HIV/AIDS Peer Education, China

December the First is World AIDS Day and Xifeng is being painted red. Not by communists or drunken revellers, but by HIV ribbons and awareness posters.
From 2005 the Chinese Ministry of Education will require that all college and secondary school students receive basic sex and HIV and AIDS education. To compliment this, part of Voluntary Services Overseas’ strategy for China is to combat HIV and AIDS though integrating it into our lessons and though peer education. Our aim is to equip students with some skills to teach this topic for when they go on to become middle and primary school teachers, and remove some of the taboo and fear surrounding it. This is crucial when you consider that there is an estimated forty million people with HIV and AIDS world wide (China alone potentially having ten million by 2010), and nine out of ten unaware that they have it. Fifteen thousand people a day are added to this tally – almost twice the population of Wick.
Spearheading VSO’s peer education initiative is the ‘Dandelion Project’. I am fortunate enough to be involved in this and attended a conference last May in Beijing to learn about it. Two of my students, Wu Ling and Lei Teng Fei also attended. The ‘Dandelion Project’ is so-called because the image of the dandelion represents the students involved in the peer education. The essential premise is that students are trained how to raise awareness about HIV and AIDS and will then spread the ‘seed’ of knowledge among their peers. By using Chinese students, the project is made more sustainable, less pedagogical (therefore less daunting), and as the lessons are in Chinese, facilitates a greater understanding of the issues around HIV.
Knowing how to protect oneself from HIV is one thing, but one of the greatest challenges to a person living with HIV or AIDS is the way that other people treat them. A key focus of the ‘Dandelion Project’ is to de-stigmatise those with HIV and AIDS. Prime Minister Wen Jia Bao recently highlighted this when he visited an HIV and AIDS clinic in China and shook hands with a patient. Additionally the Chinese Government is considering the idea of allowing HIV carriers (although not AIDS patients) to be appointed to civil service positions.
When we returned to Xifeng after the journey to Beijing, Wu Ling, Lei Teng Fei and myself trained an additional eight students (four boys and four girls) to assist us in our project. Zhang Hui, one of the ten peer educators said, “I wanted to take part in this project to help people who have HIV and AIDS. I feel it is important in my life to inform my friends and family about how to protect themselves.”
Each weekend we involve two classes, which we divide in to groups of two (altogether four groups). Each group is taught by a male and a female peer educator to encourage co-operation of the genders and show that men and women can work together to prevent HIV. So far the project has met with great success. The peer educators are doing a fantastic job and I am very proud of them. We hope to extend it to other departments in the College next term, as well as possibly to middle schools.
Education is the ultimate way of preventing the spread of HIV. Though methods of transmission, for example unprotected sex, is a taboo subject, it is essential to discuss them. Many international organizations and governments refuse to promote knowledge about contraception, but the fact is that many people, particularly women in the less developed world, have little choice about their sexual activities. Indeed gender inequality is at the heart of the HIV epidemic in developing countries. Women need to be empowered to assert their rights and negotiate relationships, and men need to be aware that this is acceptable.
If people know how to protect themselves, HIV can be stopped. Young people are the future. Working with them to give them the skills and knowledge for a healthy and happy life is imperative in the battle against the HIV pandemic. The UN Global Fund to fight AIDS hoped to raise ten billion US Dollars a year to do this, yet since June 2001 only three point two billion in total has been pledged by world governments. Apathy and denial are as big a threat as HIV itself.

Wedding, Kyrgyrzstan

We're always told that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. International experts have long recommended at least one portion of fruit, a slow-burning carbohydrate, a little protein and water to kick start the body. This particular morning my bleary eyes flitted between the three shots of vodka lined up before me, and the eager faces of the rest of the wedding party who had arisen from their comas induced by the night before. Remembering that other piece of advice, “Hair of the Dog”, my liver accepted it's fate to disintegrate into foie gras. Vitamins would just have to wait.
My friend Neil, who was visiting from the UK, and I were experiencing the day after the wedding ceremony of Umyt and Maksat (Maksat being the brother of my good friend Asel, who also works in the London School) in the small village of Kemin, a few hours outside of Bishkek. The ceremony was the culmination of festivities that lasted for one month and ran into thousands of dollars and dozens of slaughtered sheep to celebrate the beginning of a new life together for the young couple (However Central Asia also has a history of bride kidnapping - a practice that is thankfully dying out). Usually the bride moves into the family home, and over the course of the month they receive many guests bringing gifts and wishes for the future. The bride’s parents present her with a large chest of clothes and household goods, such as furniture, as a kind of ‘dowry’.
The ceremony itself was a fairly simple ritual. The invited guests gathered in the drive of the family house around the bridal car, which was adorned with balloons, streamers and a plastic wedding couple. The eldest member of the family - an nonagenarian - gave her blessing and said a prayer. She finished the ritual with the “amin”, a gesture widely used in Central Asia to “give thanks to God”, involving holding the palms out to the skies then passing the hands together over the face. After her solemn words, Maksat’s father also gave his blessing, before the happy couple and their friends packed into three cars to drive around and take photos around Kemin.
The first stop was the holy spring, so that everyone could sup in the goodness and purity before balancing it out with champagne and vodka. The wedding party gathered around the spring, and Maksat introduced everyone and toasted his new wife, before we proceeded to a memorial statue for Kyrgyz killed in the Bolshevik Revolution. Several refugees had fled across the treacherous mountain border to China seeking sanctuary from the Soviets, but alas they were not welcomed and many perished there too. In keeping with wedding traditions, the couple laid some flowers at the feet of the poignant, huddled family depicted in stone.
The final stop was a rather pretty forest with a small river running through it. The champagne continued to flow, as did the toasts. Suddenly it was decided that it would be a great idea to shoot a mini Bollywood film, so the car radios were turned to “blaring”, and the men jokingly danced through the trees towards Umyt, who was trying desperately not to laugh.
A million photographs later we arrived at the hotel for the reception. It was filled with, I suspect, the entire populous, including an ex-prime minister and two famous Kyrgyz singers. Every table was groaning with fruit, alcohol, bread and all manner of salads. Everyone stood up to welcome Maksat and Umyt as they entered the hall. They bowed to both sets of parents to show their respect, signed the register, then sat down at the top table.
During the course of the evening a variety of soups, meats, and traditional Kyrgyz dishes were served, along with an alarming number of vodka shots and toasts. This was interspersed with speeches from each table, who collectively went up to present their gifts to the newly-weds. Inevitably Neil and I had to face the microphone. I attempted the not so easy task of standing straight (my joints being rather well oiled by this stage), speaking in Russian and trying to calm my rouging face at the same time. I stuttered my thanks and best wishes and thrust the microphone into Neil’s hand. He gave a brief speech in English, and everyone politely listened and smiled approvingly at the exotic language hitting their ears, before we scurried back to our table. As a kind of wedding favour, I was presented with a book on the “Kyrgyz Steven Segal”, whilst Neil received a kalpak, the traditional Kyrgyz hat.
The subsequent cutting of the beautiful cake adorned with nuzzling swans was followed by enthusiastic dancing to a bizarre mix of new and traditional music. Needless to say my brain was operating on soft focus by this stage, and the end of the evening remains a blur.
And so I found myself of a delicate disposition on that Sunday morning continuing the liquid diet. The second day of the wedding is traditionally the day when the bride’s family visit the groom’s home to eat, drink and be merry. They started to arrive in the early afternoon, and I heaved a great sigh of relief as I saw that the majority of them were well over sixty. Perhaps I wouldn’t end up as a Damien Hurst exhibit after all. How wrong I was.
Neil and I mingled with the guests all day, and were inevitably plied with food and drink at regular intervals. Guests included one eighty year old woman who declared she never drank while necking several shots of vodka whenever the occasion arose, and a man slumped on a chair whose wife insisted he was “not drunk but ill”. The eau de vodka he was wearing seemed to contradict this, but we nodded with understanding anyway.
As evening began to fall, the whole congregation gathered around a large table laden with yet more food. The “ill” man was crowd surfed along till he reached a space where he could be propped against a wall. There was the usual toasts and gorging ourselves till we resembled satiated walruses lounging on a beach. My wedding gift to Maksat and Umyt had been a bottle of Old Poultney that I had brought with me in case such an event arose. Half way through the evening, it was used to wish everyone prosperity and happiness. Thinking of the motherland, my heart swelled with emotion and in my drunken pride I announced a toast to world peace and unity among all peoples. Everyone raised their glasses in agreement, and smiled pleasantly at the warmth that flowed from the whisky gliding down their throats.
The woman who “never touched a drop” suddenly announced that it was vital to dance outside to a loud selection of Russian pop music. We all stumbled out into the garden in the drizzling rain and boogied like there was no tomorrow. But if tomorrow did come we were prepared - there was more than enough vodka for breakfast.

Laos, Vietnam, Southern China

Slurping my noodle soup from the bowl, I became aware that no one else was guzzling their food in the same fashion, choosing to use the provided spoons instead. Perhaps I was making a social faux pas? Don’t they eat like this in Laos? Living in rural China certainly does not help one’s table manners. I decided to use the spoon.
I was in Luang Prabang for my holidays - the second biggest city in the tiny country of Laos. Though not as developed as its neighbour Vietnam, investment and infrastructure are slowly seeping into this sleepy backwater. It was the perfect antidote after a hectic end of term when the nerves of teacher and student alike are frayed. I had come to Luang Prabang after a couple of days in the capital Vientiane, and in the backpacker haven of Vang Vien (The main lure of Vang Vien being ‘tubing’, where you float down river in a rubber ring beside fellow troubadours while supping on a cool beer. As you drift, there are a few siren-like locals who entice you with their sweet words of, “Beer Lao Beer Lao Beer Lao”. Should you succumb, they ‘fish’ you over to the side with a bamboo pole, and replenish your beverage.).
Luang Prabang is the perfect place to meander, admire the winding Mekong and indulge in the local poison: Lao Lao whisky. Traditionally, it is served from a jar with snakes perched inside, and, if you are lucky, a few choice spiders and lizards. The locals claim it is very good for you, particularly for the libido. I suspect, however, that it will make you blind rather than being a miracle aphrodisiac.
Phonsavan is a day’s bus journey away from Luang Prabang, and is home to the mysterious ‘Plain of Jars’. These are giant, ancient relics that are thought to be burial urns from thousands of years ago. Incredibly, the majority of the hundreds of jars remain unscathed. Laos has the distinction, albeit rather dubious, of being the most bombed country on Earth (1.1 million tones of explosives were dropped on between 1965 and 1969). During the Vietnam War, both the CIA and the North Vietnamese flouted the 1962 Geneva Agreement that stipulated Laos was neutral territory. The CIA launched a brutal and indiscriminate carpet bombing campaign in an attempt to destroy the ‘Ho Chi Minh Trail’ in eastern Laos that the North Vietnamese communists used for supplies. My guide was a young boy when he and his family were forced to flee Phonsavan for the safety of Vientiane. When they returned there was, “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The Agent Orange had killed all the trees and plants, and the bombs had destroyed all the houses”. Indeed the unexploded ordnance used still poses a real threat to the large population of farmers tending their land and to playing children, with devastating results. In fact a bomb had been removed from one of the jar sites just the day before I went there. The government has launched a massive campaign to raise awareness about bomb safety and to train locals how to detonate them. Today the land is still deeply pockmarked, and in some areas the flora is sparse, but the scars of Laos and her people seem to be healing slowly.
I proceeded to neighbouring Vietnam, where Hanoi was resplendent in red flags commemorating 75 years of communism under the stewardship of ‘Uncle’ Ho Chi Minh, as well as the upcoming Vietnamese new year, ‘Tet’. Exhausted, I decided to splash out on a single room instead of a dormitory, with the luxury of a television. I switched it on and was presented with pictures of a scrum of sweaty puffing men in a street. I had a feeling I had seen this place before, and realized it was a documentary on ‘The Ba’ in Orkney. Gob smacked, I reminisced for a bit before heading into another scrum outside – the motorbikes of Hanoi.
The motorbikes resemble swarms of livid bees buzzing around, seemingly determined to bring anyone within a metre of them to the verge of a heart attack. Crossing a Vietnamese road is an art form that I never quite perfected, and I take my hat off to those who can casually stroll to the other side of the street while dodging hundreds of speeding bikes aiming for you from all directions.
The main attraction of Hanoi is the bustling old quarter. Full of architectural wonder and a million interesting shops, temples and snack stalls tucked away in every corner, it is the epitome of classic Vietnam. Despite possessing a map, I was perpetually lost, with even a trip to buy fruit taking an hour as I hopelessly wandered around the deceptive labyrinthine streets.
I went on a three day boat trip around the Vietnamese coastal area of Halong Bay with its 3000 islands piercing the glassy Gulf of Tonkin. ‘Halong’ is derived from the Chinese for, ‘where the dragon descended into the sea’, on account of a legend that says the craggy karst peaks were created by a dragon with his thrashing tail. Although it was drizzling and bitterly cold, the bay was stunning. After a year and a half of not seeing the ocean, it was fantastic to get the chance to kayak in the azure waters and flit in and out of caves, arches and beaches.
I also visited the Northern minority tribe area, Sapa, well known for its rice terraces and techno-coloured markets. The ridged terraces ran along the hills and mountains as far as the eye could see. Though not harvesting season, it was easy to imagine the backbreaking work that the farmers endured during the summer months. I attended one of the local markets – a throng of minorities haggling and vending in their long pleated hair and stunning scarves and dresses. It is possible to distinguish the minorities by the colours and styles that they wear. I was not very successful in my observations, as I was being beaten up and thrown aside by determined old women making their way to somewhere important; and gasping at the dog carcasses doomed to be dinner and the raucous cock fights.
Feeling it was time to head back into more familiar territory, I went north into China, through Guangxi province to the Paris of the East: Shanghai. It is a truly dynamic place pinned down by the gigantic Pearl and Jin Mao buildings on the Bund. It is unlike anywhere else in China - even Beijing. Glittering and groaning with decadence, luxury and liberalism, it resembles Europe more than Asia. It is not hard to believe that this city is one of the steaming engines behind China’s surging economy. Entranced by the abundance of neon lights and foreigners, I couldn’t resist hitting the tiles before I headed back to my sedate life in Gansu Province. With the chosen venue full of inhabitants who looked like they belonged on a Star Wars set and a smattering of classics by The Village People and Kylie, my holiday was rounded off nicely.
Arriving back in Xifeng after gruelling train and bus journeys across China, it was eerily quiet as most people had gone back home to the countryside for the Spring Festival. The town was sprinkled with red lanterns signalling the end of the holiday, the occasional firecracker wielding child and a sky aglow with fireworks. The next day, as the population returned to begin work in the year of the rooster, there was a parade through the town centre. Strangely similar to the Gala Week parade (though sans the plethora of coppers and air perfumed with vodka breath), the main features were Chinese opera artists and innumerable dragons, dancing and pirouetting to the beat of huge drums to bring good luck and prosperity to everyone. I hope it works.

Kyrgyzstan - The Deep South

They say that a week is a long time in politics, but I am inclined to believe that it is even longer in Kyrgyzstan. This was especially true of my week-long holiday spent traversing around the Southern part of the country with Kelly (who hails from Texas), a fellow teacher from the London School in Bishkek.
We bundled ourselves into the shared taxi on a dreich Saturday morning for the twelve hour game of chicken that was the road to Osh - Kyrgyzstan’s second biggest city. En route we stopped for a bite to eat in a small lake-side restaurant. Being vegetarian, I opted for the only non-meat option of fried eggs. After struggling somewhat with using the single fork that had been provided to hack up my heart attack on a plate, I requested a knife. The proprietor obliged me by giving a bloody cleaver a quick wipe on a rag and handing it to me. Not quite silver service, but close enough.
Eventually arriving in Osh, we discovered that there was no water in the entire city. Our hotel assured us that the water would return by the evening, and offered the puzzling explanation that every time it rains the government turns off the water to prevent flooding. Too tired to question, we repaired to our beds in order to get an early start the next day.
One of the oldest cities in Central Asia, Osh is thought to have been founded by King Solomon, hence the name of the great crag protruding from the city’s heart: Sulayman Mountain. We clambered to the summit where it is said the Prophet Mohammed once prayed, and took in the clear views of the city, the sun glinting off the occasional mosque and Orthodox church. Osh is also known as the home of the traditional kalpak – the slightly comical felt hat that instantly transforms one into a garden gnome, and is sported by older generations of Kyrgyz men. Accordingly we stocked up, not only to do our part for the local economy, but also to mask our increasingly dishevelled appearance.
On returning to our hotel, we asked if the water was back on. The rebarbative middle-aged attendant with hennaed hair grunted, “Nyet”. Did they have anywhere we could go to use the toilet? Pouting her head towards a door, she barked, “The foreigners want a toilet!” Promptly, two minions came scurrying out with large pails of river water in their hands, and escorted us to the rather malodorous facilities.
Later that evening, feeling very cold, we requested more blankets to supplement the paltry bed clothes we had been given. Despite being practically the only residents in the hotel, the attendant stubbornly refused to part with any sheets as “other guests might need them”. Wearing all our clothes in our rickety wooden beds and resembling homeless tramps huddled on benches, Kelly and I decided that it was time to move on.
Taking a shared taxi (the easiest method of transport in a land lacking in tarmac and timetables) north to Jalalabad the next morning, we were chauffeured by a man with a full set of gold teeth, and by all appearances, an appetite to match. He quizzed us non-stop the full two and a half hours it took to reach Jalalabad, with oddities like, “Do you have mushrooms in Scotland?” “Do you like watching cows?” He did not hesitate to tell Kelly that at twenty nine she was far too old for marriage, but that he would happily take her on. However, in order to be a good Kyrgyz wife, she must behave, or he would beat her with a horsewhip. When Kelly replied that actually she would beat him with it, he shook his head forlornly and mumbled that the marriage could never work. We made our getaway as quickly as we could.
Jalalabad was also sans basic sanitation, but it is known for its natural hot springs, which potentially offered salvation from our tramp-like state. At the spa the matronly woman on duty informed us that there were no towels or soap and shoved us into a room with baths partitioned off from each other. She pointed me towards a large tub slowly filling up with steaming water. Unsure quite what I should be doing, and afraid that if I took off my clothes I might be arrested for indecency, I shouted over the partition to Kelly, “Are you taking your clothes off?” “I’m already in!” was the response. Dutifully I slipped in and wondered at how much dirt one could accumulate whilst on the road. Post-soak we had the dilemma of nothing to dry ourselves off with. Luckily I had brought our supply of toilet paper, and after co-ordinating our movements by ducking round walls and open doors, I managed to give half of the sandpaper-esque roll to Kelly. It was not the most effective system of drying I have ever used, but it did offer some exfoliation as an added bonus.
After a few days strolling around the bazaars and parks, we felt the desire to go explore the snow-covered peaks that cradle the South of Kyrgyzstan. Despite the sound of its name, Arslanbob is a pretty mountain village right on the Uzbekistan border and home to some of the largest fruit and nut trees in the world. We were able to stay with a young family, who fed us and showed us around the area as part of the fledgling ‘community based tourism’ movement. Misha, the head of the family, arranged for us to go horse trekking along the small yet powerful river that gushed through the village. The flow was fuelled by two beautiful waterfalls, each adorned with cloth ‘wishes’ and ‘prayers’ from hopeful visitors. It was tempting to try to have a proper wash in them, but our horses continually bickered and couldn’t be left alone for fear that they would nip each other to death.
Misha then took us to visit his grandparents. His grandfather was one hundred years old and his grandmother eighty-six. He was husband number three for her, having been horrendously abused by the previously two unsuitable matches her parents chose for her. A rather sweet couple, the grandmother looked constantly startled with her large jam jar glasses tied on with a piece of string, and they both had a penchant for dropping off during conversation. It was hard to reconcile them with the image of the story that they told. Misha’s grandfather had been sent to Berlin during the Second World War and served there for five years. While he was at the Front battling Nazis and avoiding Stalinist purges, Misha’s grandmother raised nineteen children alone. Six of her children had died, but her sister had also passed away leaving progeny, and she had taken them on as her own. After the end of the war, they continued with the farm, eking out a living from it, which they continue to do today with the help of their family. We left Arslanbob feeling a little humble, and ready to head back to Bishkek.
Our rickety old bus was held together by rust and dirt, and looked like Fred Flintstone should be at the helm. Rather pleased we had managed to secure the spacious back seats, we were joined by a one-eyed vagrant who plonked himself down beside us. Alas the already stifling air was made even more oppressive as he muttered constantly, breathing fumes that ought to have been declared a weapon of mass destruction. A few hours into the journey, just as we were wishing we had brought our chloroform with us, our bus spluttered to a standstill. Still some distance from the nearest town, we heaved a big sigh and squatted in resignation at the side of the road. We watched as the other passengers yelled and screamed at the two bus drivers, who seemed to have no idea how an engine worked. Giving up any hope of vehicular assistance, we were all about to attempt the long slog home, when help came in the most unexpected form. A bus full of Muslim imams pulled up and offered us a lift all the way to Bishkek. Alas, the only space they had for us was in a small ‘roof rack’ on the inside of the car. After scrambling up into it in a rather ungainly way, we were able to lie across it in relative comfort, noses not quite scraping off the top. We stopped several times so that the imams could do their ritual ablutions, and they insisted that they were not allowed to see us: we had to we had to wait for them to get out of the bus before we could come down from the roof rack and go up before they came back. Whether this was because we offended their beliefs or nostrils, I will never know.
Nine hours later we were dropped off outside our home at 3.30 am in the pouring rain. After a hot shower I stretched out wearily in bed, appreciative I didn't have to share with baggage.

Lake Son-Kol, Kyrgyzstan

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.

India

THE rickshaw zigzagged deftly through the swarming, pulsating throng that passed for traffic in Delhi.
Two lanes were marked, but there were definitely 4.5 rows of cars, rickshaws, motorbikes, taxis, cattle and pedestrians blaring horns, throwing up dust and jostling for supremacy.
For one who has convulsions when she hits the Longman roundabout, it was rather disconcerting. However, my rickshaw, like most others, had a shoe tied to it acting as a talisman to ward off the "evil eye". All would be well.
Of course there are a lot of preconceived notions about India, but nothing ever really prepares you for what comes ahead. One of the first things to strike you about the former jewel in the Empire's crown is that it is truly a land of contrasts, however clichéd that may seem. The smog-smothered streets are punctuated with luxury buildings and cars: bold markers declaring the wealth and success that is spreading here, and of a behemoth seeking its rightful position in the world.
Life constantly mills around these status symbols. In the morning you are woken up by the soft batting of cricketers completing runs around the bovine spectators, as armies of workers (often those who have moved to the city from desperately poor provinces) make their way to their place of employment. Women flit through the dirty brown streets like birds of paradise in their vibrant saris to clean houses or cars, while men carry Herculean weights of goods to be sold at market. Or maybe to work in one of the countless textile factories crammed into every available space in the city. Each nimbly avoids the numerous filthy bundles at the roadsides which suddenly reveal themselves as a homeless family, a fattened, slumbering stray dog or a pile of refuse proving irresistible to a cow.
Though there seems to be a never-ending supply of menial tasks to keep people in employment, in a country of 1.1 billion it has not prevented the lowest castes from falling into the Stygian hell that is beggardom. There is truly nothing more heart-wrenching on this Earth than to have a bedraggled two-year-old child pathetically tap your foot in want of a banana, or a hunched old woman desperate for few pounds that would shelter and feed her for several months, or to see a man with his fly-infested leg slung over his shoulder drag himself though the streets. The poor are with us always, but they seem to be particularly omnipresent in India. It occurred to me, as I watched part of Delhi's old city wall being restored by extremely poor labourers carrying huge chunks of brick on their heads, that all the magnificent buildings I planned to see had literally been built on the backs of the poor. India's architecture is certainly a testament to creativity and ingenuity, but at a poignant human price.
Still, the Taj Mahal in Agra was utterly astounding. A memorial to Mumtaz Mahal, Shah Jahan's second wife, who died in childbirth, it was just breathtaking. In typical Mughal style, it is surrounded by geometric bodies of water alongside lush green lawns that lead up to the legendary marble dome. The four pillars that flank it are imperceptibly tilted out so that if there is an earthquake they will collapse on unsuspecting tourists, rather on than the attraction itself.
The other reason people go to Agra is to see the rather opulent Fatehpur Sikri. This was a planned city built during the 16th century by the wily Emperor Akbar, who had three official wives: one Hindu, one Christian and one Muslim (and hundreds more concubines). The partial ruin contains an enormous functioning mosque, incredibly intricate and well-preserved artwork, and an escape tunnel to Lahore. However, although the king may have been thinking about the afterlife, he forgot about the here and now, and built his town on a dry area. Not long after the entourage had settled there they had to leave because the water supply ran out. Perhaps Buddha had been peeved at the snubbing of his faith.

Ruth has a go at riding a rickshaw in Agra.
One of the most interesting places that I saw in Delhi was Chandni Chowk. You step off the new pristine metro and find yourself catapulted into meandering streets full of spices, clothes, beautiful buildings, hidden temples, shrines, orange garlands and the lingering scent of incense. The food served along the way in tiny restaurants and kiosks looked and smelled fantastic, but the family who were showing me around (and with whom I stayed) insisted that I shouldn't eat, "That... that... that... that... that... that or that." A little dejected, I also didn't want Delhi belly, but what I did eat was rich in flavour and texture, and cooked to perfection. It was also a vegetarian's paradise, with a vast array of dishes to choose from, though as an egg-eater (the theory being that eggs give life) I was not considered as bona fide.
MUCH more glamorous and affluent, and only a bit less effluent, the Bollywood capital of Mumbai is one of the fastest-growing cities in the world. The best way to get around Mumbai is to use the local trains. These are divided into men's and women's compartments (a few men have a penchant for groping in crowds) and are utter chaos at peak times. It is no wonder that yoga originated in India, as you see people hanging out of the train doors, clinging on for dear life, or lounging on the roof. This costs one or two lives daily, but no-one takes heed of the warning signs. Rather foolishly I had thought that the women's compartment would be somewhat civilised for travelling – but, as I found myself slowly becoming part of the wall with my face in a variety of armpits, I was proved wrong.
Of course, we went to see the obligatory Bollywood film. Bollywood is one of the most popular film industries in the world, and is mostly light-hearted, surreal fun with Eurovision-style songs sprinkled liberally throughout. Having been advised on a film to watch, I entered the cinema and took my rather wobbly seat, cheese-flavoured popcorn in hand. The screen flashed: Stand up for the National Anthem. Was this a trailer? No. I stood up, hands on my heart, contemplating with the rest of the audience what the nation had had to do for independence. The film was set in London, and was about five hours long. There was the usual "one moment on the Tube being shot at by gangsters, the next moment dancing around Trafalgar Square with flowers singing love songs at incredibly high pitches", but I thought that actually it wasn't too far-fetched for a typical Saturday night out in the capital.
India is famed for its national parks too, so in order to get some tranquillity and a wee bit of karma I went to the Bharatphur nature reserve, near Jaipur in the north. After two weeks of the constant barrage of noise and humans and dirt, the silence and cleanliness was a bit discomfiting. Hiring a bike and cycling around the park for a couple of days whilst keeping eyes peeled for exotic birds (alas no scorries pass through here on migratory routes) and animals was the ultimate way to end this mere dipping of a toe into this unique land.
It is no wonder that India has always held so much fascination for so many. The sheer assault on the senses is both repelling yet incredibly tempting. As the global spotlight focuses on Asia, this is a siren whose song will lure many more.

Uzbekistan

I PASSED through Kyrgyzstan’s western border with dozens of sun-baked men and women shuffling along beside me. The men wore dark colours and thick boots, while the women were best viewed from behind sunglasses, lest the garish colours and sequins render one blind. I was on my way to the eastern part of Uzbekistan known as the Fergana Valley, once part of the ancient Silk Road. My first stop was the small town of Andijan. A pretty place in its own right, it will always be remembered as the site of the 2005 massacre of pro-democracy protesters by the government, with hundreds thought to have been killed. The incident and the subsequent exodus of refugees into Kyrgyzstan has put a considerable strain on Kyrgyz/Uzbek relations, and led to the EU imposing an arms embargo, though the previous year the British ambassador Craig Murray was allegedly relieved of his post by the British government for criticising president Karimov’s appalling human rights record lest access to Uzbekistan’s gas and mineral reserves be blocked.
After a stroll through the tree-lined streets I enlisted one of the hundreds of “shared” taxis and set off for my next stop, Fergana city. My fellow passengers, two teenage girls, struck up a conversation with me, which was slow and painful on account of my poor Russian. They were on their way to their friend Monica’s house, and invited me along as she had studied English at university and didn’t get to meet many native speakers. She was now a housewife with a one-year-old boy. Interestingly her parents were magicians, and the evening was spent with Monica and her mother regaling me with stories of their performances around the Middle East in the 1980s and ’90s.
The next day they took me to see the still-functioning circus in the nearby town of Kokand. The acrobats, with clothing and piercings that would not have looked out of place in a punk band, must have raised an eyebrow or two amongst the conservative locals. Kokand was once a major religious centre in Central Asia, though only a handful of the old buildings remain. The most impressive structure in the town is the former palace of the khan, who was forced into exile in 1874. The entrance looks like a yawning mouth, the drawbridge like a big lolling stone tongue. The thick walls hide beautiful courtyards and a small rock garden. Monica’s mother revealed that she was descended from the khan’s sixth concubine (the busy man had four wives and a 43-strong harem), and had been told only a few years before by a cousin. She, naturally, gets in for free.
After bidding farewell to my new friends, I went to the capital Tashkent, the fourth-biggest city in the former Soviet Union. It is a typically drab Soviet city but it is peppered with interesting statues, in particular that of Tamerlane, or “Timur the Lame”. Descended from Genghis Kahn, he was born near Samarkand in 1336 and became one of the greatest rulers of Central Asia. His domain stretched from Turkey to India in the last half of the 14th century, and his offspring founded the Mogul (a corruption of Mongol) empire in India. The Moguls were renowned for their architecture, particularly domed “onion” roofs, which can be seen throughout their former realm, the most famous example being the Taj Mahal. As with most “heroes”, Timur is far more revered in his homeland – flowers are still placed by his statues and mausoleum – than in those he subdued, where he is viewed as a tyrant and a pillager. Not too surprising if you consider his idea of fun was to cut off the heads of those he conquered and put them on display. Rough estimates put the death toll of his 40-year reign at 17 million.
The reason the majority of people visit Uzbekistan is to see the ancient cities of Samarkand and Bukhara. These cultural and intellectual centres remained hidden from much of the Western world until the “Great Game” played between Tsarist Russia and Imperial Britain. The term, popularised by Rudyard Kipling, refers to the period of exploration and espionage in the 1800s when the two powers vied for the mysterious and uncharted deserts and mountains between their empires.
Timur made Samarkand his capital with the Registan square at its centre, flanked by three colossal domed medressas (Islamic schools). About 200 students would have lived and learned in each school, now given over to trinket and carpet sellers. Unusually, one of the medressas depicts huge snarling beasts that look like tigers – Islam forbids the representation of living creatures. These were where some of the greatest mathematical and astrological minds studied, including Timur’s grandson, the ruler and famous astronomer Ulug Beg. Ulug Beg’s star maps of the 1420s are considered some of the most accurate ever written, and the remains of his enormous observatory lie on the outskirts of town. I decided to go there, passing a cemetery en route. I was stopped by an elderly couple, surprised by my lone trek, who insisted that I went with them into the cemetery to look at the headstones. They were on their way to pay their respects to family members’ graves. They took me to an area on a hillock that overlooked the city and showed me the resting places of their mother, father and brother. “I will be over there,” the man chuckled as he pointed to a plot. A mullah approached and had a brief conversation with the couple. Before I knew it, the four of us were praying and chanting in a ritual over the graves as the woman wept loudly. I figured my best course of action was to look at the ground and mumble a bit. Afterwards I thanked them for letting me join them in their private moment, and I wandered back in to the old city. Dazzling blue tiles, hectic bazaars and minarets jutting authoritatively into the skies as the call to prayer rings out are a heady feast for the senses that catapult you back to the days of the Silk Road and a golden age.

Bukhara is Central Asia’s holiest city and produced Avicenna, the father of modern medicine, and Rudaki, the Persian Shakespeare. Full of beautiful mosques, medressas, mausoleums and stone pools, this oasis is exactly the place of wonder its name conjures up. It is also known in British minds as being the last stand for one of the Victorian era’s legendary spies, Arthur Conolly.
Around 1840 a British agent named Colonel Charles Stoddart went to see the megalomaniac Emir of Bukhara, despite being advised not to, to try to bring him onto the British side during the war with Afghanistan. The emir, peeved at the lack of gifts or a letter from Queen Victoria, threw him in the notorious “bug pit” in jail. Conolly arrived about a year later on a rescue mission, but was thrown into the pit too. In 1842 the emir had them march out to the front of his citadel, or ark, to dig their own graves before being beheaded.
No creepy-crawlies remain, only shabby mannequins and money thrown in by tourists. The ark is virtually intact, its impenetrable walls scorching in the sun. It offers a fantastic panorama of what is left of Bukhara’s azure skyline after the Soviet invasion.
I stood on the battlements looking down onto where Conolly and Stoddart had lost their lives, and at the dozens of tourists wandering around. The journey to Uzbekistan may be less perilous today, but it is certainly still as exotic as it always has been.