Chatyr-Kol

Tom testing a traditional Kyrgyz hat (yes they really do wear them...)

Over the mountains to China

The end of the Soviet Union! No more Ladas piled with furniture, crumbling Soviet concrete or forlorn statues of Lenin. Instead we've stepped forward in time to huge supermarkets with automated lockers, solar-powered mobile phone masts and spookily silent electric mopeds. There's still the odd yurt, but it's likely to be made of concrete.

Uzbekistan might have the key silk road cities but the last couple of weeks have been better for conjuring up camel caravans of the mind. Osh bazaar in the southwest of Kyrgyzstan is said to be "older than Rome" and seems completely out of proportion with the size of the town. Among the mass of stalls we found the fatty bottoms of the local sheep hanging opaque and rubbery like actors' prosthetics and jars full of wriggling leeches.

A few days later we were in a taxi winding deep into the mountains along a secretive valley to Tash Rabat, a 15th century caravanserai. The equivalent of an old coaching inn in England but built around a big domed roof, it's still surrounded by horses and yurts, as well as the occasional party of picnicking Kyrgyz. After a night in a palatial yurt with glowing stove we stomped our way up and over the pass, close to 4000m, to Chatyr-Kol, a long icy lake where the shepherds' children used up our camera batteries photographing themselves and their donkey and I helped milk a yak.

The next morning while we were eating (a very dairy-based) breakfast it started to snow. The traders of the past would have trekked round to the mountain passes on the other side of the lake but border politics meant we had to hike back and get a car. It was probably for the best; it's 70km from the border to the official Chinese immigration post at the foot of the hills and we ended up waiting for hours while men in masks searched every inch of Tom's bag.

The Uighurs who live in this part of China are muslim like other central Asians and their traditional lifestyle is pretty similar with mud-walled houses, old men with wispy white beards and funny hats, countless mutton kebabs and bustling bazaars. Nonetheless the march of modern China seems pretty relentless and much of Kashgar's "old town" is a living museum with ticket offices and explanatory signs.

We've spent our time resting aching muscles and meandering the streets. I've also got a new and possibly mis-judged Chinese hair cut. Don't think they were very used to wavy hair (see photo on Tom's page).

Visa joys

Somehow, much to our surprise, we've managed to get Chinese visas. In fact, they were so easy to arrange from Tashkent that it felt like a bit of an anti-climax.

We felt rather less smug when we got back to the Kyrgyz border yesterday and discovered our visas for here were not multiple entry ones as we'd though, leaving us stuck in no-mans land. Luckily the Kyrgyz border guards are pretty accomodating and sent out a consulate from the next town to fit us out with brand new visas for a small 'emergency fee'/bribe.

Ala-Kol lake

Tom in front of a glacier

A very small yurt-dweller

In which our brave(ish) heros head for the hills and face some difficult decisions

Feeling rather sore today after realising I've spent nine of the past ten days walking. Kyrgyzstan is a hiker's paradise, crammed with unfeasibly scenic hills and mountains and with guides for hire for less than a tenner. Its tourism industry is apparently growing fast but we've seen no more than a couple of foreigners a day and they're still outnumbered by the old men in tall felt hats and left-over statues of Lenin.

We spent the first four days in the mountains in the east of the country where turquoise lakes lurk among the peaks and there's barely enough oxygen for the groundhogs let along two panting 'angliski's. Luckily we'd taken the precaution of hiring a porter so were slightly surprised when he didn't offer to carry any of our stuff. All became clear on the first evening when a full Kyrgyz meal appeared complete with paper napkins, ketchup and a jar of nutella.

The walk ended at some hot springs where we soaked away some of the aches before jumping on a bus to the jailoos (high meadows) in the centre of the country where families of shepherds still spend the summer. Unfortunately a vital part of the minibus fell off along the way leaving petrol gushing from its innards. The driver eventually plugged the hole with a piece of cloth and replaced some of the lost fuel (chain-smoking all the while) and Tom became part of the push-start crew, expected to leap out and push the bus after every stop.

The hills were just as stunning as the mountain, mile upon mile of rolling green velvet interrupted only by groups of yurts, the odd patch of edelweiss and some lakes. We spent the first night camping (lighting a dung fire to liven up the evening) and then walked from yurt to yurt. The only hazard was the fermented mare's milk forced on us at every stage but I think I'm acquiring a taste for it. It's sour and slightly fizzy with a smoky aftertaste which comes from the barrels it's made in but somehow not as bad as that description would suggest.

We're now back in the capital, Bishkek, missing the hills and trying to decide whether it's worth making a final attempt at the elusive Chinese visas or cutting our losses and flying to Malaysia instead. Both options require an Uzbek visa so we'll be at their embassy tomorrow clutching letters of introduction and a pet translator. Fingers crossed...