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...

Photo

Thıs ıs the fırst tıme I've found a computer that wants to upload pıctures, and thıs was the only one wıth both of us on my memory card. It's taken in the rather odd park at the top of Almaty's cable car.

Khazakhstan

It's been a strange couple of weeks. Tourısts are stıll very much a novelty here and no one speaks Englısh, or the strange collectıon of gestures for thıngs lıke 'how many chıldren' that the Uzbeks seem to have worked out. Instead they just repeat themselves ın Russıan louder and louder and slower and slower untıl you nod regardless. 

Stıll, the language barrıer hasn't stopped us befrıendıng lots of old ladıes called Roza and beıng cooked lunch by one of them. A drunk couple on the bus yesterday also gave us a rıng, a keyrıng made by theır daughter and a pıne branch before we managed to escape.

We've also spent a rıdıculously large amount of tıme on a traın (30 hours), appeared on TV (see Tom's blog for more detaıls), eaten camel and drunk theır mılk, and swum ın the Aral Sea (there ısn't much else to do once you fınally fınd ıt).

Fat-bottomed sheep make the world go around

Or Central Asıa at least - I've eaten so much fatty mutton ın the last month I may turn ınto a sheep.

Ugh...

... food poisoning. It had to happen eventually as everyone else we've met in Uzbekistan has had at least one bout but that doesn't make it any nicer. Luckily my stomach chose somewhere with air con and English TV channels (including BBC World - odd as the website seems to be blocked by the government). Not so useful was Alisher, the crazy owner of our hall-of-mirrors guesthouse, who thought vodka and salt would help - not true. 

Other than the offending plov (a kind of oily mutton risotto and big national favourite) I quite liked Tashkent. Not much in the way of sights but lots of policemen twirling day-glo orange disco batons and some strange Soviet tower blocks with Uzbek carpet patterns set into the concrete. At the weekend the various lakes and ponds were full of boys swimming and everyone drives one of the three cars Daewoo makes in the country.

We also went to the opera (a pricey $2) where half the audience chattered on their mobiles. The cast also had to cope with numerous camera flashes and one guy who was twice the height of everyone else on stage. When we went in search of a drink in the interval the bar in the lavish foyer only sold 1.5 litre bottles of fizzy pop. 

Four weeks, two stans and one ferry

Well we've finally made it to the fabled stans. Unfortunately it seems most of the internet cafes are too slow for this site so apologies for the big gap and here's a summary of the last four weeks:

1. The ferry across the Caspian: This was supposed to last between 12 and 18 hours. I guessed 16 and Tom, ever the optimist, 14. In the end it took 53, most of them spent within sight of Turkmenistan waiting for train to take the wagons out of the hold beneath us. That's 53 hours sharing a squat toilet with a girl with diarrhoea and an overland bus group who drank every drop of alcohol on the boat, mixing the final dregs with the rehydration salts from their 1st aid kit. Like being on a cruise ship without the cruising... (or enough food)

2. Ashgabat: The white marble capital of Turkmenistan, dripping in oil dollars, was meant to resemble Kuwait but also seems a bit like Milton Keynes. There are enormous roads laid out on a numerical grid, ridiculous gold statues and every type of fountain under the sun. There aren't however many people around so it's hard to tell how much they like the place or whether they'd rather the money was spent on more schools and hospitals.
Most of the statues were put up by the former president Turkmenbashi ("father of the Turkmens") the Great who died a cople of years ago and are of himself. The one that rotates to face the sun is pretty good but my favourite was the earthquake monument. Built to commemorate a 1948 earthquake that killed 90% of the city's population, it's a black bull with a shattered globe on its back. Right in the middle a woman is holding out a little gold statue of Turkmenbashi.

3. The Karakum desert: our first desert and it rained. You can only travel in Turkmenistan with a guide but here it was worth the expense as ours had a four-wheel drive and a tent so we were able to head off in the dunes to see the weird Darvesa gas craters. These three huge circular pits seem to have been an accidental creation of Soviet gas prospectors but no one is quite sure. Two have bubbling mud and water and the third, which we camped by, does a good impression of your average Biblical-style hell.

4. The silk road cities: It's a bit unfair to bump Khiva, Bukhara and Samarkand into one bullet point but I've already written too much. Our overall impression was of far too much heat (30 degrees at 9 in the morning) and lots and lots of blue tiles. There are minarets, mausoleums, mosques and medrassas throughout all three and they're all covered in beautiful swirling blue patterns and a good handful of turquoise domes.
The degree of restoration seems a bit excessive in some places (the Soviets even invented a new dome in one case) but it does help recreate the atmosphere and there are still a few romantic ruins if you search around.
Everyone raves about Bukhara but we preferred Khiva, packed into its city walls, and Samarkand which is more spread out but has by far the most impressive buildings.

5. Nurata mountains: We broke up the blue tiles a bit with a visit to a homestay in the mountains north of Samarkand. Just back this morning and I'm already missing our breezy tapchan (tea platform) under the walnut trees. No one spoke english but there were endless cups of green tea, beds under the stars and lots of baby animals. With most things still donkey powered it was unnervingly like stepping into an old black and white photograph of ye olde devon.

Gorgeous Georgia

We've just crossed into Azerbaijan on the night train after a couple of weeks in Georgia. Parts of it are dilapidated to a point somewhere beyond scenic but there is a nice laid-back atmosphere and the countryside is varied and beautiful. The struggling economy has forced many people to grow their own food, and there's fresh produce for sale everywhere, but the most remarkable thing is their amazing generosity. Lots of places claim to be hospitable but the Georgians take it to extremes. At times it felt impossible to go out for a meal without someone giving us alcohol (nice but a bit exhausting after a while).

On one particularly surreal day a group of teenagers adopted us on the bus to Mtskheta - the ancient capital - and escorted us around the various churches, devoutly kissing icons and lighting candles as they went. Afterwards they lit a fire and insisted we join them for a barbeque and several rounds of vodka.

We staggered back to Tbilisi and went for a quiet supper in a local cafe but found ourselves drinking home-made wine with the owner and an elderly actor from the theatre over the road. The latter made endless elaborate toasts to England, Georgia and Shakespeare and some poor guy from the next table was roped in to translate.

Another rather different trip out of Tbilisi left us snowed into the Caucasus mountains near the Russian border. Crossing the pass into the town where we were staying the bus (really just a Ford Transit minibus) started sliding backwards and we all had to get out and push. We spent half an hour trying to get past the sticky patch before the driver reluctantly pulled out a set of chains for one of the back wheels and another 15 minutes before he cracked and got out the second set.

The rest of the day's buses were cancelled and the next morning there was thick fog and 10cm of snow on the ground. It's frustrating to know there are huge mountains all around which you can't see but luckily our homestay was a good one with warm radiators and endless plates of hot food.

Anyway, got a bit carried away. We're now in Baku which is rather grander with oil-money paying for extensive renovation of the old town and huge SUVs everywhere (favourite so far is the gigantuan and appropriately named Nissan Armada). It's odd not having to look out for holes in the pavement and missing manhole covers the whole time but we're missing the strange squigely script and herds of battered Ladas.