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So there I was at the Jeti-Aguz Sanatorium, near Karakol, which is near the majestic Lake Issyk-Kul (apparently the second-largest alpine lake in the world, after my childhood favorite, Lake Titicaca), which is in Kyrgyzstan, which is in Central Asia. I was walking around the sanatorium (it will probably be more entertaining not to explain what a sanatorium is) with three friends. Yaniv is an Israeli traveling for 13 months after putting in his time working in a sub for the Israeli Navy. Pablo is an Argentine I met at the Uzbek embassy in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, and I think he may have hired a guide, Rohan, or Rotan, or Horat. She was an attractive mid-twenties girl from Karakol who seemed to ignore Pablo the short time I was with the two people. Our plan was to walk up this valley, then, like most traveling plans, we had a good start and figured the rest would take care of itself. Pablo and Rotan were planning on staying at a Kyrgyz yurt somewhere in the valley, but fierce storm clouds had descended overhead. All along the rugged Chinese-Kyrgyzstan border are high peaks - 4,000 to 7,000+ meters - and narrow valleys cut by rushing rivers. They say you get four seasons several times a day in this region. Yaniv and I shrugged off the imminent storm, but Pablo and Hotar stayed behind at the sanatorium.
We followed the dirt path along the Jeti-Aguz river for about ten minutes. Immense booms of thunder announced the downpour. Yaniv and I passed a yurt (a traditional Kyrgyz tent, covered with sheepskin and wool) and took comfort under a large tree. I knew that the people in the yurt would not let us wait out the storm under the tree, and moments later we were waved back to the yurt and ushered inside. We later learned that you do no need permission to enter a Kyrgyz yurt, and you do not have to wait until food is offered before eating their food. Some food was being prepared and we were given a bowl of something resembling laghman - noodles, veggies and this time with a mysterious gelatin instead of beef, pork or yak. We offered our round of nan and cheese and had a decent lunch. Yaniv spoke a little Russian and talked with the woman. I played with her son and gave him cookies (though Brits would say they were biscuits... but who won the war? USA! USA! USA!). The woman was wearing a Spice Girls vest (the kind that will be worth $500 on Ebay in ten years). I sang a bit of Wannabe and she got very excited. Conversation quickly turned to Jean-Claude van Damme. The Kyrgyz are into kick-boxing, but not the Thai-Kumite kind - they like van Dammage and his raw, vindictive style of fighting. The storm quickly passed and we left the yurt and continued up the valley, leaving half our cheese and bread as thanks.
The mountains in Kyrgyzstan - especially the Pamirs and the range running south along the border into Tajikistan, Afghanistan and Pakistan are amazing - some of the most beautiful mountains I’ve seen in a while. Tibet’s ranges are awe-inspiring, but it’s refreshing to hike among snow-capped peaks, rushing rivers, and lush green valleys bursting with white, yellow, blue and red wildflowers. The hills were alive with the sound of music! (Ted Nugent’s Stranglehold to be precise) It is the height of spring now, and the entire mountainside had a thick, verdant green carpet of grass. I have not seen these valleys in the United States, and if I had they would be domesticated by now and ruined.
We walked for 20 - 30 minutes, then approached a dump truck full of young
teenagers. They were laughing and shouting and speaking the few English
words they knew. Another huge dump truck filled with more people bounced
along the bad road and passed us. We were waved over and urged to climb
in the dump truck with the kids. Yaniv and I didn't say anything, but followed
the unspoken traveler’s philosophy. It’s impossible to know
what is going to happen next, so don’t pretend like you have any clue
or you’ll just screw up all the great things that happen when you
travel.
We held on tightly as the truck of 20 passengers jostled and slid along
the muddy track. After 20 minutes or so the road turned to two faint tire
paths and then ended at another forested section. We all hopped out. Yaniv
noticed two sheep being unloaded from the truck in front of us. "Sashleyk
(shish-kebabs)" he asked. "Yes!" was the enthusiastic response
from some of the kids. We were thinking that this was a school field trip,
as there were mostly teenagers and teacher age women, but we never got a
real answer. It could have been a graduation party, or a village fiesta
as well. Growing up in Blackhawk and going to school at Monte Vista High
School, we commonly piled into dump trucks, drove as far into the mountains
as we could, then slaughtered sheep. Small world.
We talked with the kids as best we could. A few spoke a little English,
but we were playing charades most of the time. One of the guys had a cool
Jean-Claude van Damme t-shirt on. The women set up blankets on the thick
grass and laid out bread and little doughnut sticks - sweet fried dough
about the size of a thumb. There was a plum sauce and sugar to dip them
into. Damn good eats, and probably baked that morning. I knew it wouldn’t
take long for the vodka to come out, and very soon Yaniv and I had shots
in our hand. Ryan Brush taught me that here and in Russia, the guests usually
make the first toast and always toast new friends. I tried to get a few
words in to thank my new droogs, but I was being yelled at to drink my vodka,
and it looked like no formal toasts would be given this day. Soon our bellies
were warm with vodka and filled with doughnuts.
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We were summoned over to join the elders for more vodka, but I kept sneaking away to watch how they dismembered and "disassembled" the sheep. I was hoping for shish-kebabs, but the entire sheep except for the hooves and the skin were deposited into a huge wok-cauldron. I don’t know what they did with the stomach, but I suspect they removed the contents, cleaned it a bit and tossed it in the pot. The pot contained pretty much the entire sheep save the skin and hooves. They added water from the creek to boil the meat. This stew simmered for several hours. In the meantime Yaniv and I danced with the kids next to a hatchback Niva pumping Russian and Kyrgyz hits - along with Gloria Gaynor’s timeless classic I Will Survive. The boss man was trying to get me interested in one of his women - mid-fifties or so. He wanted me to take her to America with me. I was more interested in dancing with some of the older teenagers. He sensed this and told me I could choose which one I wanted, pay 1000 som - which is $25 - and take her to America. He seemed like he was kidding, but I’m confident I could have worked something out with him. I also tried to avoid a drunk elder who kept trying to talk to me. He never comprehended that I did not speak Russian. Soon my "horrorshow, horrorshow" which means good, good in Russian got replaced with another side to the conversation. "What! She said that! Holmes, you needs to go out and get yourself a Betty who don’t be giving you static when you be comin home at 5am wearing a woman’s dress! Manifest Destiny my brutha!" He seemed to understand.
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Around seven pm it was obvious we wouldn’t be getting back to Karakol
for the delicious dinner served at the Yak Hostel at 8pm. This didn’t
concern us too much - we were going to be served an incredible meal saturated
with Kyrgyz tradition and culture (I wasn't necessarily expecting a delicious
dinner). What concerned us was how we were going to get back that night.
They didn’t look like they were planning on spending the night there,
but we wouldn’t have been surprised if they pulled more blankets out
of the trucks and bedded down on the grass. If this was to be our bed, then
so be it, though I sleep better under more human conditions.
Dinner was served around 8, starting with an interesting (read: fatty, meaty)
broth. All of the sheep parts were put in two large bowls -and like at American
Thanksgivings - there was a kids table and a grown-ups table. Yaniv and
I joined the kids in forming a circle around the bowl. The two best parts
were chosen for Yaniv and I. Some kind of bone with lots of meat and fat
on it. In Kyrgyzstan they do not have the same aversion to eating fat that
Californians do, and Yaniv and I worked our way around the copious fat deposits.
I was given a second serving, this time pure fat that was apparently the
best part of the sheep - a delicacy - and eased it down with the Central
Asian rice dish pilau. It took me awhile to wash my hands off - especially
getting the fat that had congealed on my hands. Soon we were cleaned up
and took a few group pictures before jumping back on the trucks.
There was just enough light to see how treacherous the descent was, but
there wasn't much I could do but hold on tight and make whooping noises
whenever we passed a person or an animal. We made it back to the main road
in good time and said goodbye to the slaughterhouse 40.
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Yaniv and I waited 20 minutes or so for a car to stop and take us into Karakol. They recognized we were westerners and proudly put in a cassette with Gloria Gaynor’s timeless classic. We paid an exorbitant $0.66, but were not in the mood to bargain or even inquire what Kyrgyz would pay for this ride. We arrived back at the Yak to tell our tale and drink some tea before getting an insufficient six hours of sleep. The grand Animal Market of Karakol beckoned us at 6:15, so we planned to rise early. And the early bird gets the $10 pig.