He was erudite, softly spoken, and very intelligent. He asked me, “What can we learn from being in the wild? What is the lesson to bring back when we return to our fast-paced civilized city lives?” I had no answer for him; I was still asking myself the same question. He introduced me to the rest of the gang: Sergei, Ivan, Sorlov. All the same age and from various parts of Russia, he called them the team. They often traveled together and went on adventures in the countries Russians could still get to since the war in Ukraine broke out. I told them of my misadventures in Russia. They were aghast and annoyed; they said a small level of corruption was the norm, but gunpoint robbery from the police was unheard of. Later, they invited me to join them for a horse ride into the hills.
It had been a long time since I had been in the saddle; the last time was a year before my mum died, twenbty years ago. She had always been a keen horsewoman. It must have been in her Hungarian genes. In my childhood, she had often encouraged me to go riding when we lived in the south of France. She had befriended a local farmer who owned some large ponies, and we would go out for “balades” in the surrounding hills, where she would teach me how to ride, how to look after the horses, and simply enjoy being in nature together. Those are some of my fondest childhood memories. When she passed away, so did my appetite for riding; it was too hard emotionally to pursue without her being around. After her passing I descened into a spiral of acohol abuse violence and precarious living. So, getting back in the saddle twenty years after her passing in the wild Kyrgyz mountains felt like the right time, calmer, wiser and on my way to finding some peace.
The Russian youngsters was keen to go galloping, so off we went, striding across the dales and valleys, the sun setting behind us, beaming with joy and laughter. Mom would have loved this moment; I felt I was sharing it with her.
We returned to the yurts after the ride somewhat saddle sore but elated and full of joy. The kids brought out a bottle of Jägermeister, which we mixed with black tea as we regaled one another with stories of our respective countries. They were curious to know whether it was true that Europe was being led by woke LGBTQI+ politicians and what my thoughts were on pushing kids to have sex changes at the age of three. In Russia, homosexuality is still illegal, and in the aftermath of the somewhat ultra-woke Olympic Games opening ceremony in Paris, these kids were convinced that maybe their news channels were right. I assured them that not all Europeans were transgender without having to pull my trousers down. They then told me about their thoughts on the war, how they feared the draft but wished to remain in Russia. How the only politicians they knew was Putin as he has been in power for 25 years, the length of their young lives. They were neither dismissive nor pro-Putin; their views were balanced. It's easy for the West to forget that post-Perestroika in 1991 and the dissolution of the USSR, Russia was plunged into a state of lawlessness that claimed the lives of many and led to a sense of real insecurity as mafias picked on the carcasses of industrial Russia to feed their newfound capitalist greed. Putin put an end to this by leading with a firm hand; at the time, he was applauded by Western politicians. And let us not forget how we, the “liberal West,” invaded Iraq on the false claim of nuclear weapons, causing untold amounts of civilian deaths and, to this day, have sown the seeds of permanent instability across the Middle East. We should be wary not to judge too harshly from the height of our blood-stained moral horses.
After numerous booze-fueled cups of tea, it was time to retire to bed, and we decided we would all ride up to the Kel Suu Lake in the morning together. As I bedded in for the night, my stomach grumbled; was it the food I ate, the booze? Or perhaps the water I naively drank from what looked like a pristine mountain stream. I would pay for my naivety in the days to come.
In the morning, a little bleary-eyed, we set off on horseback to reach Kel Suu Lake. The pace was slow and allowed for really soaking in one's environment, with no sound of engines and cylinders grinding fossil fuels in the air. My horse, a tired grey-haired nag, nimbly negotiated the climb up to the lake. We were accompanied by one of the nomads, who seemed glued to his saddle in complete symbiosis with his horse, making the ride seem completely seamless and easy. He had a beaming smile and seemed amused at our awkward and clumsy riding styles.
Arriving at the lake, we found a cave overhanging the majestic 12km body of water running down the steep canyon. I felt transported into the imagery of a Tolkienian scene. One could easily imagine mythical beasts lurking behind the rocks or in the depths of this magical lake. Up in the heights, we spotted what looked like a cave opening. After an hour-long scramble to get there, the cave opened up, about 30 meters wide and at a depth we couldn’t calculate. Sergei and I decided to go inside and explore. The deeper we went, the colder it got; quartz crystals reflected the last of the light before it got too dark to continue. Suddenly, I felt something squishy under my shoes. I had walked into what looked like animal poop; at closer inspection, I realized it was rather large and full of fur. I looked at Sergei, who inspected it; it was bear poop. We were in a bear cave. We promptly got out and scrambled back down, thankful not to have broken in when the inhabitants of the cave were having lunch, or they may have changed the menu on the spot…
We asked our guide about the cave, and he just casually said, “Oh yes, that’s the bear cave…” Thanks for the warning!
That night, my stomach got the better of me. As expected on these trips, I fell rather ill and spent most of the night on the toilets cursing my naivety for drinking unclean water. What was I bloody thinking? I know better than this!
In the morning, we all parted ways; the team got in their 4x4 and headed back to Bishkek, some 300 kilometers away. Despite my bad stomach, I decided I wanted to do a bit more exploring, chiefly to go to Tash Rabat, one of the old Silk Road caravan gates into the Chinese desert. Upon studying my map, I noticed there was a bridge crossing a rather deep river some 100 kilometers away. Foolishly, I forgot to ask Hatlahn if it was still working. Dehydration and a bad night's sleep were clouding my judgment.
The tracks to the bridge cut through barren high-altitude pastures of yaks, wild horses, and not a single person in sight for hours. Eventually, the bridge came into sight, after numerous smaller water crossings, my feet thoroughly wet and cold. The river itself was far too deep to cross, and doing it alone carried a far greater risk. Being stuck out there could be fatal; the cold, the wet, and lack of thorough passage made it a rather perilous area. As I drew nearer to the bridge, my morale started improving, forgetting my wet feet I plowed through a few more river crossings. When I finally got within less than a hundred meters from the bridge, that’s when I realized that the bridge was no more. Only a few pillars remained in the center of the river; there were no ramps on either side; it had clearly been disused for a while! After a stream of rather loud expletives, my feet getting colder and colder, I decided to turn around and abandon the search for the caravan gate. The best option was to turn back and try to get back to Naryn before nightfall. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, appeared a nomad on horseback with his dog. He looked at me curiously as if to say, “What the hell are you doing here, you madman?” He told me the bridge was broken and that the river was too high to cross in this season. So it was time to turn around and make it back to Naryn through all the rivers I had previously crossed and was hoping to avoid; no choice.
On the penultimate river crossing, I had a minute of hesitation before going through; I slowed down, and as a result, my front wheel dipped in some gravel, and I fell off the bike. Time for a 270kg deadlift at 3,500 meters altitude while having a stomach bug. Getting the bike up sapped the remaining of my energy bar. I still had 150 kilometers of off-road to do before getting back to Naryn and a warm bed.
The road back was hard, and I had to make many stops as my stomach dictated. Eventually, I made it to Naryn by nighttime.
I spent the next two days just recovering and sleeping. I couldn't really hold any food down or do anything else but lay down and watch crappy series on my phone. The distance between Emily and I kept growing, adding emotional pain to the physical.
Back to town
After two days, I felt like I was back to 70 percent of my energy, and I was holding food in, so I decided it was time to head to the capital to find a mechanic who would help me change my tires and prep the bike for the next phase, the notorious Tajikistan Pamir Highway.
The ride down from the mountains to Bishkek was pleasant and 90% good tarmac, which was a relief. Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan, is an old post-Soviet town that hasn’t quite developed like Almaty. It sits at 500 meters above sea level, so the air then becomes much thicker and heavier, a nice change from the hills. However, as I drew nearer, the traffic increased, and I was reminded of why I tend to avoid cities. Pollution, noise, traffic, stress…Cities are draining on the central nervous system.
I arrived at the Tunduk Hostel in Bishkek, a renowned hub for overlanders, a place of rest and recovery for weary travelers all going in different directions across Central Asia. Some, like me, at the start of their journey and others on their way home. A place to exchange ideas and relax amongst like-minded people. To share ideas and stories in a safe, family-run hostel. Azema, the host, had studied in France and spoke perfect French. Her kindness and hospitality made the place feel like home. Once again, good people make good places, good places attract good people, and the cycle continues. There, I met Ama, a Swiss-Argentinian with whom I hit it off; we discussed life and our choices to hit the road on a long journey.
Things with Emily became harder and harder as she feared that she couldn't build anything with me. I understood her fears, but selfishly, this had been my dream for a long time, and I wasn't willing to sacrifice it. I realized that one can't be a wanderer and a builder at the same time; these two paths might cross but cannot last.
In the hostel, I met Alexandra, an American traveler who had been on the move for a long time, a temptress with long blond hair and inviting eyes. I stayed loyal to Emily; in the past, I would not have hesitated to forgo my morals in the pursuit of pleasures of the flesh, but I remained steadfast in my dedication to Emily. Part of this journey for me has been about reconnecting with my own personal values that I have tattooed on the inside of my arm: courage, discipline, wisdom, justice, and love. I had decided to take the courageous path of being honest with myself and others, not to lie or cheat anymore. To seek wisdom everywhere I go and in each encounter I have. To be just and fair in my dealings with others and in the decisions I take. And to remember to love fully with all my heart and to believe that I am lovable, with all my flaws.
So, I forgo any flirtation or deviation from my morals and remain loyal to Emily despite the difficulties we are meeting. In the end, fate will decide whether this will work out or not, but I will not live an unvirtuous life in the meantime. Dealing with heartbreak on the road, being thousands of miles from home or any source of comfort is hard; it amplifies the loneliness and the sense of being lost at sea. No wonder I fell ill on the mountain—her indecision and subsequent decision to keep me at arm's length are like eagles' claws ripping at my heart. It's time to put it all in a box and focus on the road ahead. The temptation to close down my heart is hard to resist; when one loves fully, one gets hurt deeply, but that's not a reason to stop loving.
As much as the Tunduk Hostel is a good refuge, it also attracts some pretentious, all-knowing traveling wankers that seem intent on telling you what the world is “actually like,” short-term holidaymakers thinking they can tell you what life is really like with their stale chat. I despise these part-timers acting weekend adventurers. Ama and I avoid them and stick to ourselves.
For the most part, it’s a congregation of hikers, cyclists, bikers, and other various overlanders, converted 4x4s, minibus drivers. All sharing routes, stories, and nourishing each other with stories, advice on routes, and just being around similar minded people.
Simultaneously to replenishing my soul with other travelers, I found a place to fix my bike. I found a garage called Iron Horse Nomads on the outskirts of Bishkek, where I fixed Tara, run by a Chinese Dungan refugee named Islam. He fitted new tires and noticed that my front forks were leaking and replaced the seals on the spot. The Dungans are a Muslim tribe that fled Imperial China for the Kyrgyz mountains. Islam has green eyes, a Russian build, and is softly spoken. He runs his workshop with respect and kindness to his subordinates. I spent the day with him and the team, joking around and feeling at home with these Kyrgyz petrol heads.
That evening, I visited a local Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu gym, part of my commitment to train at least once in every country during my travels. It's a way to connect with a community that's deeply important to me, to immerse myself in the local culture, and to meet others who share my passion. In this space, respect is not given but earned, a true meritocracy where skills speak louder than words. This gym is my sanctuary. It's relatively new with a moderate skill level and a strong wrestling foundation, likely influenced by the region. I met an ex-US Marine there who had relocated with his family to start afresh. It's always exhilarating to exchange a "Semper Fi" before a friendly bout!
The imam the businessman and the wanderer
The following day, I was due to meet up with my Kazakh brother Altai, who happened to be in Bishkek on a business meeting. I was so glad to catch up with him and spend some time in his gregarious and sharp-witted company.
I spent the next morning in Dordoi Market, the largest outdoor market in Central Asia. The aim was to find a sheepskin cover to put on Tara's seat to keep my backside warm for the coming high-altitude trails of western Kyrgyzstan and the dizzying heights of the Tajikistan Pamir trails. No success, however, the market is a singular experience. Spreading over almost ten square kilometers, it is a sea of containers converted into shops selling all the best knock-off brands in the world. I've never seen so much Dior and Gucci for such low prices! I found a knock-off North Face jacket to replace my overpriced Rab jacket that took fire in the desert and wandered around the market all morning before heading off to meet Altai. I bought Altai a Muslim rosary and inquired if I could buy an English version of the Quran, but no luck on the Quran.
I met Altai in the afternoon at a business meeting of young Kazakh and Kyrgyz entrepreneurs at the top of one of the only semi-skyscrapers in Bishkek. After a video presentation of their communal projects, I was asked to present myself to the team. I felt completely out of place, dressed in my riding gear, scruffy jeans, sweat-marked T-shirt, and scruffy beard and hair. Surrounded by these sharp-looking business guys, the scene was somewhat surreal, but I decided to roll with it.
After this somewhat surreal meeting, Altai suggested we go visit one of the schools he and his partner were sponsoring on the outskirts of Bishkek.
Located in a humble popular neighborhood of gravel roads and low-roofed houses is the madrassa. We arrived as the sun was setting and were ushered into a large room. The room was full of young men in their teens, all wearing traditional Kyrgyz and Kazakh hats. They were sitting in a circle, all with the Holy Quran in their hands. They were all reciting separate verses simultaneously while the imam in the center of the room was chanting and leading the prayer. We took seats at the back of the room. In the center of the room were three 5-liter bottles of water with open tops. Altai leaned over and told me to relax; I must have seemed tense. In truth, I was just taken aback by the scene in front of me and not too sure what I was observing. He explained that each student was reading a segment of the Holy Quran so that in an hour the whole Quran would have been read. The water in the middle was to be blessed so that the observers of the rite could bring it to their homes and bless their families.
The chants and cacophonic rhythm of the 30 boys reciting was a powerful transcendental experience. It reminded me of an ayahuasca ceremony but without the purging or requirement for any external medicine. There is a spiritual strength to the rite; the boys are in a trance, some whispering, others chanting, rocking back and forth, out of breath but fully focused. I felt transcended in the moment, taken away into pensive meditation, and also wished I could understand Arabic. The focus and faith emanating from the room were powerful and yet soothing. After the rite, we all prayed to God; I was exempt from having to take part and just observed. My curiosity toward Islam has grown throughout this trip, but I don’t feel the need or readiness to convert, probably much to Altai’s secret disappointment. Nonetheless, I felt privileged and honored to have been invited to such an event. After the prayer, the boys returned to their homework or duties, and the men, including the imam, Altai, and some of his fellow business colleagues, retired for dinner.
A copious meal of meats (in Kazakhstan, everything is with meat), watermelon, rice, and other assortments followed. At dinner, I was bombarded with questions about my trip, but not superficial ones. Deep questions related to the meaning of life and the purpose of the trip. The imam asked me what I had learned so far. A question I often ask myself. I responded that for now, I’ve learned to listen with my heart more often than with my head. Altai, to my right, slapped me on the leg jubilantly!
“Ha,” he said with a wry smile, “this must be the smartest thing you have said so far!” in his typical provocative and warm way.
We discussed purpose and why religion can help answer the 3 main questions: Who am I? Why am I here, and what happens next? The imam told me that Leo Tolstoy converted to Islam because he found the answers to those questions within the Quran. Of course, the reality is a bit more nuanced, and although Tolstoy did study the Quran from his time in the Tsar’s Army, where he served mainly with Tartars and Cossacks who would have been a majority Muslim, he did not officially convert to Islam but had a very holistic interpretation of religion that didn’t fall within any of the dogmas of the three Abrahamic faiths.
The madrassa itself is sponsored and set up by Altai’s business partners as part of a charitable organization based on promoting Islamic teaching to young boys from less favoured households. Some, but not all, were troubled kids who were sent there by their parents. The schooling works in two parts: religious and academic. Literacy levels and education levels across Kyrgyzstan can be quite low, especially in rural areas. Free education is a real gift and opportunity for these children to find a way up but also to be inculcated with the moral values of Islam. From a purely Western perspective, this might seem threatening, might even evoke biased ideas of terrorism and possible Islamic fundamentalism. Our Western minds have been so warped by Islamophobia that such a reaction would be normal. But in the Central Asian world, where Islam took a foothold since the age of Tamerlane and beyond, it is a deeply ingrained means of sharing values to bind the communities that before the advent of Islam were animists, the sons, and daughters of Genghis Khan under the free sky, Tengri.
As we bade our farewells, I told the imam about the rosary I had bought Altai and my vain attempt to acquire a Quran in English from the bazaar. He told me to wait for him the next day; he would find one before I set off to leave Kyrgyzstan. We left the madrassa to go have a traditional banya with Altai and the guys. After purging the soul, it was time to clean the body. I told them I would meet them there on the other side of town.
As I rode through Bishkek, reflecting on what had happened in the last hours, a red Honda CBR 600 sports bike rode up next to me and broke my reveries. He had his girlfriend on the back of the bike; through the slit of his visor, I could see that he was a wild man. He checked me; I checked him back, the race was on. We whizzed through town at top speed, no time for introspection, it was time to survive and drive! After a few drag-style races between red lights, we pulled up next to each other, supercharged with adrenaline, fist pump, both of us wild-eyed and grinning. Nothing more needed to be said; I turned left, they went right. After all, the spirit of the Mongols is far from extinct, even in the modern cities of these nomadic settled people.
After the banya, we all parted ways and agreed to meet in the morning for coffee as Altai and his team returned to Kazakhstan and I departed for the southern hills of Kyrgyzstan on my way to the start of the notorious Pamir Highway across Tajikistan and along the Afghan border.
We met in the morning for hugs, coffees, and the imam turned up on his pushbike to hand me a copy of the Quran. I felt a sense of warmth and comfort with these people that I had never met before. A deep sense of sadness that I might not see them again overcame me. Especially Altai, for whom I had become very fond. He had been like a real brother to me during my time in Central Asia. I know I shall miss him deeply, his sharp wit, fun-seeking eyes. He had taught me a lot in the short time we had spent together, his words “go forth unafraid” will stay with me. I tried to hide my sadness at the departure, but in my heart, I felt heavy.
The Less Traveled Road to Tajikistan: Bishkek to Osh via Song Kul Lake and Kazarman Pass.
The bike fixed, soul nourished, and body rested, it was time to cross Kyrgyzstan from north to southwest across the whole country. From Bishkek, the capital, to the southwestern city of Osh. Through the mountain passes of Lake Song Kul and the central passes of Kazarman. From other travelers, I had heard that the regular tarmacked road from Bishkek was fluid but congested with drunk lorry drivers and not very pleasant. The alternative road was mainly “off-road” through the central hills using 4x4 tracks and over some pretty high passes above 3,500 meters; the choice was clear—always head for the hills!
These were my last few days in Kyrgyzstan, a place where I had felt a lot: new friends, a sense of unbridled freedom mixed with the harshness and unforgiving environment. I wanted more, not ready to settle for a sedated tarmac road. I wanted to see more nomads, be more in the wild.
The ride up to Song Kul was spectacular, climbing from 800 to 3,500 meters. Autumn had started showing its cold face, and the mountains surrounding the lake had been covered by a thin veil of bright snow shining in the morning sun. I found a small yurt camp by the lake and was greeted by a little half-wolf dogthat became my companion for the day. The night was cold but kept warm by the log fire in it.
My comfy sleep was interrupted by incessant barking all night from the little wolf dog, who must have been warding off some animals, maybe wolves or possibly ghosts. It had snowed heavily that night, transforming the plateau from its lush green to a shade of white and dramatic grays.
In the morning, Sheba, as I had tentatively named her, sneaked into my yurt to say good morning and get some cuddles. The yurts were owned by Shera Gul (gul meaning flower) and her husband. Shera, an elderly Kyrgyz lady with beautiful kind eyes and a very mild and warm manner, cooked a nice breakfast of eggs and bread with some local jams. I told her in broken Kyrgyz that I was a bit cold and looking for a sheepskin to put on my bike to stay warm. She took me by the hand and showed me one from one of the yurts. After some bartering, I bought it from her and offered her a flower from the plastic rose stalk that I had been offered by the mad Tartar in Uzbekistan.
Anxious to not get snowed in, I decided to leave a bit earlier than planned to ride down from the lake via the 29 laces routes, a collection of gravel hairpin bends leading to the Kazarman plateau. Halfway on my way to Kazarman, I was flagged down by some local villagers telling me the road was shut. They showed me a detour going through the hills on some good off-roading. Unsure of the road quality, I probed them on it. They smiled, looked at my bike, and said, "No problem." So, it was off through three high mountain passes to go round the road closure on a 100 km off-road track through a few mountain villages. On the way, I realized I had dropped a small container that held the rest of my Kyrgyz money. Cursing my bad admin, I now had to rush through this scenic road in the hope of making it to Kazarman, a small town that had a bank to exchange some of my remaining dollars. So, the race was on, and the pleasant off-road became a race against time to the bank.
As I arrived at the bank, the sun was setting, and a dark cloud that had been brewing in the distance decided to burst into heavy cold rain as I rode into town. Just as the heavens opened, I spotted the bank as it appeared to be closing. Shit out of luck, I stood outside the bank as it was closing, looking a bit sad and wet, not knowing where to stay. I lit a cigarette under the curious stare of the local town folk hurrying home from the rain, feeling a bit alone, frustrated at myself, and sad. From the bank emerged a young Kyrgyz man dressed in a suit. He asked me my name and what I was doing. I think he took pity on me. He told me not to worry. He happened to be the bank manager and reopened the bank. He handed me some Kyrgyz money that he took from his personal account in exchange for my dollars and told me he had just returned from the UK, where he had been picking strawberries in Wolverhampton! Whilst this was happening, another one of the workers joined our conversation. He asked me where I planned to stay that night. I told him I didn’t know. He said in broken English, "You stay with me; you're my guest." I followed him to his humble house on the outskirts of town, amidst rubble roads, free-roaming chickens, and hailing rain. He offered me a bed, tea; we had a quick chat. Talais was 25 years old and worked full time in the bank and studied at night. He told me that his house was mine and that he had to return to the bank to do his studies and left me there. Can you imagine someone doing this for a stranger in the UK? How is it possible that those who have the least are the ones willing to give the most? My heart was humbled by his generosity. I settled in for the night and had a great sleep. In the morning, we had breakfast together and were joined by his older brother. A devout Muslim, who also worked in the bank as a security guard. His brother told me he had been a security guard in Russia but had recently been deported by the police. He had been given a choice after being arbitrarily arrested of joining the Wagner Group or being deported to Kyrgyzstan. As a devout Muslim, he chose not to go fight what he described as Russia’s new imperial wars and returned to his humble life in Kazarman. Sadly, this is a recurrent story of the people suffering due to Putin’s unpopular war. Yet despite this, he and his brothers welcomed me with open arms into their home, fed me, and kept me safe.
Kazarman to Osh via Jalalabad
The road to Osh crossed the Saimzluu Tash Pass at 3,800 meters. The road was breathtaking, through craggy passes, muddy tracks, and culminated with a snow-covered pass. Tara and I got into a flow state and smashed through the tracks with deep precipices on one side and deep snow on the other. Not a soul in sight for hours. At the top of the pass, the view opened up onto Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and Kyrgyzstan at the bottom of the valley. Behind were the nomad plateaus that I was leaving behind for the plains and alluvial area.
The ride down the hill was equally adrenaline-fueled and exciting, with tight hairpin bends, crazy truck drivers, and a few river crossings. Arriving in Jalalabad and Osh, the weather started warming, and the vegetation changed from the green, lush, water-filled Kyrgyzstan to the dry, more arid, and desertic landscapes of Tajikistan and the foothills of the Pamirs and Hindu Kush. The heat was a shock, and so was the bustling life and activity of this region, a heavy trade route full of people, goods circulating on the roads, and vibrancy all following the rivers that bring life to this otherwise desertic landscape. The river teemed with rich, bountiful orchards and was teeming with life, a sharp contrast from the barren and wild mountains of Kyrgyzstan where only the tough and wild horse nomads live. Faces changed, more Tajik and Persian in appearance, a real mix of ethnicities, darker skin mixed with Asian features, some truly beautiful people, proud-looking and soft at the same time.
I arrived in Osh as the sun was setting. Osh is a small provincial town situated on the border of three countries. After a bit of a scramble to find a hostel and also being robbed by a desperate opium junkie, the temptation to fill him in was high, probably not the best way to make an entrance in a new town. The vulnerability of being on a bike can be tiring at times. People feel compelled to talk to you as if you were a form of flesh public utility. It can be exhausting at times to always have your guard up when in a new city. In rural areas, this happens less; people are kinder, less interested in what they have to gain or steal, just curious and happy to share.
I found a place to rest for a few days and prep for the Pamir. In the hostel, I made the acquaintance of Alex and Ellis, two young and beautiful British couple traveling from the UK to Australia in their done-up van. Ellis was a geography teacher in south London on a career break after almost burning out due to the weight of OFSTED, and Alex was a former ballet dancer. They were both charming and lots of fun. That night, we decided to cook spaghetti Bolognese in the hostel, and Alex made a delicious apple crumble. It was so nice to create a homely feeling of known food and share with such kind and vibrant people.
Belly and soul nourished by good company and good food, it was time for some much-needed rest
