The Diarrhoea Diaries

On the night of the 'Olga Incident', I'd met a Swiss nursing student named Isabelle who was part of the large french-speaking contingent staying at the Sakura. Her grand plans for a three-day trek around Song-Kul sounded rather appealing - she had the map, the compass, the tent, the route planned out - and so when she offered to have me along for the trek, I accepted, despite my first nasty bout of diarrhoea running its course! Damn Chinese food!

This was to be my first experience with Central Asian shared taxis. In just a few days, I should have my last! Oh joy!!

The shared taxi is a brilliant concept, as long as you're not foreign! For a slightly higher cost than a bus or marshrutka (large minibus), you leave to your destination as soon as the four seats are full, the driver drives like a bat out of hell for a few hours and you arrive an hour or two earlier than the slower, cheaper transportation.

But we're tourists. As soon as you arrive at the bus station, you are pounced upon my several blood-sucking drivers and touts who get commission off putting you in a car. The seemingly-genuine man who found us apparently got 100 of the 300 som that each of us paid! We didn't realise this until we arrived in Kochkor and watched the other two passengers pay a mere 200 som.

This regular battle to get the same price as a local has become the bane of my existence whilst travelling in this region. Every time I go to a bus station, I know I'm going to have a fight on my hands, and that I will meet some of Central Asia's least savoury characters. Unfortunately, these people are not representative of the bulk of the population in the 'stans. Most people are genuine, friendly and curious, but it's hard not to let these experiences taint your view of these countries, since they are, unfortunately, so much a part of travelling here.

Kochkor is a small, dusty town, nestled in a valley surrounded by barren, snow-capped peaks. It's the jump-off point for treks (both on foot and on horseback) to Song-Kul - a huge alpine lake, 3000m above sea level, encircled by treeless, lush-green mountains.

We stayed one night in Kochkor before setting off on our trek, having been directed to one of the many homestays in the town by the CBT office (Community Based Tourism - An agency with offices all over Kyrgyzstan which helps put tourist dollars directly into the local community).

Saadagul was the gracious host at the small guesthouse, tucked away in one of the dirt streets behind the main road. She immediately invited us into the traditional yur,t that shared the backyard with a small run filled with farm animals, and gave us tea, bread and jam. For both Isabelle and I, it was our first experience inside a yurt. The ambience, the colours, the feeling of utter relaxation, and the genuine warmth of Saadagul's hospitality, made it quite an unforgettable moment. Neither of us could stop grinning!

We'd arranged for dinner later that evening, and in the meantime, we walked out of town in the fading sunlight to visit the huge islamic cemetary on the edge of the town. All along the way, children and adults alike, welcomed us with warm 'hello's and friendly smiles. The cemetary was a fantastic sight, particularly under an incredibly dramatic sky, and in the warm glow of the evening sun. We wandered through the silent cemetary, gawking in amazement at the ornate tombs that the people had erected for their dead. These 'cities of the dead' are dotted all over the 'stans, but this one, for me, was still the most spectacular.

The fight began again the next morning when we attempted to arrange a taxi for the one-hour drive to the Kyzart Pass, where we would start our hike. After eventually negotiating a 'reasonable' fare, we arrived at the pass, being greeting by a young boy on horseback who lived in a yurt at the pass. He proudly showed off his horsemanship, getting the horse to buck for our photographing pleasure.

Kyrgyzstan is the country of the horse, and even the smallest of boys and girls are expert riders. In most areas, it still hasn't been 'ruined' by mass tourism. Unlike in parts of neighbouring China, people are happy to be photographed and even ask for it before they've seen your camera. They expect nothing for this, and when they are shown the image on the LCD screen, it is them that say a heartfelt 'Spaceba' (Thank you).

Our hike over the next three days was amazing in so many ways. The landscape was jawdroppingly gorgeous! The lack of trees meant that there was a constant panaorama laid out before our eyes.

At times it was sunny and warm, and the shadows of the clouds cast ever-shifting patterns across the lush, green hillsides. At other times we would watch as a storm approached from far on the horizon, within seconds erasing our view and bombarding us with cold rain and driving hail. This would happen at least three times each day, making it the most fickle, changeable weather I've ever seen in my life! Yes, even worse than Scotland!


The Kyrgyz were once almost entirely nomadic, both in wonter and in summer. The soviets pretty much put a stop to that, but since independence there has been a resurgence in this nomadic lifestyle. Few people stay in their yurts year-round, but many leave the comfort of their homes for the summer months of June, July and August and take their livestock to graze (without fences or boundaries) in the pastures of high-altitude meadows like Song-Kul. They set up small yurt communities, and live off the land for three months. These pasturelands are known as 'jailoos'.

On three separate occasions we were invited in to these camps and offered food and tea. This act of generosity, from people who seemingly had so little, and often had many mouths to feed, was incredibly moving. It was always offered with the utmost sincerity, and nothing was expected in return (at least initially). Bread, yogurt and thick cream were staples, as was the very Kyrgyz drink of 'kymys' - fermented mare's milk - which can be found in a large barrel in the corner of every yurt, festering away nicely. I'd like to say that it's an aquired taste, but I can't say I ever acquired it! It's downright revolting! By the end of my time in Kyrgyzstan, I'd given up trying to be polite and would refuse it if offered to me!

Isabelle and I did our best to offer some things in exchange - usually chocolate, since the bottle of vodka we brought was polished off in the first camp, with the patriarch of the camp barely able to walk when we left!

The next day, after a cold and drizzly night in the tent, and a near-impossible river crossing the next morning, we edged ever-closer to the lake. We were again invited in to a yurt for food. The yurt seemed to be used as a living room of sorts, while the three generations of the family (two parents, two grandparents, four children and one baby) shared a rather cold-looking, ramshackle tent behind the yurt.

The third time we were invited in was in the middle of a hailstorm as we approached the lake. We'd gotten our first view of Song-Kul from the 3400m pass above the lake, only to have it instantly erased by dark stormclouds that engulfed us and showered us with a chilling rain and driving hail.

Koolnoora, the lady of the yurt, called us in as I was trying to put on gloves, having let my hands go completely numb and needing Isabelle's help to get them on. The yurt was warm, and we warmed up by the cow dung-fuelled stove while Koolnoora made us a hot dinner (a delicious rolled-up pastry, filled with meat, onion and herbs cooked slowly on stovetop) and insisted we stay the night with her, her brother, Khanat and her tiny, round-faced baby.

The night in the yurt started out well, but Koolnoora, in spite of her kindness, became exhausting! Unlike the other yurt camps we'd passed, Koolnoora lived near the lake, and had had contact with tourists before - tourists who'd given her things: Postcards, gifts, food etc. So, when she hadn't palmed off her baby onto Isabelle while she went to milk the mares for kymys milk, she was asking us if we had chocolate, gifts, postcards, a spare headlamp, and anything else she could think of that we might be able to give her!

We had already agreed to give a small amount of money to cover our stay and the food she offered (breakfast was fried fish that Khanat had caught in the lake the day before), and we shared some chocolate and other food that we didn't need, but the questions were incessant, and (if the answer was negative) was invariable followed with the response, 'Pacheemoo?! - Why not?
You may think that all yurt-dwellers are poor - why else would they live in a yurt, right? Indeed, many are. However, with some seventy cattle and fifty horses (!!), Koolnoora was hardly what you'd call poor! A man with fifty horses in any Western country is doing pretty well indeed!

I was grateful to Koolnoora for her hospitality, but was glad to say goodbye the next morning. Isabelle and I took the trail along the lake and then back over another 3400m pass before decending to the village of Kyzart where we were told we could find transport back to town. Kyzart barely had two cars between the several hundred residents, none of whom, it seemed had seen a foreigner before. They certainly have now - a little girl made sure of that. She ran through the streets yelling, 'Tourist! Tourist!, so that everyone came out to marvel at the two silly-looking tourists wandering through the dusty village in seacrh of an elusive taxi!

We spent the night camped next to a farmer's field that night, having had no luck hitching a ride back to Kochkor after only five or six cars had passed us before dusk. We made it back the next morning after 'hitching' a ride in the back of a Lada that we had to help push-start three times! You always pay to hitch in Central Asia - it is never free. Of course, the driver changed the price of the ride when we reached the destination!

Welcome to Central Asia!