The Road to Osh

I arrived in Bishkek during a fairly severe cold snap, which meant that my plan to travel to Issyk Kul had to be shelved. According to some Israelis I met, the lake itself wasn't terribly interesting, and because it is located about 800m above Bishkek, it was too cold for trekking. Actually, I had made a hasty agreement to join a chain-smoking Swiss ethnographer to Issyk Kul and hang around the surrounding villages, visit the Polygon, and camp-out in the Soviet era bungalows that line the shore, but I went to town to get cash and when I returned before her planned 10 AM departure time, she was gone. Actually, that was not the first time I had such an informal and infirm alliance disintegrate in midcourse. Undeterred, I made another hasty agreement to join a chain-smoking Aussie to the southern city of Osh in the Fergana Valley.

I new before I joined that my new traveling companion would pose a challenge in backseat diplomacy, having dealt with him for three days at the guesthouse. A self-described "slob" and a feral snorer, he was 55 year-old former accountant, pearl diver, and speed dealer who was missing his left thumb, a good chink out one of his upper incisors and various intangibles including decency, modesty and a sense of moderation. But otherwise, he was a decent chap, having retired to Thailand several years before, his hobbies included traveling, talking incessantly, scuba diving, drinking, fist-fighting, and whoring, which he would discuss with the same air of nonchalance which most men might discuss golf -- and in mixed company. Later one smart Hungarian woman bristled, "He just doesn't understand that some men don't go to prostitutes!"

Shortly into our trip and with about ten hours ahead, I decided to lay down the law. Through the unbroken current of tales and spittle flowing in my direction, I made a simple well-planned request which was delicately phrased and somewhat lengthly. It began with "Look, you are an interesting guy" and ended with "so with the greatest of respect, I'd just like some quiet time." And that was that. He was house-broken.

Of course, having made the travel arrangements only at the last minute, my traveling companion had negotiated a price for the taxi of 1500 Som (about $40), which is far too much and at least twice what the Russian man sitting in the front seat paid. Feeling ripped-off, I took great liberties in requesting stops on the way to Osh and took a few minutes for picutures at every scenic spot. In fact, the new road from Bishkek to Osh includes three passes that tower above 3000 meters, dramatic peaks, craggy canyons, and pitilless cliffs. Our driver made a point to test the asphalt, driving the the car hard and the tires screeching impatiently at every turn.

After descending again into the low country and somewhere just on the eastern tip of Toktogul Reservoir, I asked the drive to stop at the edge of a field that tilted downward toward the reservoir, which sparkled topaz beneath the great blue dome that seems to envelope this region. From our vantage point, the water didn't appear very far from the road and I stumbled down the embankment into a sun-drenched field of drying corn stalks and sunflowers with the water just beyond the field and mountains rising from the far bank. Continuing down the incline of the open field towards the water, I passed by a group of farmhands collecting stalks, presumably for fuel, and one of them walked over to me for an exchange that neither of us understood.

Soon realizing that the bank of the reservoir was considerably further than it appeared from the road, I quickened my pace, and passed throught a patch of tall browning plants from which I collected sticky burs all over my clothing and tangled through my shoe laces. At the clearing, the water appeared at some distance before me and a small trailer standing somewhere near the midpoint between. So decrepit was the trailer, I believed it abandoned, but as I approached, it there appeared below it a covey of turkeys and then a small face appeared in the window then disappeared.

Drawing closer, a man wearing a high-topped Kyrgyz felt hat and a boy came from the trailer and approached me. I met them, we exchanged a few words, I snapped a picture and tried to mime my growing sense of urgency to return to the car waiting for me at the roadside. About 20 minutes into this excurision, I hurried towards the water, snapped some more pictures and then started the long uphill trek back to the road.

Again, as I approached the trailer, the man and boy appeared followed by a woman who carried a bowl of sweetened yogurt and a loaf of flat bread. They invited me into their home to eat, and all considerations of hygeine aside, I did my best to convey my regret that I must leave. I broke a piece of bread, dipped it in the yogurt and ate it quickly. I then awkwardly attempted to give them a few Som, but they refused. As I put my money away, a five Som note fell to the ground and the old man picked it up and handed it to the little boy. Bidding me fairwell, the old man reached out ot give me a hug and attempted to kiss my cheek, but small as he was, it only landed on my neck. I took another picture, bid them farewell, and then jogged uphill to the car.

The driver and passengers were visibly annoyed at my 45 minute departure, and as I exhaustedly plodded up the roadside the big Russian barked, "Time!"