Kyrgyzstan buying snow

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Kyrgyzstan buying snow

Approaching hour fourteen of the drive from Bishkek to Osh, the bickering began. Two mountain passes and a vast, snow covered plateau divide these the two main cities of Kyrgyzstan. With our fingers we wiped the dust from our eyes. They unveiled a new country in Osh. The weather is warm, the people more conservative. The city wears a blanket of calm. A hundred pounds of gear fills the room of our hostel. The warmth of the spring was deceptive; the mountain passes held onto their snowcaps. Our days were full. We visited a university where we shared our project with international students. We ironed out a few gear issues like finding kourpatchas, or padded car seats, to add to our saddles, and we visited the region. Unable to cross the border ourselves due to Covid restrictions, an international smuggling scheme took form to get our bicycles from the capital city of Tashkent to the border at Osh. A taxi from Tashkent drove our bicycles the 8 hours through the Uzbek countryside. There the boxes a middle-aged woman with a passport and a negative Covid test received them. In turn, she stood in line at the border for three hours before wheeling the boxes onto the Kyrgyz side and into our open arms. Paying her a passage fee and many thanks, we shoved the cartons into a van, and the yearlong separation finished. There is no place for our bicycles on our horse trek, we assembled the bikes with love, and pedalled around Osh with grand smiles painted across our faces. Word of mouth is the only way to find horse games. No man who spoke a bit of English was safe from Ashley quizzing him about the location of horse games that weekend. A nod. As the minutes ticked away, riders streamed down from all sides of the valley. Within an hour over horse and rider teams were galloping across the rocks to play Alaman Ulak, the national sport of Kyrgyzstan. If you've read ' Les Cavaliers ' by Kessel, you know this game by its Afghani name, 'buzkashi. Today a wolf isn't killed, but instead a sheep or goat slaughtered. Riders must capture the carcass and carry it on their horse to a designated spot. Observing, we fruitlessly tried to understand the rules but there are no teams, no boundaries, and no fouls. The game is brutal for both horse and rider. Anyone in the melee is subject to kicks, slaps of the whip, shoves, bites or tumbles. The sport is rough, and few horses left the playing field without bloody mouths. For all the repulsive qualities of this game, we saw riders taking pains to prepare their horses for the match. Homemade bell boots, tendon boots, and breastplates adorned the horses to protect them in the fray. Before and after playing, riders covered their horses with fleecy blankets to help them cool off and made sure to offer them water. It's not the type of riding sport we're used to. Nor one that we want to try. But the strength and speed of the horses and riders, and the grittiness of the game impressed us. To see a battalion of riders galloping across a floodplain is like watching living history. A witness to traditions almost unchanged over hundreds of years. Leaves burst out of buds on the trees in Osh; it was time for us to move on. Four hours bouncing in a packed taxi up the mountain road from Osh brought us to a bright and clean guest house, our base camp for the horse trek. Arslanbob village was a welcome breath of fresh air after six weeks spent in cities. Ashley began to list out our needs: a hot shower, a discreet family, a stable for the horses, wifi, when he interrupted. But if you must use the internet, you can make a hotspot with your phone. I think you will stay with Mashkhur and his family. Our quarters are separate from the rest of the family. Three strides from our window the river rumbles day and night. We felt at peace staying with this calm and harmonious family. Included in our board is dinner, and we ate our weight in plov. Fruit trees are bursting into bloom, but the walnut trees are holding onto their buds a little longer. The village is principally Uzbek ethnicity. It is Ramadan, the pace of village life here is especially relaxed. Agricultural fields and foothills around the village have become our stomping grounds. The bottom of the valley rests at m. A brief hike up into the foothills or the agricultural fields and one can pass m. There is still snow. The sun had yet to crest the horizon when we met Faysi, our guide, to visit a neighboring village bazaar. Faysi speaks robust English, and guides tourists in all types of sports: hiking, ski touring, camping and horse trekking. Fifty men mill about, examining the dozen sheep and goats for sale. There are no horses. After waiting a few minutes, Faysi shakes the hand of a man with a tanned and friendly face. Loading up into his car, we drive to the outskirts of the village. A handsome bay stallion stood tied, waiting for us to try. Displaying no confirmation flaws, in good weight, with a kind eye and nice gaits, we promised to think about it. Experience tells horse travelers never to buy the first horse you see. A week passed without finding the other two horses. Sometime it's best to try things the local way, though rising at am can only be jolting. Our beds were still warm when we loaded up into a rented truck heading for the Uzgen bazaar near the Uzbek border. One of the largest bazaars in the country, horses of all ages, shapes and colors paraded past, and we eyed them all. Confusion reigned. Instead, they swirl around the bazaar, walking, trotting, even galloping through the crowd. A potential buyer must grab the rider or horse wherever he can to get their attention. A lovely buckskin met our criteria, until the owner revealed that he was three-legged lame. A black horse around seven had a demure attitude. Quentin looked between his legs to check his confirmation. He discovered a fresh gash, open and dripping crimson blood. Before sitting on any horse, we had Faysi ask the seller to see beneath the saddle. Horse after horse had open and oozing sores on their backs. Their owners shrugged it off; if the horse keeps moving forward, what harm is a saddle sore? And if their backs were not wounded yet, that was because they were only three years old. Through the mayhem, Ashley spotted a little bay horse, skinny and calm. His soft eye perked up, and she approached, opening his lips to check his age. Five years old. He was so bony that you could have taught a course on the equine skeleton using him as a model. No saddle sores. With a flashy handshake, the little bay became ours, and we loaded him up into the truck. The fray reabsorbed us. Quentin spotted a chestnut stallion. His mouth splayed wide open while he danced away from the lashes of his rider. Ashley inspected the horse, noticing that the bit was too low, hitting his teeth. This accounted for the gaping mouth. The saddle sores on his back were more scars than sores; hair was growing back. He had a mischievous look, but was polite and fast undersaddle. Wads of cash handed over to the old owners, horses loaded in the trailer, our truck rumbled away from the bazaar. We are now the owners of three Kyrgyz stallions, our herd is complete.

Kyrgyzstan

Kyrgyzstan buying snow

The first time I heard about this country, I had to search for it on the map. I had no clue where it was, and I definitely had no clue of the Kyrgyz culture, their traditions, or its mountains. Back in , I crossed the border from Bolivia to Chile and started meeting more bikepackers compared to the other countries I had cycled through in South America. I was happy to swap adventure stories as well as exchange ideas for new places to explore and find new tools and gear that makes a day on the bike a little easier. He started in Australia, crossed Asia to Europe, and arrived in Brazil on a sailboat. Many stories were shared over the dining table during my stay. I was quiet and took in the details about his ride through Kyrgyzstan and Central Asia. Listening to his adventures, I realized those countries have a lot of similarities with Mongolia, a country I had dreamed of visiting since I was young. As an animal lover, I remember looking at the massive Mongolian plateau on a map I had in my bedroom. Countless times I imagined myself galloping on a horse visiting the nomads of the Altai Range. Kyrgyzstan was presented to me as a wild country with amazing mountains and a variety of different landscapes where nomads live during their short summers. I soaked up his tales while eating a big bowl of pasta with a basic tomato sauce, my usual diet for that year. So many ideas rushed to my mind during those conversations, and inevitably, Central Asia and especially Kyrgyzstan were added to my list of countries to visit soon. As I continued crossing the Andes, I knew that Asia would be my next long bikepacking route. I considered the option of traveling for a year to cross the continent and explore the mountains and the ancient roads of Central Asia. At that time, I was enjoying traveling alone across Latin America Patagonia to Mexico and also Asia Iran, Armenia, and Georgia , and getting to know myself in a deeper way. The people of each country welcomed me and treated me like a member of their family. When the world opened up and allowed for travel once again, my life was a bit different. From the beginning of my relationship, Diego knew that bikepacking through Kyrgyzstan was my next goal. The winter before the trip, I gifted him some bikepacking coffee table books with great storytelling and awesome photography. I thought it would be the best way to introduce him to an unknown country and hoped it would spark his curiosity. My plan worked — Diego became engrossed with learning more about Kyrgyzstan and decided he wanted to join the adventure. We acted quickly and bought tickets for July , and Diego invested in a bikepacking rig for the trip. As it was his first time riding outside Spain, he chose to stay three weeks while I planned to stay for almost two months. I recall Diego telling me how exhausted he felt in just one day due to the different encounters with the locals and the riding itself in the ever-changing weather. A day traveling on a bike feels like a week of a normal life, and a month can really be like a year. The day we landed in Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan, we were equally excited and tired from the long flights. Our bikes, bags, and equipment arrived safely and were ready to mount. We managed to get our luggage sorted out quickly, got settled into our accommodations, and went to explore the nearby area. The Osh Bazaar, the main market of the city, was about five minutes from our doorstep. The main goal was to buy groceries for the following eight days. Kegety Pass, the first and highest pass of the route, was due on the third day and we had to get ready physically and mentally. We always carry food for two extra days as you never know what can happen in a remote area where you cannot find more than a few shepherds, wild animals, and herds. The bazaar was surprisingly quiet, and the prices were fixed. This was a surprise as I imagined the city to be like Tehran or Istanbul, just as chaotic as any capital. This is exactly why I travel, to learn and experience firsthand other ways of life. Our first morning was spent devouring three bags of nuts, a heap of noodles with vegetables, and a huge watermelon in less than 20 minutes. These mountains became the backdrop to a walk we shared with Nico, an Italian friend I connected with when we both were cycling through Europe a few years earlier. A typical Kyrgyz tombola helped us to disconnect from our tiredness and share in laughter with a friend. After a big breakfast the following morning, we were eager to leave the city and start cycling toward Kegety Pass. Diego had read a lot of blogs about this pass at 3, meters 12, feet. The truth is, he had memorized the whole way and the Kyrgyzstan map in case we got lost and had no battery in our devices. After three long days of climbing this pass on our heavy bikes, we finally reached the top. During the first day, we had encounters with people from the capital spending time in nature. As we gained more ground in the second stage, we were closer to the glaciers and found ourselves alone in the empty green valley. It was hard to continually ride at altitude, and the landscape was progressively more beautiful and we stopped frequently to take photos. Herds of wild horses, long waterfalls, glaciers in the background, and endless green slopes were all we saw during the second day. While wild camping, we joked about how lucky we were with the weather. I guess we had tempted fate because we woke up greeted by dense fog and light rain, which followed us to the top of the pass. We crossed paths with two shepherds on horseback; trying to communicate with each other was interesting as we did not share a common language. This exchange was the opposite of the next one, when we met a French bikepacker cycling down the Kegety who told us there were more than horses blocking the narrow path on top. Snow covered the ground as we reached the herd. Finally, I was able to live out one of my childhood dreams, challenging my inner shepherdess to move the herd to create a path for us. The two shepherds we met a few hours earlier appeared in search of the herd and led them to the other side of the valley. This moment felt dreamlike and straight out of a movie: misty fog, two shepherds wearing large capes on horseback while guiding the herd, and the two of us trailing at the back, pushing our bikes. Knowing the southern face of the pass would be much harder than the north, we searched for the easiest singletrack down toward the next valley. We had to push our bikes down for some parts and got lost in others. Despite this, we kept our motivation high as Diego managed his first big pass really well. After the thousand-meter descent, we had the pleasure of exploring the new valley. A crystal-clear river, stunning green slopes, horses, cows and sheep grazing peacefully, and a handful of yurts scattered across the landscape. Some Kyrgyz people continue to live a nomadic lifestyle, with many people from the lower land villages still living nomadically during the summer season. The summer is short in Kyrgyzstan, and snow can start covering the higher lands from September. Depending on the snowfall in winter, they can set up their camps as early as mid-spring. Members of these nomadic families who settled in the valley waved at us as we cycled by and invited us into their yurt, which are traditional homes built with removable wooden frames and felt covers. Each family member has a specific role and task: the women are responsible for collecting cattle droppings and drying them in the sun to serve as fuel for the long winter ahead, and the men are responsible for taking the cattle to higher land for the more fertile pastures. This allows the milk of the mares, sheep, and cows to transform into two types of butter. One type has a liquid consistency and the other solid, but both are equally delicious in our opinion. With the sun shining, we were able to take a refreshing dip in one of the freezing cold rivers Kyrgyzstan has to offer. This pass was stunning and we were unsure why nobody had mentioned it to us beforehand. Big slopes took us to the west and closer to a new part of the Tian Shan Range. Cycling on the black, rocky terrain made a magnificent contrast to the snowcapped mountains and glaciers in the background. Karakol Pass gave us not only a stunning view but a great learning experience. The weather at altitude can be very unpredictable. We were awakened by a shepherd who curiously approached our campsite. He had a bottle of vodka in his hand and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. I added some other phrases to the few I still remembered from my time cycling through the Southern Caucasus: bike, tent, camping, food, supermarket … just the easiest and most useful words when you do not share a common language. A storm was coming toward us, and we had to try to escape it. Luckily, we packed our belongings quickly and started cycling under the gray sky. One hour later and we were soaked — the animal shelter we found did not protect us from the pouring rain. We had no other choice but to knock at the door of a yurt where we were welcomed in with hot coffee and biscuits. It makes me wonder about the differences between us. These families settle there to survive, and we were on vacation. As I shared our route, the questions asked of us were different compared to my previous solo trips and related to our age, where our children were, and the idea of having a family in the near future. The yurt was filled with laughter and warmth. Having dried, Diego and I continued discovering new passes and another great valley. After riding along lush, green fields, we came across the village of Suusamyr, allowing us the chance to stop for a couple of days. We needed to recover our energy levels, refuel, and contact our family and friends. That was the point when we realized that life in the villages was similar to the life of the nomads. During the winter, both at high altitude and in the lower towns, they all have the same needs for getting fuel to burn or picking the vegetables of the season such as carrots or cucumbers to survive the rest of the year. From Suusamyr on, the landscape changed from the high mountains and white glaciers to reddish-brown valleys. It took us mentally back to our visit to Utah or northern Argentina. Big canyons along a blue river accompanied us, as well as three Spanish cyclists we met on the way. The views from above were nothing but unique. Everywhere we went, we saw the different layers of the landscape, from the rock formations of the valley to the fresh snow on the high mountains. We could reach Song-Kol, the second largest alpine lake in the country, within two days. It felt like a sea despite Kyrgyzstan being landlocked and far from the ocean. Food was in abundance during the time we spent with a family, who treated us to generous servings of local cuisine. Laghman noodles with meat and paloo rice with beef are the most typical dishes. With the weather constantly changing, we were thankful to have a roof over us as we watched snow fall. As soon as we left this corner of the country, we were able to enjoy another type of landscape. It was time to descend through a completely different scenery of tree-lined slopes that appeared out of the blue. We removed layers as we descended toward a valley in the Naryn region, the highest part of the country. The last 40 kilometers before we reached the city proved to be the most difficult stretch for me and was the point where we split paths with the other bikepackers. Staying in the city of Naryn helped me to make a speedy recovery while Diego prepared to fly home as his time in the country had come to an end. I prepared to head out alone once again and cycle the passes of the Tian Shan until the city of Karakol. However, I shared the journey with two fellow bikepackers, Martuki and Johnny, who were great companions through passes like Arabel and the Burkhan Valley. This remote area gave us a new perspective of the Tian Shan Range. The green pastures that I first appreciated with Diego during July were no longer shining as the sun beat down over it. August brought a brown hue to the environment, making these pastures worse for the cattle. Encounters with the nomads of this region were more frequent as winter was just around the corner and storms were more noticeable. Being invited to join a funeral to share a celebration of life with family members and the time we spent with a solo man in his campsite were the highlights of the last few days cycling through this part of the Tian Shan. Approaching the border with China, we were given the most incredible gift of magnificent glaciers and stunning landscapes. The city of Karakol, located in the eastern part of Kyrgyzstan, is based at the crossroads of Central Asia and is a fascinating playground for nature lovers and a great place to visit the second largest saline lake in the world: Issyk-Kul. Remembering that this city was a stop on the Silk Road and a popular area during the Soviet Union because of health resorts and hot mineral springs, it was the perfect place for my last stage of the Tian Shan traverse. Undoubtedly, this is a country made for bikepacking. It offers you tons of adventures, awesome places for wild camping, beautiful traditions, and multiple paths to get lost through its untouched nature. Skip to content Search:. Newsletters Magazine Podcast. Routes Maps App Updates U. Bicycle Route System Short Routes. Gear Maps Apparel Specials. Join Give Get Involved. Kyrgyzstan, the Wild Land. Ana Zamorano. A storm was coming when packing up our campsite. A curious shepherd came to ask us if there was a problem. The lush and green landscape with a wide gravel path after Kegety Pass was more than stunning. This big family was celebrating a funeral in a yurt. Tons of food, a guitar, and some bottles of vodka were the main ingredients. This teen is quite famous among bikepackers, as his family lives in a yurt near a famous pass. We were happy to meet him and his siblings. The photographer: One of his sisters. This man from a yurt wanted Diego to wear his kalpak , the Kyrgyz traditional hat. Crashing Into The Party. Chris Walker. Taneika Duhaney. Road Test: Tumbleweed Stargazer. Ally Mabry.

Kyrgyzstan buying snow