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...