Life in Bishkek is not exactly akin to a rat race, but sometimes one is gripped by rodent-like feelings and an overwhelming urge to escape to the sanctuary of the surrounding lakes and mountains. Hence I found myself trundling along the bumpy road to Son Kol, a pristine Alpine lake situated to the south of the Kyrgyz capital. Hailed as a jewel in Central Asia’s mysterious crown and famed for its rich jailoos, or pastures, it is used as a summer camp for both nomads and London School teachers alike (an international quartet of Kelly and Brett from America and Matt and I from Britain). My reverie of galloping across vast plains and rounding up stray quadrupeds was interrupted as our bus came scraping to a stop. Everyone scrambled out to investigate exactly which vital part had dropped off, and we were greeted with the mangled remains of a rear tyre. Lacking a jack, but fortunately not a spare, the men folk had to attempt their best Jean Val Jean impression and hoist the vehicle as high as they could so that the wheel could be replaced. The 
female contingent, namely Kelly and I, supervised.
Eventually, after all the activity that would make a chiropractor weep, we rolled into Kochkor, the nearest town to remote Son Kol. We immediately headed for the large blue “Community Based Tourism” sign that stood out like an oasis in the dusty brown street, hoping to find their representative. This popular grass roots scheme arranges for travellers to stay with local families in traditional Kyrgyz yurts, or tents, with most of the profit going to the relatively impoverished hosts. The representative was basking in the rays outside the office, and after confirming our reservation, she pointed us towards a sturdy-looking jeep that would, tyres withstanding, take us to a little piece of heaven 3,013 metres high on Earth.
A few hours later as our jeep slowly clambered over the rolling hills, the glinting surface of Son Kol grew bigger and bigger until we found ourselves confronted with an expanse of strikingly blue water that looked as if it was being cradled by the craggy limbs of the protective mountains. The jeep grumbled to a halt outside a pair of yurts, and our hostess came out to greet us with a babe in arms and another child shyly clinging to her legs. She showed us to the larger of the two yurts and went to prepare a light supper for us, while some men materialized from nowhere to construct a pit latrine.
Taking off our shoes, we stepped through the heavy felt door of the conical yurt (which always faces east) and gazed at the neat trellis of wooden poles that supported the white structure. The floor was covered in bright and intricately patterned rugs called shyrdaks that were illuminated by shards of light that shot through from the tunduk. A circular frame at the top of the yurt from which smoke escapes, the tunduk is so intrinsic to Kyrgyz culture that it is the centre-piece on the national flag. Indeed the highly portable yurt was at the crux of Kyrgyz life for thousands of years until the forced settlement of communities by the Soviet monolith, and still evokes nostalgia in the hearts of the population today.
After a leisurely cup of afternoon tea accompanied by thick, crusty bread smothered in cream and a selection of homemade jams worthy of The Savoy, we went for a stroll along the calm shores of the lake. Unbelievably quiet, the only movements were the waves gently slopping on the sand, the occasional bird twittering anxiously and flitting among the reeds as we walked past
its nest, or hovering stealthily above the waters, selecting the most succulent catch from the writhing shoal. Even the distant yurts blended in perfectly with the landscape, resembling squatting clouds mulling over the day’s events. A small family cantered past us, the youngest boy clutching a twitching, glistening prized fish. His ruddy face beamed with pride as he tottered after the soft footsteps of his father’s horse.
Returning to our yurt our hostess nodded towards the dozens of horses scattered gracefully over the pasture and asked if we would like to, “eat one”. I politely declined, declaring myself to be vegetarian. I couldn’t understand why she looked so puzzled until Kelly pointed out that I had overestimated my Russian abilities and that she had actually said, “ride one”. I immediately resolved that my Russian dictionary would be my bedtime reading.
Dinner was a large bowl of steaming noodles, without a hint of equine, which we ate sitting on the floor around the small table in the middle of the yurt. As a digestif we were offered a drink of traditional Koumys – fermented mare’s milk. Legendary for challenging the stomach, I tried a little before deciding it was not really for me, and I would stick to tea. Matt however necked two cups. I feared for him, and our latrine.
Without any warning, the mountainous air suddenly turned bitterly cold and enveloped our foolishly t-shirt clad bodies. To get warm, we made up the beds on the floor, ensuring we had at least six blankets each to huddle under, rather like princesses without peas.
With chattering teeth we took in the beauty of the sunset that cast soothing pastels across the wide plain. It touched the tops of the yurts and the backs of the slumbering horses with a soft light, and transformed the lake into the colour of thick blue paint that would eventually shade the sky too.
We put out the gas lamp and settled into sleep. Or tried to. Our driver decided to practice his DJing skills with Russian pop using the car stereo for an hour. Finally, hardly able to move under
the weight of all the quilts, I drifted off trying to remember the exact final words of Captain Oates, should I need to use them.
I woke up in the morning speckled with beads of sweat thinking that perhaps I had been excessive in my frostbite paranoia. We guzzled breakfast and sat by the water’s edge, skimming stones across the crinkled surface for a while, before being summoned to our jeep. We were rather far from Bishkek, and to avoid being stranded (as had happened to Kelly and I on a previous venture and had to hitch back) in the middle of nowhere we had to leave early to catch the bus. Thanking our hostess, we clambered into the car and staggered off along the slopes towards the twisting and ragged road that led north. Several times we inched our way through clusters of shepherds urging their livestock ever forwards: camels, goats, sheep, horses, cows – and teachers – all plodding on to pastures new.
female contingent, namely Kelly and I, supervised.Eventually, after all the activity that would make a chiropractor weep, we rolled into Kochkor, the nearest town to remote Son Kol. We immediately headed for the large blue “Community Based Tourism” sign that stood out like an oasis in the dusty brown street, hoping to find their representative. This popular grass roots scheme arranges for travellers to stay with local families in traditional Kyrgyz yurts, or tents, with most of the profit going to the relatively impoverished hosts. The representative was basking in the rays outside the office, and after confirming our reservation, she pointed us towards a sturdy-looking jeep that would, tyres withstanding, take us to a little piece of heaven 3,013 metres high on Earth.
A few hours later as our jeep slowly clambered over the rolling hills, the glinting surface of Son Kol grew bigger and bigger until we found ourselves confronted with an expanse of strikingly blue water that looked as if it was being cradled by the craggy limbs of the protective mountains. The jeep grumbled to a halt outside a pair of yurts, and our hostess came out to greet us with a babe in arms and another child shyly clinging to her legs. She showed us to the larger of the two yurts and went to prepare a light supper for us, while some men materialized from nowhere to construct a pit latrine.
Taking off our shoes, we stepped through the heavy felt door of the conical yurt (which always faces east) and gazed at the neat trellis of wooden poles that supported the white structure. The floor was covered in bright and intricately patterned rugs called shyrdaks that were illuminated by shards of light that shot through from the tunduk. A circular frame at the top of the yurt from which smoke escapes, the tunduk is so intrinsic to Kyrgyz culture that it is the centre-piece on the national flag. Indeed the highly portable yurt was at the crux of Kyrgyz life for thousands of years until the forced settlement of communities by the Soviet monolith, and still evokes nostalgia in the hearts of the population today.After a leisurely cup of afternoon tea accompanied by thick, crusty bread smothered in cream and a selection of homemade jams worthy of The Savoy, we went for a stroll along the calm shores of the lake. Unbelievably quiet, the only movements were the waves gently slopping on the sand, the occasional bird twittering anxiously and flitting among the reeds as we walked past
its nest, or hovering stealthily above the waters, selecting the most succulent catch from the writhing shoal. Even the distant yurts blended in perfectly with the landscape, resembling squatting clouds mulling over the day’s events. A small family cantered past us, the youngest boy clutching a twitching, glistening prized fish. His ruddy face beamed with pride as he tottered after the soft footsteps of his father’s horse.Returning to our yurt our hostess nodded towards the dozens of horses scattered gracefully over the pasture and asked if we would like to, “eat one”. I politely declined, declaring myself to be vegetarian. I couldn’t understand why she looked so puzzled until Kelly pointed out that I had overestimated my Russian abilities and that she had actually said, “ride one”. I immediately resolved that my Russian dictionary would be my bedtime reading.
Dinner was a large bowl of steaming noodles, without a hint of equine, which we ate sitting on the floor around the small table in the middle of the yurt. As a digestif we were offered a drink of traditional Koumys – fermented mare’s milk. Legendary for challenging the stomach, I tried a little before deciding it was not really for me, and I would stick to tea. Matt however necked two cups. I feared for him, and our latrine.
Without any warning, the mountainous air suddenly turned bitterly cold and enveloped our foolishly t-shirt clad bodies. To get warm, we made up the beds on the floor, ensuring we had at least six blankets each to huddle under, rather like princesses without peas.
With chattering teeth we took in the beauty of the sunset that cast soothing pastels across the wide plain. It touched the tops of the yurts and the backs of the slumbering horses with a soft light, and transformed the lake into the colour of thick blue paint that would eventually shade the sky too.
We put out the gas lamp and settled into sleep. Or tried to. Our driver decided to practice his DJing skills with Russian pop using the car stereo for an hour. Finally, hardly able to move under
the weight of all the quilts, I drifted off trying to remember the exact final words of Captain Oates, should I need to use them.I woke up in the morning speckled with beads of sweat thinking that perhaps I had been excessive in my frostbite paranoia. We guzzled breakfast and sat by the water’s edge, skimming stones across the crinkled surface for a while, before being summoned to our jeep. We were rather far from Bishkek, and to avoid being stranded (as had happened to Kelly and I on a previous venture and had to hitch back) in the middle of nowhere we had to leave early to catch the bus. Thanking our hostess, we clambered into the car and staggered off along the slopes towards the twisting and ragged road that led north. Several times we inched our way through clusters of shepherds urging their livestock ever forwards: camels, goats, sheep, horses, cows – and teachers – all plodding on to pastures new.
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