Kyrgyzstan: Land of the High Plains Drifter by Jini Reddy

I’m walking, as if through treacle, up and up the mountain foothills. Behind me, shimmers Issy Kul, the world’s second largest alpine lake. It’s so blue, so vast, it seems as though a chunk of the sky has fallen down.

Suddenly a horseman thunders past – the only sign of local life I’ve seen in the past hour, and yet so fitting, in this wild, remote country. A few months ago, I wouldn’t have been able to find Kyrgyzstan on the map. Now, I can’t shut up about the place. For the record, it’s a landlocked Central Asian republic, bordered by Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and China – and home to whole heap of A-list mountain ranges.

Take the Tian Shan – The Mountains of Heaven, they call them here. They run like an heiress’s diamond necklace, across the country and into China. You think I’m exaggerating? I’m telling you: these are glacial peaks that embody the Platonic ideal of a glacial peak. The epic valleys, Badlands-like canyons, mountain rivers and dizzying gorges make this a Shangri-La for outdoors lovers, a blend of the best features of Nepal, Switzerland and Arizona somehow relocated slap in the middle of the former Soviet Union.

But back to my walk. Three hours into it, and I’m beginning to feel queasy. I blame the altitude: we’re scraping 3000 metres. But I can’t be ill, dammit, I’m here to get fit. Tomorrow, I’m meant to be crossing the Tor Pass, a hike that involves a vertical climb of a 1000 metres. That’s a whole kilometre, gulp.

Many moons have passed since I read Jonny Bealby’s book Silk Dreams, Travelled Road, about a blind date that took him from Pakistan to the Caspian sea, through Central Asia on horseback. It left me hankering for adventures of my own, so I booked this trip with Jonny’s travel company Wild Frontiers. And no, blind dates aren’t part of the package, but do I care? Not a jot, when I clap eyes on our guide, tall, dark and dishy Domenico Mocchi.

Confusingly, he’s Italian, but married to Nargiza, a Kyrgyz beauty, and based in Bishkek. But for the next seventeen days he’s all ours, and what a natural people-pleaser Dom is, at turns cajoling, entertaining and good-naturedly joshing us.

Our eleven-strong group meet in Bishkek, the nation’s capital. Really, Benetton ought think about recruiting some of their models here – the diversity of faces, a legacy of all that to-ing and fro-ing along the Silk Road (the collective name for the trails used by ancient traders to carry goods between China and the West), is fascinating: think blond Russians, Mongolians, Koreans, Turks, Persians, and Chinese all on the same street.

Our group is pretty cosmopolitan too – English contingent aside, there is a Lebanese-American theatre director, a half-Welsh, half- Polish lawyer, a Kiwi schoolteacher, an Australian ex-pat, and a Scottish doctor. Most of the time, we rub along nicely and crucially, one of us (Paul, the lawyer) has brought along an iPod with speakers.

Never underestimate the power of a rousing tune when you’re bumping along pot-holed roads on a Kyrgyz army truck. Oh, yes, the fun begins when we board ‘Olga’ as we christen her, and head for Bokenbaev, and the home of an eagle hunter and his family. It’s our first brush with the locals, and after a feast of pelmeni (ravioli in soup), laghman (noodles), Russian salads, plov – a heap of rice and mutton – and five vodka toasts later, we lurch merrily to bed.

The next morning, ‘Olga’ drops us off in a green, remote spot and we hike to our first camp – the walk that has me gasping for breath. Two-thirds of the way up, I swallow my pride, crawl into the back-up 4x4 and (through gritted teeth) wave to the others as they stride along. The jailoo ( mountain pasture) in which we are going to experience our first taste of nomadic life feels fantastically alien and isolated: it’s sunny, but the wind is howling and up ahead looms the pass, ominously covered in snow.

After dark, the temperature plummets, and we huddle in a king-sized yurt, a traditional circular tent. Cushioned with shyrdaks felt rugs in glorious colours, it feels cosy, like an Ali Baba cave. After another banquet and more vodka, all eleven of us bed down in a row, sleeping bags touching. We’ve known each other for two days, but there’s no awkwardness, only a feeling of complicity and childish glee.

In the morning, I wake up to a pounding headache and heart, and realise I’m going to have to pass on the Pass. I’m so disappointed that, to my horror, I begin to cry. Great big tears which fall into my vodka-soaked tea.

I can’t work out why I’m reacting this way. I mean, it’s it’s just a day’s hike. Maybe it’s the delicious, unfamiliar feeling of camaraderie that I’m loathe to forfeit. Or are the mountains and the crisp air cutting through my city carapace?

Meanwhile, the hardier members of our group get togged up for the hike. Dom, in his bright yellow anorak, reflective shades, rope and walking poles, looks like he’s about to tackle Everest. After waving the walkers off, the rest of us pile into the 4x4 for the long drive to that night’s camp, in the Tosor Valley.

Blond, blue-eyed guide Eduard, born in Uzbekistan and of noble blood (his great-great-great grandfather was a Russian Prime Minister) comes with us. It is sunny in the valley, the countryside is teeming with wildflowers, my headache disappears, and it’s fun waving at passing horsemen.

We stop for a picnic above a ravine and watch as five golden eagles glide through it – a moment of pure poetry. Then we drive up to the rocky, lunar-like Tosor Pass and Eduard suggests we stretch our legs.

We scramble out eagerly, and plod along slowly (at an altitude of 3,800 metres, the air is thin), for a few kilometres before clambering back into the vehicle.

It’s pitch-black by the time we arrive at the tented camp, and those who’d set off on foot straggle in after us, proudly, like conquering heroes; albeit cold, exhausted ones. There’s just time for a midnight soak in a nearby hot springs. The water is scorching, but oh, what a treat for aching muscles.

The next day, we move on – I’m beginning to feel like a nomad myself now – to the pretty, sheltered Tash Rabat valley, where Yaks and sheep roam. There’s just time to explore the ruins of a 10th-century stone inn sunk into the hillside before we saddle up for a ride to a 4000m ridge, from where we’ll be able to glimpse China. I’ve never sat astride a horse before, and I’m allergic to horse hair, but by gosh I’m determined to do this.

‘You need to know two words and you’ll be fine,’ says Dom, “chu” ( stop) and “drrr”(go).’ He promises I won’t fall off. ‘Really?’ ‘Promise,’ he says. But the soft-spoken Sylvie isn’t taking any chances and allows her mount to be roped and lead by a horseman.

Neither of us need have worried, ours are sure-footed Kyrgyz horses, who have no desire to buck a beginner. They don’t falter, even when inching along a rocky ledge overlooking some rapids below. Four hours, and a sore backside later, I’m gazing out at Lake Chatyr-Kol, and the Torugart Pass which borders China. The view is sublime. Munching on boiled eggs and flatbread, I daydream idly about parachuting in.

The next evening, after a drive up a spiralling road, we reach the shores of Lake Son Kul. ‘The Kyrgyz Riviera’, Dom calls it. It’s a shepherd’s paradise, and a jaded Londoner’s too: so still is the water’s surface, so serene the pastures, all my cares dissolve. Another walk, another ride, and a glorious sunset later, I’m sorely tempted to jump ship and stay. Who needs a blind date, when you’re living and breathing romance?