Caution: Graphic Decapitated Goat's Head

Casey writes:

Kyrgyzstan is a country with a land area comprising of 96 per cent mountains and only 6 per cent valleys. We've spent the last few days camping with beautiful scenery: we are surrounded by rolling hills, jagged mountains and stunning glaciers. We've gone hiking and horseback riding and have passed many a night sitting around a campfire enjoying a few drinks.

Our group piled into two soviet ex-military vehicles for the trip to Altyn Arashan at an altitude of 3000 metres. For 2.5 hours we bounced along a narrow rocky path with the edge of our wheels coming frightfully close to the sheer cliff. Fortunately both of our drivers had plenty of off road driving experience and we arrived unscathed. We spent our time hiking along the fast moving river with beautiful rolling hills on each side of us and a stunning glacier in the distance perched between two intersecting mountains. We crossed rivers by balancing on logs, avoided cows in fields and attempted to talk to local farm kids who spoke no English. Upon returning to our accommodation we spent the next few hours in the hot springs with beers in hand.

The next morning after another bouncy ride back down the mountain, we had two hours to kill in Karakol Town. Both Richard and I had to go grocery shopping with our respective 'cook groups' to buy food for the next two days of bush camping. It was stressful enough trying to buy ingredients to feed twenty people, but with a tight budget and limited options in a tiny town, the task was indeed challenging. Both of our groups were at a disadvantage to the ones who had gone before us, with Richard's group having one less person than every other group, and my group having George. George was 79 years old and most of the time didn't know if he was coming or going, let alone that he was responsible for cooking for twenty people that evening. George could talk - albeit incoherently - and he was more interested in trying to buy a bottle of vodka than to count out fruit and vegetables at the market.

Travelling to Jeti Oghuz, our group had to dismount the truck on five occasions, to allow it to cross five narrow, rotting, rickety bridges. The fear was that the bridges would not hold its weight with twenty passengers on board. We arrived safely at our secluded campsite and set up our tents next to the river under a forest of fir trees.

My group's three sessions of cooking went relatively smoothly, although Richard had to join my group to act as George's minder. George did not understand the concept of vegetarianism (we had two vegetarians in our group), and while cooking dinner, I repeatedly had to blockade the pot of vegetables to stop him throwing in the chunks of meat. He didn't understand that vegetarians wouldn't eat meat. He didn't under stand that vegetarians didn't want the ladle that had meat and blood on it used to stir their vegetables. After the seventh stand off between me blocking the pot and George holding the bowl of meat, he finally communicated that he understood. By the time dinner was ready, I was a nervous mess and George had gone to pour himself some vodka.

The following morning I explained to George that our group would be cooking fried sausages and fried eggs for breakfast. I'd barely finished talking when George began breaking all thirty of our eggs into a bowl.

Casey: 'George, what are you cooking?'

George: 'Scrambled eggs'

Oh.

I had to break the news to Richard's group that we had now stolen their menu item for the following morning. George didn't under stand what all the fuss was about. He knew we'd discussed fried eggs, but took the decision into his own hands without telling anyone else, god bless him. He also didn't understand why the vegetarians didn't want sausages mixed with their eggs. The half a kilo of salt that he added to the eggs despite my protests, also got a few comments from fellow group members as well. Richard also came to the rescue a number of times to protect George from burning his arm off while trying to light the gas stove. The whole campsite smelt like gas by the time George started waving the lighter around, and without Richard's diplomatic intervention I fear we would all have gone up in flames.

I was very relieved when my cooking duty was over, to say the least.

After breakfast we went horse riding along the river. The scenery was picturesque, the horses were generally passive and we had a lovely time. We stopped at a local family yurt, where they offered us mare's milk. We accepted, and pretended it tasted nice, hiding our screwed up faces and saying thank you for their hospitality.

From Jeti Oghuz we travelled to Song Kol Lake, situated 3500 metres above sea level. We gathered snow and ice along the road for our eskies, and admired the stunning views of the mountains we passed through. Arriving at our yurt accommodation, we suddenly realised how less oxygen there was in the air at such high altitude: we became out of breath by simply carrying our backpacks from the truck to our yurt. And it was cold! After weeks of temperatures above 30 degrees, we suddenly had to pull our coats, scarves and beanies from the bottom of our bags.

Enroute to Song Kol Lake, we stopped at a location that seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, with an empty and barren landscape that reminded me of the moon. We were here for an eagle hunting demonstration. Tumara, the eagle, was a huge and beautiful bird, who had been trained for ten years by her owner. She was a four-time Kyrgyzstan hunting champion! We got to hold her before her owner demonstrated her capabilities. He took her to the top of a nearby hill, released a cute little bunny rabbit in the valley where we were standing, and then let Tumara go. After a few seconds to orient herself, she made a beautifully graceful soaring beeline for the rabbit, and trapped it in one swift move. She had its leg off and innards out before it was dead, and most of our group looked away squeamishly, albeit very impressed with the eagle's skills. As soon as the liver and heart were retrieved by her strong beak, the rabbit was dead, and within five minutes she had devoured the entire body, minus the head but including the fur. Fascinating stuff!

At Song Kol Lake we had time to do some hiking, but more prominently, some relaxing. Hiking was hard work at altitude, but as usual the scenery was stunning, as we maneuvered our way through herds of cows and flocks of sheep. The food provided by the yurt owners was great - local dishes of mutton, fish, noodles and fried bread, plus endless cups of hot tea. And the yurts were incredibly warm and cosy, especially at night when the temperature dropped considerably. Our group passed our time by playing Uno and Rummikub, and sitting around enjoying the atmosphere of the beautiful location we were in.

The highlight however of our time at Song Kol Lake was definitely the 'buzkashi' (literally translated as 'grabbing the dead goat'). Also known as 'goat polo', this is practically the national sport of Kyrgyzstan, and this highly competitive game involves two teams of three horseback riders, and is often referred to as 'rugby on horseback'. The only difference is that the ball is a decapitated goat carcass, freshly killed for the game. The arena is simply an open field, with spectators standing anywhere they think that they will be safe from the stampeding horses, because there is no boundary line. After witnessing the goat sacrifice and cringing at the amount of blood gushing onto the ground, we took up our places in the field. The aim of the game is for the horseback riders to pick up the goat carcass from the ground and then place it on a mat that has been laid out some distance away. The other riders can wrestle and grab the rider and/or the carcass, and use their horses to buck up and try to dislodge the rider from his horse. It's manic and chaotic, and apparently very common for riders to experience broken fingers, dislocated shoulders and cracked ribs. On more than one occasion we spectators went running to safety as the stampeding horses plunged into the crowd. Some of us hid near a metal outhouse toilet, thinking we were safe, until the horse riders decided to use the toilet block as an obstacle to protect against their opponents. We jumped again for our lives as they crashed into the metal walls. The game lasted an hour, with riders frequently changing horses due to their exhaustion in the thin air at altitude. It was an amazing and unique experience and we feel privileged to have been there, as the event is held only once or twice a month. We also feel relieved to have survived without being trampled!

Now, since entering Russia and Central Asia, Richard has been infatuated with the soviet-famed Lada cars and how terrible they actually are. His favourite is the 4x4 Lada Niva, better described as a 'blocky car', like the type you used to draw as a child. We have seen more Lada Nivas that have been broken down, rusted, bonnets up or being push-started, than ones that are actually running. He has recently found a soulmate, Christine, a Scottish girl on our tour, who shares his delight in these ridiculous looking cars, and they have been playing Niva bingo during our long truck rides. Both Richard and Christine thought that they had died and gone to heaven when a Lada Niva rumbled up for the goat polo match at Song Kol Lake. All of a sudden, they had contributed $2 each for petrol, and were inside the Lada being driven off into the distance towards the mountains. All I could see in the blaze of dirt was a Lada bouncing through potholes with a door periodically flying open and two people screaming and laughing in hysterics due to the absence of seatbelts. Fortunately they returned safely, and I am not sure if anything else on our trip will be able to surpass this experience in Richard's eyes. 

After two more nights in homestays - one which included watching the World Cup Final at 1:00am on a fuzzy old fashioned television set - and a few more nights camping with spectacuular lake and mountain views, we finally reached the Kyrgyzstan-Uzbekistan border and crossed without too much fuss. 

Goodbye to the beautiful natural landscapes of Kyrgyzstan.... and hello to the assault of culture, mosques and world heritage sites of Uzbekistan!