Mums 90th Birthday Kyrgyzstan tour
A long story, a long awaited milestone
Keeping my mouth shut.
I really don’t think my expectations are too high, yet expectations I have and when they are not met, I feel cheated.
Mum though, seemed to enjoy it: ‘It’ being her 90th birthday tour of Kyrgyzstan. I’d ridden a long way to meet her, spent a lot of time organising, trying to make sure the journey would be sublime.
It started by booking 2 luxury rooms in the Salute hotel in Bishkek so there was some comfort at 7am after a long night flight. I’d booked the rooms for the day before to assure an early check in was no problem. So, meet mum at airport as it gets light, get in the pre-arranged taxi for the pre-arranged price and to the pre-booked hotel, only to find they had given the rooms away. The reason? I hadn’t come last night, despite a long thread of commutation regarding this and motorcycle storage. They offered us a windowless dorm. I didn’t want my mother to wake up on her 90th in that dungeon. I look at Booking.com, seething that they haven’t honoured my reservation. But you can’t book anything that can be instantly occupied, it has to be an after-lunch check in. The inept receptionist calls around, finds a hotel, I look at reviews, they are abysmal.
‘No way.’
She continues, meanwhile my mother is wilting, surrounded by a debilitating pile of baggage, feeling increasing fatigue and hunger I just accept the next place the receptionist comes up with because screaming will cure nothing. Another taxi to some outskirts soulless hotel. They expect my disabled mother to walk up 2 flights of stairs.
‘No way!’ this is me trying to keep my mouth shut.
So she gets given a ground floor stinking smokers room. No restaurant, nothing to eat at all.
I go about rearranging the hire car to be delivered to the new address from my 3rd floor room. A big black shiny but 20-year-old 4×4 Toyota arrives. So begins a meticulous inspection for existing damage and I hand over the $500 cash deposit. They want the full week’s rental fee up front in cash too. I don’t have that much. While all this is going on and I’m signing contracts and waivers, there is a minor need at home and I’m simultaneously dealing with that, giving credit card numbers over the phone and relaying OTP numbers and allowing authorisation.
I get the additional cash from my mum’s stash. Car keys are handed over and finally we have some independence and enter the crazy city driving to get brunch. Food is calming, I’m collecting my thoughts, considering our options. We decide we can do better than this, so I book a picturesque place in the foothills. Back to the hotel to check out after only 3 hours, despite having paid for the night. It was at this point, if I had been more composed, that I would have realised I didn’t pack my money belt.
A hot drive out of the city, I really thought that with 4×4 A/C automation, my motorcycle experienced traveling discomfort was a thing of the past, but the system needs recharging and can’t cope with the 39° C temperature this city is suffering, my jeans stick to my legs. I don’t bother contacting the hire company.
The new place is a little cabin by a stream with a snowcapped mountain view, albeit through powerlines but still acceptable. Mum seems to like it.
I can’t sleep, rescheduling the itinerary in my head. In the morning of her 90th I arrange breakfast to be brought to the terrace. Perfect. Phew, saved. Put a photo on Facebook that turns out to be twice as popular as anything I’ve posted on the entire trip, lots of people seem to like it.
We take a drive up a mountain pass and to the birthday night’s luxury cabin. We are the only guests. Strange, as in desperation, yesterday morning I asked if we could arrive a day early. We get steak delivered to the terrace as the sun sets. Birthday plans redeemed.
There is a view to the north, and as dusk descends the city sparkles on the horizon, and to the south are isolated craggy mountains.
I expect total tranquillity, but no, there is a dirt track below, with the darkness the revving dirt bikes call it a day. There is a brief sound of silence until a camper van pulls up and blasts dance music. Why the fuck do people come to the wilderness only to ruin it with noise pollution and leave their shit behind? I don’t say anything, mum is asleep, I just lay in bed wondering when they would shut up. I get the answer at 1.20am.
I want a sunrise photo, so not much sleep, no sunrise either. As I write my diary, the high-altitude silence, the tranquillity that can only be experienced in such environments seems to taunt, it could have been like this last night and I could have slept. The boys who run the place finally open the restaurant for included breakfast at 9am. Seven cold beans and a slither of mushroom. I should complain, but mum seem to like it.
We’re late, due to the service, not the time it takes to eat the meagre offering. We have a long drive ahead of us today. Back through the city and east alongside the coiled barbed wire of the Kazakhstan border. To the lake. Mum had been doing her research since this idea was suggested back in April and I’d condensed her wish-list itinerary into a workable round-trip tour. The lake though was more like a seaside resort, as any land locked country would treat such a large body of water. Fake palm trees and high-density yurt camps. Mum and I are of the same mindset, we like the wild, untamed and authentic, not this fabricated shite. The mountains to the south beckon, the lake bores. We go to the ‘fairytale canyon’. Fuckin’ nightmare, give some rocks a name and the hordes will obediently come, climb over them and put their selfies on Instagram. The carpark is clogged with impatience, we don’t even turn off the engine: horrendous place, all the atmosphere of Legoland. We don’t say anything but both know this is actually shite. Not one of ‘Kyrgyzstan’s secret treasures’.
We’re not going to make the ambitious milage today and as storm clouds gather I opt to take a road down the deepest valley between the highest mountains and most dramatic waterfalls. It’s getting dark, pissing down, lightening cracks through the heavy sky. I find a yurt camp but no one who is in charge. Opening a door cut into a 40-foot container I see an expansive sumptuous room, converted with comforts. I find a youth, ‘no rooms’ he says assuming we want a terraced yurt.
I say something,
‘What about that one?’
‘You want vip?’
‘Yes’
He gets on his radio, it is available, I’m not in a very good haggling position, but we get it. He wants cash. It’s then, in a fluster getting mum down the muddy, waterlogged path and bringing up luggage in pissing rain, that I can’t find my money belt. Eventually, I empty the entire contents of both my bags onto the floor. After so much time travelling solo one can’t help but develop an impeccable packing procedure, a place for everything. Transitioning to a car driver was a chaotic matter and the belt is gone. That doesn’t stop me looking over and over in exactly the same pockets, where it should be. Well, at least I took out $500 for the deposit before it was mislaid, I will at least get that back.
The onsite restaurant is closed, there are revellers and diners inside but the door is locked. I take a walk down the damp, low-cloud, dark and foreboding valley and find a place that does the staple beef and potato with onion dinner, to take away in a container, back the container. Well-fed and in an extravagant bed, mum seems to like it.
I’m on the couch wide awake retracing my steps, working out exactly when the belt was last seen and what was left in it. The cash from the sale of my US KLR last year. Less than $800, at least $500 and some other currencies too. When my nocturnally compiled theory of theft is complete, in the middle of the night I message the hotel that the rental car was delivered to; predictably they know nothing. In the morning I’ve concluded it was definitely stolen. With a credit card in there too, if lost and found, I could be contacted, I am quite googleable. I can’t cancel the card as the company wants to send me an OTP and there is no phone reception in the canyon. It’s not until I’m back down to the over civilized lake shore that I get reception so I can get the card cancelled and see that it was not used or abused. The reason being mainly that Mastercard is not accepted in this country.
I don’t have many stories of loss or theft. I have a lot though, of suspicion, mistrust and caution, of reading and feeling the situation I’m in. But I’ve been well and truly robbed this time. While distracted during the hire and signing process, I know who did it, what room they were in and can pinpoint the time it occurred to within 5 minutes but I have no proof and no want to go all the way back and confront them.
So on we go, giving up on the lake and its overhyped and overpopulated attractions. We’re going to take some mountain roads. I get us some smoked fish as we leave the lakeside and fill up the tank. Onto the windy route, after 12 miles the road is blocked due to a landslide, there was no sign and I don’t say anything, the route is repeated in reverse but mum seems to like it.
Back we go to the main road, now taking a detour with the Chinese cross-border trucks so this one must be open. This route rewards us with stunning rock formations and pure natural beauty, ending up in a tiny town at 4pm.
‘Might be best to stop here’ I suggest, mum seems to agree. A guesthouse that is basically a farmyard located on the side of a river with a couple of rooms in an annex, but inviting, available and with dinner and breakfast included. Mum seems to like it
Anyway, the alternative is into the unknown and very off road. With Wi-Fi, as I talk to my girlfriend I absentmindedly walk round the hire car and notice a stone in the tyre.
Turns out it’s a 3-inch bolt, but no air has escaped. I don’t say anything. I go for a walk before dinner, and the first place I come to is a mechanic’s yard. I show him the picture I’d taken of the bolt in the tyre, he indicates to bring the car over, the spare is put on and the other repaired, that was lucky. All the time the man communicates with me wordlessly: How old? Where from? How many kids? All done with hand signal silence and drawing in the dirt. I don’t say anything, don’t bother to call the hire company either, just pay the puncture repair fee, it’s not an inflated price. I hope the spare will stay up, those are my thoughts as I lay awake at night. Also my chosen off road route – one source said it’s a 15-hour trip, Google maps says 3, the puncture repair man drew a 7 in the dirt on the door of the car.
Next morning against the hire companies protocol, we go out into the wild for prohibited river crossings. I’d be doing this with a bolt pierced tyre if we had not stopped early yesterday and spotted the intrusion. He was right on time, the tyre man. Truly exhilerating, many wonderment stops, viewing genuine nomadic lives being lived in utter remoteness.
A true insight into the life of a herder, then we’re flagged down by a cow man (I think that is the smell of cow radiating from the back seat) we give him a lift, I have wheels, he has need, there is nothing more to say in any language. I’m watching him in the mirror, now mistrustful and knowing the luggage is in the back, but all he takes with him when he disembarks is his aroma, mum seems to like him.
It’s five hours to the village that is half way, we’d have been here long after dark if I’d attempted the trip last night. The track surface improves and it’s only another 2 hours back to the main road. So the 7 hours the tyre man wrote on the side of the car was correct, we can still make it to today’s prebooked destination. But first, fish straight out of the lake for late lunch. Mum seems to like it
They certainly look after her in the openair restaurant, there is a permanently running hose outside, also, I assume, like the fish, straight out of the lake, so I wash some of the mud off the car before the food arrives. Then into a valley, past a wild fire and again primitive accommodation but hospitable. We’re invited to a communal table, we’re joined by a British embassy employee with a bottle of single malt and his Kazakh girlfriend that he shares with exactly the same reluctant restraint I have been known to exhibit, the whiskey that is, not the girlfriend. There was a hitchhiking German couple too. They all think mum is amazing, an inspiration and can’t possibly be 90. It’s an entertaining evening, we all seem to enjoy it.
I actually got some sleep. Next morning, refreshed and recharged at last, I come down to load the car, the kids have drawn hearts in the dirt on the door, how lovely… and coloured them in with a fuckin’ stone. Scratched to hell, there goes my deposit. I say something, show the guest house owner. The Kazakh girl has the unfortunate job of translating. I get his number; he can fight it out with the rent-a-car people. I’m beginning to think there is a black cloud of doom over me, I don’t fuckin’ deserve this karma, what reason is this everything happening for? I’m trying to stay positive but it’s becoming a bit of a challenge. We drive to the picturesque place, the attraction of a lake surrounded by unfathomably glorious mountains. I’m not seeing it, I’m not feeling it, mum seems to like it.
I don’t say anything. We’re early and the carpark is empty. I get mum to the lakeside for the visual and someone out of sight feels the need to ‘whoop’ repeatedly to hear the echo. Paradise lost, tranquillity taken, I don’t say anything. As we return to the village, the hordes are coming up in mini busses, the selfie-obsessed, viewing the world through the screen. Just got in ahead of them. I do envy them one thing though, their smiles, they seem happy, happy to be where they are. I prefer another time, this time I’m not even seeing it, preoccupied by the scratched-up car.
So back the way we came to continue the loop, past some red stone edifices, hoodoos, pinnacles, not given a name like ‘Pixie Hat Stone Forest’ so no one goes, no one stops, just pure, unspoilt, natural, time eroded beauty. Nature without the hype. The wild fire was contained and all is well. We’re heading for the embassy employee recommended hotel, with no website. I hope they have a room, they do, a choice in fact. We opt for the one with the river view balcony. Once I’ve got mum up there she doesn’t want to come back down, she seems enamoured.
She drops her crutch off the balcony. I go down two flights and rummage in the undergrowth to find it, bring it back and am locked out of the room. She can’t get to the door, I have the crutch, that, is almost funny. I finally get a moment to myself and head into town for supplies, the best part of the day: little market, most stalls in open shipping containers, everything weighed and put in plastic bags, point and pay, smile and next stop, I even find a black marker to try and cover up the scratches on the car.
‘Where from?’ says a drunk man in a beer selling container.
‘England’ I habitually say.
‘Fuck’ he says ‘fuck, fuck’.
I laugh, ‘yeah fuck it’ I reply,
‘fuck’ he says again. I love local interaction; you lean so much.
OK, that worked out well, except they don’t take credit card at the hotel, no reception up here, won’t take US $ and I don’t have enough local currency, what can I say. They take US $ when that is the only choice.
I sleep on the floor by the open balcony door to hear the river, it’s not comfortable, I don’t sleep much, it rains cats and dogs in the night, there’s a kitten in the corridor in the morning, mum loves it.
It’s the last day today and the engine light comes on. Oh, FFS. VSC says the warning light, I can’t google it, no reception. But into the mountains we go to see our rain last night fell as snow here. The first fall of the autumn season, a stunning end, mum is in awe.
This happened when she met me in Mongolia for her 75th: we walked out of our smoky ger and into snow. A winter backdrop, then drop back down to the city, where they drive like death. I have reception again, the hotel text me: got a flood, all reservations cancelled. I find another one the other side of a 4-lane intersection. It’s tricky, I have eyes everywhere. When I get across a cop is waiting for me. Comes up to the car, salutes, shakes my hand, and gesticulates I’ve made an illegal manoeuvre, broken protocol. 3000 Som fine, no wait, 5500 Som fine. I use google translate.
‘I’m just taking the hire car back, end of the holiday’.
I hand him my phone, he’s not having it. I try another tactic.
‘The driving in this city is crazy I’m looking all over the place; I’ve missed hitting 100 cars and accidently missed one prohibitive road sign.’ He reads my phone, a tiny smile appears on his face; I want nothing more than to make it grow. He looks up, I make eye contact and return the smile, in a hunched, hopeful and humble kind of way. His smile grows, the eye contact remains engaged, I enlarge my smile trying to read his face, anticipate his reactions, his doesn’t move, his face is fixed, the fine isn’t, my documents are returned, got away with it, mum seems relieved.
Car hire messages me, ‘When will you be back?’
‘Soon’ I’m driving in the city now.
They want the car valeted before I return it.
‘Later’ I’m diverting, first to the new hotel to drop off mum and all our baggage. Then I take the car to the recommended cleaning place. They spend an hour on it, I tip the kid and take it back. She’s very busy – Miss rent-a-car, so I mention the valetes must have got water into the electrics and the engine light has just come on, show her the repaired tyre and mention the inadequate air conditioning. She misses the scratches, I don’t say anything. I get away with it, get my full deposit back, and return to the hotel on foot stopping for a takeaway and a sweet desert for a final supper Mum seems to like it.
Up at 5am for the prebooked taxi to the airport: one of those accelerate and brake – don’t read the road – or the traffic lights – up the arse of every car flashing lights into their mirrors – cutting up, cutting in – driving like a fucktard – taxi drivers. I don’t say anything.
Mum gets business class. I’m at the back – economy scum; I know my place. I’m seated next to some fidget who’s all elbows and can’t keep still, speaking through the gap in the seats to her friend behind. Keeps searching in her bag, getting in my space, I don’t say anything, my expectations of others consideration must put me in a league of special needs. However, even the stewardesses get fed up with her, up and down opening the overhead compartments. I think she becomes more dislodged during the flight, no one seems to like her.
Change at Istanbul and for the remaining flight, there is a smell of B.O. Where’s it coming from? The answer? The guy directly in front of me who constantly has his arm up over his head, even sleeps like that, the rancid stench from his underarm right in my face. I keep my mouth shut. I see him again at the baggage carousel and then taxi stand, he’s happy, oblivious to his offensive odour. Glad I kept my mouth shut, don’t what to ruin his holiday like a stealthy theft in the first three hours. Anyway, this is a joke, right? I’m being secretively filmed, right from the start of this tour, has this been some kind of tolerance test? This can’t possibly be real life, can it?
Back in England, the taxi driver who picks us up at Gatwick says he likes the southern half of the M25, ‘It’s so scenic’ I don’t say anything. Says he’s been to Bulgaria – Sunny Beach, I keep my mouth shut, mum seems to like him.
I was supposed to do an interview this week, about my travels, I don’t think I’ve got anything at all I want to say, I’ll keep my mouth shut, just write it in a blog. Not exactly the enthusiastic and inspiring traveller influencer, I never want to go any-bloody-where ever again, and with my travel money stolen maybe I won’t be.
‘What made you chose Kyrgyzstan? Mum said once I’d got her home
‘That was to be my final destination’
‘It was a great choice I really liked it’
So my impression was correct.
