8.

THE LAKE IN THE CHEST

part 3

The final morning started out bad and got worse.

With Aizada practically on top of me, purring into my right ear, and a puppy that had sought shelter from the cold and wind by nestling up against the yurt, whimpering in my left, I had hardly slept. I tried to move Aizada, but asleep that wisp of a girl felt like she weighed three hundred pounds.

At breakfast, when we were all seated around the plastic tablecloth laid out on the floor of the yurt eating rice porridge and sipping tea, I asked Aizada if it would be all right to ask Kenje my questions – I had consulted with Aizada the day before if it would be okay to ask a few questions and if she would act as my interpreter. It seemed like a good time because, at the moment, Kenje was seated quietly by the teapot.

I asked four questions. How old were you when you got married? (17) How many children do you have? (2) Do you want to have more children? (No). And what do you want for your daughter? (Anything she wanted. If she wanted to go to University that was fine. If she wanted to stay on the jailoo that was fine too. Whatever made Nursia happy.)

When we finished, Claude said to me hostilely, “So aggressive! Why do you ask so many intimate questions?”

That coming from a woman who had been nothing but rude to me for the past two days; who treated me as an interloper who was spoiling her family’s vacation.

My cheeks burning with humiliation, I stammered out a reply, “I don’t think that the questions I asked are inappropriate, not based on the what people have asked me. And not on the information they had offered up to me.”

Claude made it sound like I had asked Kenje how often she and her husband had sex and what kind of birth control they used.

But what if she was right? What if I had been incredibly rude? Was I so caught up in my own panic about getting material to write about that I had been oblivious to any discomfort I may have caused Kenje? Should I have waited until after breakfast? I was conscious that Aizada was not my guide and that after breakfast she would be helping the Frenchies get packed up, and Kenje would have work to do. Later, when we were getting organized to leave, I pulled Aizada aside and asked her to please tell Kenje that I had intended no offense and she assured me that everything was fine. Whether it really was, I’ll never know, but Kenje did not appear to take offense. Claude took upon herself to be offended for her.

When Henri approached me, hoping to clarify what had occurred I was feeling a bit more confident. “Your questions might have been considered inappropriate,” he said.

“I consulted with Aizada before speaking to Kenje. I have only the greatest respect for the Kyrgyz people,” I explained. Why was I justifying myself to this man?

He then broached the subject of my picture taking. “Did you ask their permission to take pictures?”

He was bringing up issues that were really none of his business, but still I continued to defend myself.

“I never photograph intimate situations or photograph someone who doesn’t want to.”

I continued that it was, so far, my experience on the jailoos that the Kyrgyz loved to be photographed and that they wanted people to know about Kyrgyzstan and its people and culture. For good measure, I added, “Other than you (that moment excepted), no one in your family has made me feel comfortable, and Claude especially has been very unfriendly.”

He tried to assure me that that was not their intention and he used the language barrier as a justification. I laughed in his face. All their conversations with their guide had been in English. They had lived in the United States. 

I was anxious to get away from them, but circumstances wouldn’t let me. The trail was on the

 other side of the river, easily crossed on horses but not so easily by backpackers. They and their packs had to be ferried across on horseback. Zulkar had already taken Henri across when Chopo and I rode up. Chopo offered his assistance and I found myself in an awkward position. If I didn’t offer to help because of my poor equestrian skills, would it be misinterpreted as spiteful behavior? I knew I wasn’t capable of handling an additional rider, but maybe I could handle a backpack. 

Aizada tossing two packs that had been tied together over the back of Sherdar like saddlebags was more than I had bargained for. Sherdar bucked and stomped and I thought, “Great! To make matters worse, I’ll dump their stuff in the river.”

I got Sherdar under control and forded the river successfully, but my hand ached from holding tightly onto the bags.

Once everybody and everything was on the other side, Chopo and I were free to get the hell out of there. We made good time and stopped for lunch in the same spot we lunched at two days prior. Chopo had brought some kymyz back with him. He opened the bottle saying, “Kymyz. Kyrgyz national drink.” He took a big swig and sighed with satisfaction.

I picked up a plum saying, “Plum. My favorite fruit,” and taking a bite, I sighed with satisfaction.

As we neared Kochkor, a man called out a greeting to Chopo. I remembered that the man had been in the same spot - squatting among the poplars in front of his house – when we were headed out and had then too called out to Chopo.

I arrived at the guesthouse hot and tired. It would be an hour before there was hot water for a shower so I decided to try to find a felt shop that I had heard about. I didn’t find it, but I did find someone to have tea with.

He called out to me as I walked down Kochkor’s main street. “ Do you speak English?” He sounded English or Australian. I was surprised when he introduced himself as Carlo from Genova.

He owned a tour company and was in Central Asia with two clients who hired him for private tours every year. He had lively pale green eyes and a shaved head and he was nice, and he actually wanted to talk to me.

We continued walking down the main street bustling with people selling fruits and vegetables. We passed taxi drivers hustling up passengers for Bishkek, 250 som, or Naryn, 150 som.  The crowd was a mix of women in polyester dresses and headscarves; men in too big suit coats and kalpaks, the traditional peaked white felt hats; young men in jeans, tee shirts and baseball hats, cell phones pressed to their ears; young women in tight tee shirts embellished with rhinestones and glitter; observant Muslims, bearded and skull capped; and the occasional backpacker, bearded and grungy.

A tiny Kyrgyz man, in a too large blue suit coat, jeans hiked up as far as they could go and a 

kalpak grabbed Carlo’s hand and asked where he was from.  Italy. And her, indicating to me with his thumb. America. He enthusiastically shook my hand, then placing his left hand over our joined right hands, shook my hand some more. Then he shook Carlo’s hand again, and again asked him where he was from. As we took our leave from our new friend Carlo said, “I love meeting Kyrgyz people. They are so kind.”  Sighing, he added, “But it can be a problem when they won’t let you go.”

We hopped over a filthy arik to a row of yurts selling fish and kymyz. The last yurt was a chaikhana (teahouse). Light streamed in through the tunduk. White lace netting was draped all around. It was like being inside a wedding cake. Our seat was a metal cot covered with a wool blanket. The surly waitress dropped an electrical coil into a glass pitcher to boil the water for our tea. 

To Carlo, everything was “Fantastic!” Kyrgyzstan, the Kyrgyz people, Genova, my plan to write a book, life! Walking back to my guesthouse, he pointed to the silver figure of a man set atop a brick base.

“Who is that?” he asked.

It was a statue of Lenin, depicted grabbing his lapel with his left hand while his right arm was outstretched, the palm of the hand open, like he was addressing an imaginary crowd.

“Fantastic! I have been looking for him all over!” he cried excitedly. “You must take my picture.”

He pulled a camera out of one of the many pockets on his cargo pants. He took out the battery pack and blew on it for half a minute. “They’re almost dead. Let’s hope this works.”

The subject posed below the great man, the photographer aimed and the photo was taken.

“Fantastic!” said Carlo.

Photos: (1) Horses, (2) Chopo checks the saddle, (3) Our Kyrgyz friend

8.

THE LAKE IN THE CHEST

part 2

I was not alone in the yurt. A French family from Toulouse had arrived a few hours earlier, yet I was to feel more alone during the next two days than if it had just been me and my Kyrgyz hosts. Another French couple that was staying in their own tent joined us for dinner. Even though they all spoke English conversation at dinner was in French. This left out not only me, but the French family’s English speaking guide, Aizada, as well.

After the meal we gathered around two candles set in the center of the yurt while outside the wind whipped around a light snow. It was too dark to read, and not wanting to appear completely withdrawn, I looked on as Aizada and Nursia, each with an ear pod in one ear, listened to French and international music that Claude, the French woman, had on her MP3 player.

I ventured out into the frigid night for a moment. The eyes of the sheep huddled nearby flashed red in the light cast by my headlamp appearing disembodied – their bodies being indistinguishable in the darkness – like the eyes of zombies.

It wasn’t toasty warm in the yurt. There was only the latticework frame, reed matting and thin exterior felt panels between us and the elements. The felt panels needed some attention; there were holes in some spots. The French family had sleeping bags, but for some reason Aidai, the CBT coordinator in Kochkor, told me I needn’t bring mine, there would be plenty of quilts. The mattresses were arranged six across, with mine at one end. I was given two quilts, a jacket to use as a pillow and another jacket to tuck around my feet. I wore a thermal shirt, long underwear and socks to sleep. Cold air blew gently across my face if I turned my head to the left. If I turned my head to the right I was practically rubbing noses with Aizada.

At night in a tent, Ella, herself wedged between two others whom she touched whenever she moved, complained not of the cold, but of the uninvited guests sharing her sleeping bag. Jumping, biting fleas made sleep impossible and she discovered the only effective way to kill them in the dark was to bite them in half. I guess my sleeping arrangement could have been worse.

I dreamt I was having an affair with Henri, the French man, who was quite handsome and by far the nicest member of the family. I was having difficulty finding him in the crowded building where we had arranged to meet. I did run into his daughter who confronted me about the affair. I was shaken out of the dream by a minor earthquake. Until the morning I wasn’t sure that I hadn’t dreamt it too, or that it hadn’t been a stampede of sheep.

“No, it was an earthquake,” confirmed Claude. “I know. I couldn’t fall back to sleep. In 1987, when we were living in Pasadena, there was a 6.5 quake. We slept in our car for a week. I was too terrified to stay in our apartment.”

After breakfast we all, Chopo and I on horseback and the French family and Aizada on foot, headed out to Turk Köl, another lake about an hour and a half walk from our camp. The sun shone and the air was brisk and there were no storm clouds to spoil our fun. The valley floor was lushly green and riddled with small irregular mounds of earth; narrow creeks snaked along the ground to join the river. The grass climbed up the mountains eventually thinning out and giving way to brown, craggy peaks. The mountain panoramas were dazzling in the brilliant light.  

We came to a boulder-strewn escarpment. I was sure that Chopo and I would have to leave the horses behind, but no, we continued up a path that was no wider than the horses’ hooves. I impressed myself by how easily and fearlessly I did it. I am not an experienced rider; I have had lessons but I had never before attempted such a steep, ascent. We reached a spot where a rockslide made the path impassable forcing us to dismount and, at first nudge, then pull the horses over the rocks.

The ground leveled off at the top of the escarpment before it precipitously rose again.  Chopo hobbled the horses and we continued on foot, grabbing rocks or tufts of grass to aid our ascent while a waterfall rushed down on our left.

Turk Köl was a petite version of Köl Ukok, the same turquoise waters, the same steep valley walls. There was even a small beach, but I doubt anyone would swim in the frigid water. Despite the altitude, almost 10,000 feet, and difficult access horses were grazing on the lake’s far shore.

We rested for a bit, basking in the beauty of our surroundings. I pulled a bag of plums from my pack and offered them out. Chopo and Aizada declined, Henri accepted, and the rest of his family did not even acknowledge the offer.

A visit to a glacial lake was suggested. Henri and Claude decided to return to camp but their children, Solange and Jacques, and I continued, not together of course. The route to the lake crossed a field of boulders. It was as if the earth was belching them up there were so many. Careful steps were called for; it was not a place where one would want to twist or sprain an ankle.

The lake was small, the water gray, the wind bitingly cold. The glacier that fed the lake looked like it was nearing the end of its life expectancy. My head was throbbing, my nose was running; I told Chopo that I didn’t have to see anymore. We returned to Turk Köl, and after a brief rest, to our horses and the camp. Descending the escarpment on horseback was more unnerving than ascending, the full weights of me and Sherdar facing down hill, knowing that our fate depended on his hooves and thin ankles.

Nearing the camp I spied a little figure in a pink jacket and baseball cap zipping around on a horse, yipping and yelling to get the sheep moving. It was Nursia; her little legs not reaching the stirrups. She seemed to have been born on a horse, so confident was she.

 Lunch was waiting for us. Goat ribs. Surprisingly tasty, what little meat there was on the bones. We Westerners did our best to strip the ribs of meat and fat, as our Kyrgyz guides expertly sucked theirs clean. Kyrgyz mothers tell their children that cleaning the bones will bring them a beautiful wife or a handsome husband.

As we ate, Nursia, momentarily off her horse, sat patiently by the teapot, her legs tucked under her and the ever-present smile on her sweet, round face, waiting to refill our teacups.

A change in the weather kept us indoors for part of the afternoon. Thunder, then the rain. Chopo, Aizada, Henri, Solange and Jacques passed the time joyfully playing cards. There was lots of laughing, and groaning when the game did not go the way a player had planned. Claude disappeared into the downy depths of her sleeping bag and I read.

I was reading Turkestan Solo for the third time. I was in Kyrgyzstan, in the mountains, in a yurt, yet my mind was wandering and I was fighting the urge to skip over sections. The book was the basis for my trip and my book and I put it back in my bag and pulled out Flashman and the Redskins instead.

The rain did not last long as is typical of mountain storms. Chopo and I took a ride, heading up river, away from the lake. Chopo told me about a horse game called “Grab the Grass.” A rider, while at a full gallop, bends down and tries to grab a clump of grass out of the ground. Of course, I had to try, minus the galloping part. I immediately encountered two problems: number one, I was not a very good rider and two, every time I bent over my camera swung around and clocked me in the head.

We rode further and further into the valley, we passed the last yurt camp, but still there were grazing animals. I would have loved to ride until I had out-ridden them, but the weather was shifting yet again and we turned back to camp. We rode quickly, the horses’ gait transitioning from a fast walk to a trot. Trotting, especially on lumpy ground, is like driving on a bumpy road in a car with bad suspension. Someone told me that the bounciness of the trot varies from horse to horse, and if that is true then Sherdar had the most jarring trot I’d ever experienced. Dismounting, my left knee almost gave out from under me, telling me that after two days, it had had enough of being bent into a stirrup. I prayed that it would recover enough for the six-hour return journey the next day.

Claude, again buried in her sleeping bag, and I were alone in the yurt. I made a few attempts at conversation. She responded in monosyllables or not at all. I could not understand why this woman was so unfriendly to me. Could she see into my head? Did she know about the dream? Or was she just jealous of all women because she looked more like her husband’s mother than his wife?

And it seemed as if her children were taking their cues from her. Solange, who had been quite chatty when I arrived, sharing with me her opinion of Uzbek guesthouses, had ceased to talk to me. Jacques had never even tried.

The yurt was cold, and it was due to more than just Claude’s iciness. Nursia popped her head in the door, and realizing instantly that the stove had gone out, soon returned bringing her father with her to relight it. Altanbek opened the door of the stove and scooped out some dung that had smothered the flames releasing a plume of acrid smoke. Taking a plastic bottle of Benzene, he shook some into the stove and tossed in a lighted match. His timing was off; he didn’t close the door fast enough. Flames shot out of the stove, knocking him off his feet. He recovered, laughing, and looking at Claude and me, said with a big smile, “Okay! Okay!” 

Photos: (1) Nursia and Aizada, (2) Turk Köl, (3) Nursia on her horse