This Desert Life

It's market day! Kashgar swells with the influx of traders and tourists alike. We've met just a few backpackers during our days spent here, but today there is a noticable presence. These packers are a hard breed, here for the adventure rather than for any kind of relaxing holiday. The province we are in is one of the most remote in the world and the combination of vast deserts, treacherous mountains and a paranoid government keep the casual tourist at bay.

Most of the packers are lean and dishevelled with more than a touch of the bohemian. They are here for different reasons. Some are seeking something. Like the Irish photographer, on his way to Pakistan to sneak into a refugee camp and take some snaps worthy of publishing. Others, like the Norweigen cyclist, who having peddled from Europe (via Iran) and is now on his way to Tibet and elevations over 5000m, are just plain insane.

Despite the presence of these westerners, the market, when we arrive, is flooded with Asian faces. It's a sprawling shopping kingdom, more like a small suburb than a market. Hawkers line the seemingly endless alley ways. Traditionally, the market was an add-hoc affair: hawkers would throw down a blanket, spread out their wares and the bartering and bargaining would commence. Now however, the current Chinese fashion for brute force modernisation has had an impact.

The center of the market has been built into a concrete fortress, with row upon row of garage-like stalls. Admittedly, it is much cooler and cleaner inside these grey caverns than out on the street, and it is hard to fault the Chinese intent. Something, however, is missing. The stalls feel lifeless and cold and relatively few Uygher shoppers stray into these halls. The real market and the crowd of noisy Uygher shoppers flood the streets outside, and it is here that we spend our time.

The thing about markets is that, when you get right down to it, they are basically large shopping centers. Glover and myself are casual shoppers at best. In fact Glover's wardrobe consists solely of hand-me-down clothes and T-shirts given out free from previous places of employment. His biggest purchase in the last year is a pair of jeans -from K-Mart. So you can well imagine how enthralled we are by the endless stores of imitation T-shirts, hand-made knives and Uyghur hats.

Still, we do our best to get into the spirit of things. Glover decides to buy one of the hand-made Uyghur pen knives. He chooses a small, well made blade and requests the price. Sign language is used to indicate that it costs a whopping 15 yuan (around AU$2.50). Glover, a bargaining genius, counter offers with 5 yuan. The tradesman has barely shook his head however, before Glover leaps forward and ups his offer to 10 yuan. Amazed by his good fortune at finding such simpletons, the tradesman quickly agrees. We walk away with our only market purchase.

The stalls selling goat heads (apparently used to make soup) hold our attention for a little while but we soon lose interest in these markets. We hop a cab to something more appealing. A few kilometers away, on a dirt road to nowhere, we reach the Kashgar animal market. This is where the local farmers come to trade livestock, and the Chinese officials have seen no reason to modernise or sanitise this market in any way.

A huge, dusty oval contains row after row of bleeting sheep, and nervous cattle kicking up dust. Crowds of Uygher men gather around various animals, checking the quality of the goods. Mostly there are cows, donkeys, sheep and goats. The sheep provide the most interest. According to the Uyghurs, the best part of the sheep is the fatty rump. For the past few centuries they have been breeding these sheep to have the fattest, juiciest arses imaginable. Great big flabby arse cheeks wobble up and down as the sheep are herded around the oval. When purchasing the sheep, the men make a point of grabbing the flabby arses and testing them for firmness. Personally I think these guys have alterior motives.

Market day comes to an end, though the bartering apparently goes well into the evening. The following day, there is a max exodus from Kashgar. The various travellers we have met during our stay are all heading off in different directions. Only a French man, named Francis is heading in the same direction as us, along the remote and even less travelled Southern Silk Road.

Glover and I have taken to calling this French man 'Frank', because you just can't share a room with a man called Francis. He is one of those travellers who likes to organise things, even to plan. This is a little unusual for Glover and I. Frank even has this strange foreign custom he calls 'booking ahead'. It's all very unusual, and I fear Frank may despair of us before too long. He is at times a slightly fussy eater. Glover and I have a merry time watching him try new foods, spitting them out and declaring them to be "dizgusting"!

Frank is both a source of great humour for us and at the same time seems devoid of any sense of humour himself. He has travelled through Asia for almost six months yet still flushes tons of toilet paper down the dunny rather than the bin (Asian plumbing requires this). After spending an hour unclogging the dunny with a (very long) stick, I suggest to him that this is not such a good idea. He responds with a thick French accent, "Oy yez, but thiz buckit iz dizgusting'. He has a point, however in my opinion an overflowing dunny is slightly higher on the list of disgusting things to see and do while in Asia.

It is late on Monday morning, when we depart from Kashgar. We are headed to a remote town south and east, called Karghilik. It's a five hour bus ride on one of the cramped mini busses that we are becoming all too familiar with. Frank has gone on ahead, unwilling to wait for us malingerers. He is adamant that we will not find accomodation and onward buses unless we leave at the crack of dawn.

The bus has barely left the station before the engine starts sputtering and coughing. Glover and I exchange glances, fearing another Karakul experience. Not to fear however, as our bus is equipped with an on-board, mobile mechanic. He pulls open the engine lid (conveniently placed next to the feet of Glover and myself). Hot engine fumes fill the bus as the mechanic reaches in and fiddles with the motor. All the while we are still speeding along the motorway, the driver weaving in and out of traffic, hand firmly on the horn.

The landscape passes by. Once again we are surrounded by empty, barren desert. The wind has picked up slightly over the last few days, and stray dust devils play mischeviously in the sand. Our journey takes us along the edge of the great Taklamakan desert. The name of this desert apparently means: "you go in, but you don't come out". Watching the dead, hellish land stretch out all around me, I can well believe it.

Tied to the ceiling of the bus with hockey straps is a beat up old TV and video player. About an hour into the journey, just as the clanging of the engine and the rocking of the bus have become mundane annoyances, the driver jams on a video. I'm guessing but I think it is the Uygher Top 40 video hits from the early 1950's. The quality of the tape is so bad I can barely make it out, though the high pitched whine of the singers is at full volume. Glover, who has been dozing up until this point, wakes with a start. He looks out the window at the empty land, looks up at the painfully loud music video then turns and says, "Did we have a bus accident. Is this hell?" I'm unable to answer, unsure myself.

Sometime later there is a noise from the baggage rack above us. It's a gentle meowing noise, like a cat makes. As the owner pulls the bag down from the rack to adjust the ties we realise that the reason it sounds like a cat is because it is a cat. We watch as the poor animal struggles in its hessian bag.

Still a little disbelieving I confirm that it is indeed a cat by drawing a few pictures and showing them to the bag's owner. He is kind enough to cut a whole in the bag so I can see. This is obviously the first air hole the cat has had in some time and it jams it's nose into it desperately. The owner quickly ties up the hole and stuffs the bag safely under the seat in front of him, where it stays for the rest of the trip.

We arrive in Karghilik and find Frank. First impressions are that we have arrived at the arsehole of the world. It's a dusty, desolute place. Later however, as we head further into town, away from the bus stop we discover a reasonably pleasant country town. Once again it is seperated into a modern Chinese part, and a traditional Uygher part. Unlike Kashgar however, the two are in slightly more harmony. We wander the streets of the old town. It's much cleaner than Kashgar's old town, and more spacious. The buildings are generally in good condition and it feels less like a slum and more like a place people want to live in.

As we meander through the streets, the local residents eye us warily. It's amazing how far a smile can get you however. After we greet them with an "asalam aleykum", the traditional muslim greeting, meaning peace be upon you, they break into broad, toothless grins and often laugh. A few are brave enough to return the greeting.

The adults are shy, the children are not. They come running from all corners to point and make jokes about these strange, tall white men. Before long we have a small army of Uyghur kids following us down the old streets, playing a game of tag around us. They chant the few English words they know: "Hello!", "Nice to meet you", "Goodbye". They break down into hysterics when we respond with hellos of our own.

We spend the rest of the day wandering around the old streets, exploring. We discover the most amazing park only minutes from our hotel. Inside this vast fenced area we come across winding paths through lush green trees, leading to ponds. Nestled amongst the trees are dodgem cars and ferris wheels. In this rural oasis, surrounded by dead, empty desert, this green wetland is as out of place as ice cream on pizza.

We stay only the one night in Karghilik and the next day we find ourselves on another five hour bus ride to the larger town of Hotan. Our driver is a madman. The roads are rough at best, and alternate between bitchemen and dirt. A stream of dust tails us the whole way. Motorists, heading the other way, are treated to a dangerous game of chicken. Our driver swerves wildly only at the last minute and only for the larger vehicles. Motor bikes and donkey carts are run off the road.

All the laws of science and probability are defied when we pull into Hotan without accident, in a cloud of dust. Glover and I leave the bus on shaky legs and head for the nearest hotel. We are now wandering the streets of Hotan, another surprisingly well established and well serviced town.

We are in the most isolated part of China and our destination, the east coast of China, is many thousands of kilometers away. North of us our way is blocked by the Desert Of No Return. South is dominated by the mountains of Tibet with an average altitude of 5000m and which is off-limit to tourists from this side of China. The road directly east is filled with long, death-cheating bus rides. The most sane route is back the way we came, however we have a cunning plan to get us where we want to go. A few things need to be worked out before I can give you the details but I'll let you know when I can. It may be some time however before we come across internet again.

Lake Pleasant

For twenty three hours we watch the view from Turpan to Kashgar - nothing but desert. It's not the hollywood style desert of romantic, rolling sand dunes, wild horsemen and graceful eagles. No this a desert, a real desert. A barren wasteland of dead, lifeless rubble and gritty sand. It's flat in all directions, and nothing lives here, no animal, no plant. It 's the sort of place that eats horsemen and eagles whole.Rain is barely a remembered legend - an ancient myth of a strange liquid that falls from the sky.

Surprisingly the train is modern and clean, with comfortable beds and airconditioning. We have only one complaint. Once again, in this land of midgits, the beds are half a meter too short and half a meter too narrow. To make matters worse, there is no place to put our packs, so we have to squeeze these in along side of us. When the lights go out, Glover and I curl up into fetal position, jam our legs into the side rails to stop us falling from our high bunks, and try to get what sleep we can. It's not much.

Occasionally, a town appears - a strange island of green life in this dead landscape. These oases appear suddenly, the land suddenly changes from dead sand to lush grass, as if some agreed upon boundary existed between the two. At some of these towns, gnarled desert folk get off or onto our train. These people are Uyghur, the traditional muslim inhabitants of this land, and with few ties to the Chinese. I'm not sure what is more amazing: that these towns exist where life has no right to be, or that people choose to live in them.

Eventually the train pulls into the desert city of Kashgar. This was once one of the great trading posts on the old Silk Road, that joins West to East. Now it has been 'modernised' by the Chinese. Huge cement buildings crowd around an open plaza, dominated by a huge statue of Chairman Mao, the previous leader of China.

Kashgar is famous for its traditional muslim sunday market. Locals and foreigners alike gather here every sunday to trade everything from rocks to yaks. As a result of our detailed and intense planning we arrive on a tuesday, no where near market time. We decide to wait it out. We spend a few days in Kashgar, it's an easy town to hang out in, and there are a few other travellers around.

By chance we discover the old town, carefully concealed behind Chairman Mao's massive effergy. Stepping into these back streets is like stepping into another world. Mud-brick shantie houses huddle together. Inside these dark and dilapidated homes, weather worn Uyghurs eek out a living. The metalic din of hammer on anvil echoes out from most, as scarred men beat out blades and cooking pots from hot, glowing iron. Muslim men and women watch us warrily from the shadows as we wander down the rotten smelling streets. Afterwards we wonder how safe this little adventure was, but at the time we are too mesmersmerized by this mysterious world to think about such small concerns as safety.

Later that night we locate the night food markets. Several alleys are crowded with food stalls, selling everything from fried fish (a little odd in the desert) to stewed goat. After a few false starts we manage to seat ourselves at one of these exotic stalls and point to what we hope is food. We are rewarded with a reasonably tasty dish of cold noodles and chick peas. While we eat it, Uyghur people gather to stare at these two strange white men. Few foreigners venture this far it would seem.

The man at the stall next to me, refuses to believe that I can't understand a word he is saying and treats me to a fluent monologue in Uyghur. In the end I decide it's better just to play along and nod. All the while he is talking to me, he hacks a fried chicken into small pieces with a cleaver the size of my head. If he wants me to understand Uygher, I'm willing to do my best.

Confident after our successful noodle dish, we manage to purchase some fresh, juicy water melon (a regional speciality and just in season) and sweet cakes for dessert. The entire meal costs us around AU$1 each.

It takes only a couple of days to exhaust the local attractions in Kashgar, and we are still no where near market time. We decide to make an over night trip to a nearby mountain lake, Karakul. A Danish couple are heading up there as well and we organise to share a cab.

Our vehicle is actually rather impressive. A four wheel drive Mitsubishi. We are glad of this as the road is windy and rough. The weather is overcast and the trail is littered with debris from what looks to be recent avalanches. We are suddenly less impressed when, halfway up the mountain, the motor gives out and the car rolls to a halt.

So now we are stranded in the middle of nowhere. It's cold and windy. It begins to rain. After messing with the motor (in what looks to be a random manner) for almost an hour, our driver decides to give it in. He indicates that we will hitch the rest of the way. A brilliant plan, someone would surely be along in the next day or two.

Despite the fact that there is nothing resembling civilization anywhere near us, a Uyghur lad appears from behind the rocks. Stranded and cold, we are amazed. Where the hell did he come from? Even more amazing is how quickly he pulls out a little stone bauble and tries to sell it to us. I can only imagine that he spends his days hiding in the rocks waiting for cars to break down so he can peddle his wares to a captive market.

After a few hours in the cold wind, we finally get lucky and a car picks us up. We leave our driver at the side of the road with his broken vehicle. Apparently he intends to wait for a vehicle willing to tow him to a mechanic. We never learn his fate, though his plan seems optimistic at best.

Finally we reach the top, with barely a few hours of sunlight. The lake is quite beautiful, nestled in amongst snow capped mountains, though clouds obscure our view. At 3,600 meters above sea level it is close to the height I reached in my futile quest to track snow leopards. The air is thin and the wind carries a chill that cuts us to the bone after our week in the dry, hot desert.

The scenery is beautiful, the accomodation is far from it. The place is a tourist trap, and prices are double what we have come to expect (i.e. AU$10 instead of AU$5). We have no choice of course. Worse than the accomodation is the food, and worse than this, by a long, long way is the shitter.

We attempt a hike around the lake, but a cold rain convinces us this is a bad idea. Instead we are lured into one of the local yurts and offered tea and a chance to buy any number of cheap, tacky tourist items. The tea is cold, and contains a tangy milk (possibly goat or yak). It is horribly foul, though we drink it out of politeness.

We escape this gift shop and return to our hostel for dinner. Not long into the meal, all of us are hit with a sudden and urgent need to use the local facilities. I quickly come to the conclusion that it was not actually tea we were drinking but a potent, liquid laxative. Despite the rain I take up my post in the cement block set aside for such a purpose, squatting over a steaming, stinking hole filled with human shit. For some unknown reason, there is no roof and the cold rain trickles down my hood, soaking my precious supply of toilet paper. There are few experiences in my life that quite compare to the long, cold minutes spent squatting over that putrid, stinking cesspit in the rain, straining to empty my bowels of their contents.

Luckily the event is isolated for me, and I spend the rest of the night in relative peace. Glover is not so fortunate. After a night of tormented sleep, he rises at dawn and hurries from the room. He returns, perhaps an hour later, too disturbed to speak. He just shakes his head and grimaces in response to my questions.

I spend the morning watching Glover run back and forth between the shitter and the hostel, a roll of toilet paper clasped tightly in his hands like some sort of talisman. He speaks little during this ordeal. There is little he needs to say. No man should have to suffer this way.

Even worse, now that it is day, the shitter is frequented by local Uyghur mountain men, emptying themselves of yak meat. The toilet block contains three stalls, though between each is a wall under a meter high. This means that while busy taking care of 'business', crouching next to you, barely half a meter away, is a fellow shitter. It's hard to know the expected ettiquite in such a situation. "So how's it going over there?" seems inappropriate at best.

The rain continues to fall all morning, and we catch only fleeting glimpses of the mountains. At lunch time we decide to call it quits and head out to catch the bus back down to Kashgar. The Danish couple join us. The bus is an hour late, and we spend this time on the side of the ride, huddled together for warmth, while the rain and now sleet pelt down on us. When the bus finally arrives, Glover almost misses it, as he is crouched behind a rock with the remainder of his toilet roll.

The five hour journey is quite smooth, though Glover barely moves or speaks, not wanting to upset the delicate truce he has reached with his stomach. Things do not go completely to plan however. Much to Glover's horror, the bus pulls into a small town for a half-hour food stop. At bursting point, he manages to locate a shitter in this town. He still refuses to talk about his time spent inside. This in itself is bad enough, however after pulling out of the town, the driver does a u-turn and stops the bus. We are all offloaded and moved onto a smaller bus. The driver of this smaller bus heads straight back into the town we have just come from and stops, once again, for food. Glover is a gibbering mess by this stage.

Eventually we are moving again. At last, in the distance, we can see the city sky line of Kashgar. "Not far now", I say to the distressed Glover. "I'll make it", he replies through teeth clasped tight, a true hero. About ten minutes out of town however, the bus driver pulls into a driveway, in the middle of nowhere, falsly claiming we are at Kashgar bus station. Glover, eyes bulging from his head, half jumps, half falls from the bus into a waiting taxi. Barely waiting for me and the Danish couple, he demands the driver take him to the nearest hotel.

Perhaps because he senses Glover's urgency, but more likely because he is a complete madman, the taxi driver drives like a man possessed. He runs at full speed down side walks and straight into on coming traffic. The whole time his hand is pressed against the horn. Within moments we are at our hotel, and I am left to pay the bill, as Glover dissappears into the foyer, once again clutching his bog roll. I find him some time later, exhausted but relieved. He'd made it, though the dunny apparently is now blocked.

The good news is he's stable now, and we are relaxing in Kashgar, recovering from our mountain ordeal. We are only a day away from the Sunday markets. After that we have to work out how we are going to cover the several thousands of kilometers of desert between us and the more civilized east coast of China.

Desert Oasis

It was a fool proof plan. Glover would fly from Australia to Beijing  and then from there onto Urumqi. He would arrive on the tuesday. I  would kick back for a few days in Bishkek after the finish of the project and then take the wednesday flight from Bishkek to Urumqi. We had arranged to meet in a dorm room in Urumqi, one we'd picked from the lonely planet.

I had my few days of 'R and R' in Bishkek. I had a slight fever after  coming down from the mountains (possibly from a combination ofdehydration, exhaustion, sun exposure, malnutrition, sleep depradation,  hyperthermia and wind burn, but that's pure speculation). I was feeling  better by the Wednesday, packed my bags, said my goodbyes and jumped a  taxi to the airport. I was feeling good, glad to be on the move again.  I gave the cab driver my Kyrgyz small change. I wouldn't need it.

I sauntered into the Bishkek airport (under construction, like most of  this ex-soviet country), and glanced at the Departures monitor. A  flashing little symbol next to my flight was not overly alarming. It was next to about six flights. Probably meant 'boarding soon'.

I located the only check-in desk in the place and handed over myticket. The rotund Kyrgyz woman behind the desk looked at the ticket  and rattled off a string of Russian without once looking up at me. This was normal, but then she did something strange. She handed back my ticket. That wasn't right.

I tried again. This time the woman looked up, realised who she was  dealing with and said 'niet Urumqi'. This I understood. No Urumqi. I  decided to reinvestigate the little symbol flashing next to my flight. It was quite easy in the end. It meant 'cancelled'. Or rather 'CANCELLED'.

I hunted high and low for someone who spoke English or at least someone  who had played charades at a professional level. Apparently thisairport had no English speakers, and only amature charade players at best. My only option was to head back to Bishkek and sort it out from there. Of course I had no small change for the taxi driver going home so had to pay him with big notes. He of course suddenly also had no change and decided he was owed a tip. I gave in, long past caring.

I emailed Glover but knew there would be no response for a while.  Meanwhile I discovered that flight cancelations were regular atBishkek. Maybe there weren't enough passengers, or the plane had broken down. Maybe the pilot had  locked his keys in the cockpit.

After four hours in the China Southern Airline office, I finally had my  new ticket to Urumqi for friday, in two days time (assuming no  cancellations). I emailed Glover to let him know.

After that things went relatively smoothly, apart from having to extend  my Kyrgyz visa for a whole month for the extra two days (at a cost of  US$30) and not hearing from Glover till midday Thursday (I figured he'd been arrested for subversive behavious but it turns out he couldn't  find a net cafe in Urumqi). On the friday I made my flight to Urumqi and arrived to find Glover had booked a double room with hot shower, air-con and even little bath towells. After two weeks of cold showers  and hard beds in dorm rooms, this was luxury.

This was the same hotel I had stayed in a few weeks earlier but I had stayed in a dorm room. In my previous post I had deliberately left out a little story about this place, not wanting to spoil the surprise for Glover.

You see, there are no showers in the dorm room. Instead you have to go down into the basement. It's a dimly lit place, with tacky red lamp shades and questionable wall hangings. There you find a room full of young, attractive ladies in bright clothes, wearing far too much make-up and who are far too friendly. They greet you with a "hallooo, you want showarr?". You pay them a dollar and they lead you into a large showering room, with four shower heads, black granite floor and walls, and little antique wooden stalls to sit on. Around the walls are antique paintings of nude women in various provocative posses.

It is quite obviously a 'work room'. There is no lock on the door, and your entire shower is spent with the expectation that at any minute a horde of young ladies might come bursting in to help clean 'hard to reach' places. Unfortunately, for me this didn't happen. I suspect they have become familiar with the budget restrictions of your average baclpacker.

At any rate, Glover missed this wonderful cultural experience. He did however find a little culture of his own. It seems that when you stay in the more expensive double rooms (rather than the dorms) these young ladies make frequent calls in the middle of night asking if you were in need of a 'massage', which, for a small fee extra, have a 'happy ending'. Glover claims he refused these insistent calls, but I did notice that the phone was still on the hook when I got there.

We decided not to linger in Urumqi. Apart from the working girls in the hotel, it was a dull place, a big city with big city things to do. The next day we jumped a bus to a nearby town called Turpan, a comfortable three hour ride.

Turpan is famous for being the lowest and hottest place in China. This is an interesting stastitic when you read it in a travel guide. It's a  different ball game when you step off the bus and experience what must be the only place on earth hotter than hell.

You don't feel the heat here, you wear it. It's a dry searing heat, that has you coated with a thick sheen of sticky sweat within minutes. New words need to be invented to describe this heat. If people ever land on the sun, their first words will probably be, 'Damn, it's hot, but at least it's not as bad as Turpan'.

Apart from the heat, which has you dripping sweat by the bucket full,  it's quite a nice relaxed, tourist town. We decided to do one of the  organised tours, that takes you to all the interesting sites in town in  a single day. It sure beat trying to organise anything for ourselves in  this heat.

The tour was interesting, but as touristy as you would expect. Several  ruins were visited, but in the blaring heat, the best we could manage  was to sit in the shade of the ruined mud brick walls. Conversation was slow and confusing. Our brains slowly baking in the sun, we would  manage a sentance every ten minutes at best. Generally we gave up half way through and just nodded at each other.

Surprisingly the most interesting site was the tour of the irrigation  system. This town is obviously built in a desert. It may not be a  surprise that being in a desert, water supply is somewhat of a problem.  The locals came up with a solution to this some 2000 years ago. They dug dozens of little tunnels, funnelling water underground from the snow covered mountains many kilometers away.

The tour also took us through the flaming mountains. These are incredibly dry, barren uninteresting mounds of rock, except for one thing: they are the mountains that Tripitaka hiked through, with Monkey and Pigsy on his quest to find the holy Buddhist scriptures. That's right boys and girls, believe it or not, Monkey Magic is based on a true story. It seems that the original story was a little more dull however, lacking a few key elements (like monkey kings, demons, dragons, flying clouds, etc) but it did happen!

Now we are off to Kashgar, a market town to the south west. It's a 24 hour train ride (possibly longer if there are sand storms), which is going to be painful. It seems most of the journeys in China are this long however so we have to get used to them. We do have sleeper berths however, and this is a step up for Glover, who last night came back to the hostel to find his bed was missing. Literally missing. The staff, for some unknown reason had cleared his room of all the beds bar one, and there was someone sleeping in that. They sorted it out eventually, but he is definitely going to keep a close eye on his bed on the train.

By the way, the Chinese government seem to have put a ban on access to blogger. Possibly it contains some subversive material about China, possibly written by some guy called zonski. Ay any rate I am posting these messages by proxy now. If anyone does post comments, I probably won't be able to read them for a while.

 

 

Where Eagles Soar (part 2)

I know what it's like back home. Busy rushing here and there, too many things to do, not enough time. Work needs to be worked, parties need to be partied, friends need to be friended. I know my posts are long. So I try to limit my tales to just the interesting stuff. I try not to bore you with the little adventures and the smaller details that happen every day on the road. The kind of people who do that are the kind who make you sit through their entire collection of home movies - and then go for the photo albums. At least I have no photos.

That's why for example, I didn't bore you with the tale about us stopping on the drive to Issyk-Kul to sample some kumis (fermented mare's milk - tastes slightly worse than it sounds). It's also why I left out the story about the lopsided bosi that we had to collapse and rebuild (about four hours work). I assumed also that you didn't want to hear about the quaint little hot shower at the camp, in a pine shed, heated by a small wood fire. Or for that matter, that none of us got any hot water, since Sveta would shower for an hour before anyone else got a chance.

Maybe a few of the lads reading would have been interested to know about the German tourists that randomly appeared at the camp in groups of two or three for a couple of days at a time. But the interest would not have been with the tourists (unless you're into elderly German Ornithologists), but rather with the army of young, attractive Kyrgyz woman acting as translators.

And I don't think anyone will ever want to know the horrible details from the 'Long Night of Singing'. About how I caused this by saying that normally on a Friday night I'd be in a pub with a few beers, listening to some music - how could I have known the consequences of such a statement? That Sid would burst into song (surprisingly not bad), and then a round table of solos, with German, Kyrgyz, Russian, even Maori songs would follow. And the worst of all, the terrible Waltzing Maltilda, followed up (under duress, in my defense) with the dreaded Home Among the Gum Trees. Oh the torment.

No, these and a hundred other stories like them are best left unmentioned, buried in the shadows of memory. The stories you want to hear are the epic tales, where life is at risk, honour is at stake and comic ineptitude is carried boldly like a sword. Stories like The Great Expedition ...

A dew glistened on the grass, though the morning sun had burnt off all but the last of the lingering clouds. Impatiently the steeds stomped at the moist soil. Eager to be off, the tension rippled through their muscled bodies. They bucked and skittered as the supply sacks were fastened tightly to their sturdy rumps. At last they were ready. The four riders, each in turn, approached his steed and mounted up, like the Kyrgyz warriors of old. And then they were off.

Well nearly. I just had to convince my stupid horse to get his nose out of the pile of horse shit he was busy sniffing. Then of course I had to get him to turn around, oh, and start walking. A slap on the arse from the camp host went a long way to achieving this (the horse's arse that is, not mine).

Once out of the camp, we moved quickly along the path. Two of Murbik's hounds ran alongside. We carried supplies and gear for our three day expedition. The horses were well trained once you got use to them, and they moved along in single file. I discovered my horse had a particular fetish with arses and everything relating to them. I used this to my advantage, following closely behind Sid's horse, providing my mount with the apparently satisfying view of nothing but horse arse.

Both Cam and myself were familiar with horses, but no more than this. We knew the basics - where the accelerator and brake were, how to turn left and right. For the more advance things (headlights, windscreen wipers, reverse gear, etc) we were novices. We were heading along a wide dirt path, rather than going straight up the way we had hiked, so we assumed this was to avoid the trickier parts. Besides we had Murbik and Sid, men of the mountain, born in the saddle and weaned on mares milk. They would lead us safely through these wild lands.

It was hard to judge Sid's mood. He'd seemed quite happy about the situation the night before. After that, he'd disappeared into town to gather 'supplies', which were now wrapped in a sack and tied to my horse. He'd spoken little when he returned, and was also now rather recluse. Perhaps this was normal, having never been on a horse riding expedition into the mountains with a Kyrgyz man before, I had no base to compare it with. I decided not to think about it, and spent my time gazing at the scenery.

The first hour was fairly steady, uphill but not too steep. My knees however, locked into an unnatural position, quickly became stiff. I'm pretty sure I would have been hurting anyway, but it helped matters not at all that I was sitting in a saddle, with reins and stirrups designed for the average Kyrgyz mountain man (i.e. Papa Smurf and his kin). The net affect was a little like Mr T trying to ride a kiddies bike.

I learnt to adjust my sitting position, squeezing with my thighs, rather than putting pressure on my knees. The horse seemed to prefer this too, and it moved more steadily. This was a good thing too, because before long we were in some fairly steep terrain. Loose rocks littered the path which had narrowed as well. The horse stumbled more than a few times, but it was bred for the mountains, I was pretty sure it wouldn't fall. The bigger danger was me falling off it, and tumbling down to the valley far, far below.

I got the measure of it though, and Cam looked fairly comfortable by now as well. Murbik led the way, and Sid fell in between myself and Cam. The view was glorious from the top of the forested hills; sunny, green peaks and shadowy valleys undulated across the land. We headed down into one of these valleys and it was pretty obvious by now that we were heading up into the icy mountains, but a long way from where we had hiked to. This was more like it!

Once down in the valley, we followed the river winding through it. It was decent sized river, even larger than the one near our camp, and from the looks of it, flowing faster too. At the low point of the valley, we made our first crossing. It was a relatively safe spot though the water came nearly to our feet. Cam and I made it across easily and without incident.

We were now heading into harsher terrain. The path narrowed again, but this time trees and prickly bushes sprung up beside us to scrape against horse and rider alike. Loose stones, washed down from the mountains above, became more frequent than not, and the horses balked often. Murbik and Sid showed no sign of slowing and Cam and I kept pace.

We came against a cliff base and a mess of shrubs, we were forced to cross the river once again. The water was deep and fast and unfriendly. Murbik went first. Half way across, his horse slipped and went down. As it rolled into the water Murbik sprang clear. Drenched from head to toe Murbik climbed the far shore. Sid leapt forward yelling something, probably not polite. Murbik's frightened horse returned to our side of the shore, riderless.

Sid, grumbling and shaking his head, made the rather wise decision to head back down the stream and cross at a safer place. There was no doubting his mood now, he was clearly still not happy about this trip. Cam and I exchanged glances, we weren't too fussed about Sid and his moods. More concerning was that a mountain man, who had probably learnt to ride before he could walk, had just lost his horse to this river. What the hell did this mean for us?

Cam headed back down stream and Sid, determined to be grumpy, followed with Murbik's riderless horse in tow. A few meters on, Murbik's horse stopped dead and Sid was pulled from his horse, dragging his saddle with him (weighed down by his impractical shaped bag). Coming up behind I quickly grabbed the reigns of Murbik's horse, while Sid who had only just managed to land on his feet, dealt with his saddle. He was fairly livid now, shaking his head and muttering in Kyrgyz.

His horse skittered about the place, clearly upset by all the commotion. Cam took his pack from him, onto his own horse and rode on. I rode forward to help hold his reigns and Sid turned and barked at me. Obviously to Sid, the reason for the horse being skittish was not his radiating anger, but my presence. I gave up helping and rode on to Cam, leading Murbik's spare horse.

Cam and I waited patiently on our horses. Sid fiddled with his saddle, muttering to himself. Murbik meanwhile was busy ringing out his clothes on the other side of the river. It occurred to me that somehow the situation was reversed. The two novice foreigners were the only one's still mounted, one carrying the pack of the experienced mountain man, the other leading the mount of the young horseman in his prime.

Eventually Sid had his saddle retied and rode passed us to a crossing lower down. Cam followed and made it to the other side without incident. I still had Murbik's horse, and it was skittish from it's fall, balking frequently. I'd assumed that Sid would lead it across the water, but he was already on the far bank, discussing the failings of his saddle with Murbik. This task, it seemed, was mine alone.

I knew that if Murbik's horse balked and mine kept moving, I could be pulled from my saddle and into the icy water. If I was real lucky, one of the horses might then fall on me too. Well, you only die once, may as well be in a mountain stream under a horse!

With a loud and confident 'choo!' (Kyrgyz for giddy-up) we plunged into the frothing water. Both horses stumbled and balked, but they managed to keep their feet and keep moving. At the halfway mark, I felt the reins of Murbik's horse go tight. She had stopped dead. I pulled back so hard on my mount's bit that I must have removed it's wisdom teeth. At the same time I shouted 'CHOO' at the horse behind. Both horses skittered and ice cold water slashed in the air, but it worked, we stumbled clumsily on. And then we were through, riding up the dry safe bank.

I looked around for my applause, chest puffed out in pride, arms raised in victory. No one had even been watching. I dropped my arms, deflated my chest (a little anyway) and handed Murbik his horse. The four riders, together again, set out once more on the trail.

The trail became steeper still as the valley narrowed. We rode along side the river, but were forced often into the tangled mess of trees and shrubs of the higher ground. Horses were taken through dark, windy tracks barely narrow enough for humans. Thick tree branches and thorn bushes blocked the path and had to be pushed through. Low hanging branches had to be ducked to avoid being knocked from the saddle. This was no tender-foot trail.

For hours we followed these winding paths. We stopped rarely, only when Sid's saddle needed adjusting. My knees had given up complaining, too sore to care. My arse on the other hand was letting me know just what it thought of Kyrgyz saddles. We rode on, climbing higher and higher. Around us, the mountains began to harden. The fashionable soft greens of the valleys lower down were shunned by these hard-hitting ice lords. Black rock and crisp snow began to appear. The river began to weaken too, fed by fewer tributaries, and our crossings became somewhat easier. The trees, gradually began to thin out - leaving only the more hardy and solitary ones to this rocky land.

At last we came to a small grassy hill, surrounded by tough shrubs and a few gnarled trees. It was here that we would make camp. From this vantage we could see the mountains in all their glory. On all sides stood black icy peaks, and ravines littered with snow and the broken stones of a thousand avalanches.

You could say I dismounted, but it would be more accurate to say I fell slowly from my horse, then by leaning on it, managed to stay on my disfunctional knees. We untied the bags and spread out the gear, making ready for a late lunch. The bag of supplies was soon to reveal it's wonders to us. My dry tongue danced at the thought of jam and cream, fresh apricots and sweet bread - the delicious foods of the mountain people.

Sid cut open the bag and pulled forth several loaves of bread. Bread is good, everybody likes bread. Then came a large sausage. I had seen this before, a kind of pressed ham, not unlike a bland devon. Ok, a bit of meat is good for the diet. Then came the tins, I grabbed the first eagerly and read the label - "Sprats Pate". I turned to Cam, what the hell is a sprat? "Kind of like Sardines". Oh. I grabbed the next tin - "Sprats Pate". And the next, and the next. Sid likes a bit of tinned fish it would seem.

Murbik is also looking through the tins. I gather from his face that he's about as impressed as I am (though it's hard to tell with Murbik, he gives away little). Sid explains something to him and I understand that some of the tins contain something different. Murbik and I search through them like treasure hunters. At last a different label, I hold my prize up to the sunlight and read - "Sprats in Oil". Oh, yay for Sid.

I dig into the bag to find what else we have. Since it's empty I look around for another bag. Then my brain, in denial up to this point, finally kicks in. Our meals (breakfast, lunch, dinner) for the next three days will be bread, devon and sprats. I accept it, I move on. I promise my worried gut all the fresh fruits, vegetables and dairies it could ever possibly want, if it can just, for three days, pretend that sprats are edible.

While we are eating, a Kyrgyz horse man appears in our camp from nowhere. I'm amazed, we are miles from the last camp. Where the hell did this guy come from? I find out that the valley we are in is one of the many passes between Kyrgyzstan and it's northern cousin, Kazakhistan. This man and a few other herders have a small camp, hidden in the bushes across the other side of the river.

I'm a little disappointed by this human presence, but the man informs us that there are wild goats that come down every night from the mountains to drink at the stream. These goats are one of the natural food sources for snow leopards and to find evidence of these will be as good a start as we could hope for in determining if there are leopard's in this area.

We set up camp. Cam and I share a tent and Sid and Murbik share another. The tents are normal western two-man tents, and quite good. Though Cam and myself have to use a couple of band-aids to patch a few holes in our fly. Sid helps out not at all in the setting up, he wanders about with his binoculars looking scientific. Murbik deals with the horses and Cam and I take care of the tents.

With camp set, we ask Sid the plan. We are half keen to wonder around the mountains this afternoon since it is still fairly early. Sid decides that this night there would be no hiking, but from our vantage point we would be able to keep watch for these goats.

In fairness it's a good plan, and we are tired enough that hiking is easily forgotten about. A comment however from Sid has me a little annoyed. He points to the snowy peaks and indicates that these are too hard to really get into, and that you would need a good ten days to explore them. The fact that we originally had exactly ten days to do this very job doesn't seem to occur to him.

We gather wood and start a fire. It's a clear sky and the night creeps in slowly. It's a practical life in the mountains, and even the sun seems to dispense with it's usual gaudy, over-dramatic departure. It slips from sight behind a mountain peak, quickly and quietly, so that the last rays of light are caught unawares and linger in the valley, lost and unsure. The pale white-blue of day drains slowly from the sky leaving a deep, dark endless night, sprinkled with the cold silver light of scattered stars.

Around our camp fire, wrapped in our warm winter gear, we peacefully work our way through the evening meal. We make our selection of Sprats in Oil for the main course, leaving the joy of the pate to the morning. The two dogs make short work of our left overs before curling into warm balls of fur and dozing off to sweet dreams of marmot chases.

We scan the snowy banks of the mountain stream, awaiting the arrival of our goats. The hours tick by but our guests are rudely late. As the darkness settles in, Sid retires with the claim that if the goats don't appear tonight they will surely be here very early in the morning. We will rise at 5am to make a sighting. A few hours later, with the fire slowing dyeing, the rest of us follow suite.

At 5am we awake. The sun is still low behind the mountain peaks. A few of the more adventurous rays of light have come on ahead giving the sky a soft glow, and revealing grey clouds. Sid, in black woolen trousers, army green jacket and matching beret, scans the mountains with his binoculars. Our goats have still not appeared. In the night the dogs had stirred frequently, barking. It occurs to me that if I was a goat, stupid though I may be, I would probably choose one of the dozen other valleys to drink in rather than the Valley of the Barking Dogs.

We keep watch for half an hour then turn back in for a few hours sleep. We rise to grey clouds and a cool wind. It had rained during the night and the long, green grass is heavy and wet. Sid doesn't join us for our breakfast (sprat pate, bread and devon - imagine our surprise!). Murbik (via a game of charades) explains that he is experience some instability in the stomach and bowel area.

We give him some time and Cam mixes up some Gastrolyte for him, but it seems he won't be up for any work this day. I am of course very suspicious. How convenient that he is sick on the one day that we will be doing some real work, and when there is a touch of poor weather. On the other hand, those sprats are pretty damn disgusting.

At any rate Cam and I decide we are going out anyway. We pack supplies for the day and head out, Murbik in the lead. I assume Murbik is coming with us the whole way, but once he has shown us across the river and pointed out a path he parts ways, heading for the hidden camp of the herders. I can hardly blame him, looking for goat shit in the mountains on a rainy day is hardly a fun day out for him.

We discuss our route, deciding to follow the south bank up, looking for tracks, then crossing the stream and exploring some of the higher, snow covered ledges on the north side. Our pace is a good steady one. We have no way of finding out how high we are, but it must be well above 3000 meters, perhaps up around 4000. The air is thin, and the lungs work hard to suck enough in.

The sun remains obscured behind grey clouds, and the wind carries the snow-cold to us. Wet grass clings to our hiking boots, coating them with a thick dew that seeps through to chill the toes. Cam is fitter than me and a better hiker, but neither of us feel a need to rush. A comfortable silence settles over us. We are, at the same time, walking together and walking in solitude.

Two large eagles circle overhead. Majestic and graceful, they glide silently from peak to peak searching for the small rodents that they feast upon. When it comes to bird classifications, I know nothing. I'd have trouble differentiating a pelican from a budgie. Cam on the other hand reveals that he was, as a youngster, into Ornithology (what other dirty secrets does this man have?). He recognises the eagles as most probably Lemmin Geirs, a bird about which little is known.

We reach the highest point of the stream, before it disappears under icy snow. Here we make a find. Some stool, quite a lot actually, which looks as though it could be that of a sheep or goat. I pack some into one of the empty sprats tins for Sid to look at later.

We cross the snow and head up higher into the northern black cliffs. Cam leads the way, twenty meters or so ahead of me. The wind picks up and a light rain moves in. I pull my hood down tight against the rain and cold. The trail we are following is one obviously made by avalanches. Broken stones of all shapes and sizes are piled in a haphazard fashion, as if tossed there by some careless giant. Some are loose, and give way under weight. I have to focus hard and move slowly to avoid falling or twisting an ankle.

I climb higher, intent on my path. Finally I reach the jagged ridges and when I finally look up, Cam has disappeared. Several paths weave around the rocky outcroppings and I know he could have taken any. I'm not concerned, we will easily find each other once we are through the crags.

I decide to take the higher path in order to get a better view. The stones are smaller and looser here. Too small to join the big ones in their race to the bottom. I decide to play safe and use my hands as well, in a climbing motion. I'm not so worried about falling myself, but more concerned about knocking stones loose. A stone knocked free would bounce and skitter down the cliff for a good thirty seconds without stopping.

While climbing, my hands clasp around something white with an odd texture. I pull it from the stone and find it to be a bone. Possibly a goat's, but I had no way of knowing. I pocket it for later.

Eventually, with careful and strenuous work, I reach a high rocky outcropping. Here I can see the whole valley: our tiny camp, the river and the rocky surrounds. I can see it all, an endless ocean of white peaks and green valleys. The cold wind whistles past, stinging my cheeks and searing my lungs. I stand there awed, hypnotised by the flow and ebb of life and nature in this harsh, perfect landscape - this place where eagles soar and leopards lurk.

My trance is broken by a call from Cam, a long way below. I make my slow and careful way back down. Upon joining him I learn that he had not actually taken any of the paths where I had lost him. He'd actually just sat down in under a rocky outcropping for a break. I'd walked almost straight past him. We laugh. No chance of seeing a snow leopard when we can't even see each other!

We stop for lunch. Despite the exertion I have little appetite. This may have something to do with the menu containing sprats, devon and bread. While eating lunch I notice a soft feather of beige and white, I add this to my collection of goodies. I now have a tin full of shit, a piece of bone and a feather. A king's ransom!

The clouds were looking more serious now so we decided to meander back down the valley towards camp. Some hours later, cold, tired and satisfied we plodded slowly into camp, greeted enthusiastically by the barking dogs. It was late afternoon but the weather was now turning nasty.

We are forced to our tents and there we stay for the rest of the evening. From our little sanctuaries, munching on sprouts and bread, we watch as dark cloud armies do battle in the sky, throwing down cold, heavy drops of rain and booming in anger. Thick grey clouds roll up the valley below to consume us in a dense wet fog, and then moved on as quickly as they had come. We drift off to sleep to the gentle drumming of the rain, wrapped up tight in our sleeping bags and beanies. Somewhere, in the mountains, the snow leopard sleeps peacefully in his warm dry cave.

At five, I wake briefly to check for our goats. The rain has stopped but a few clouds still linger, like those annoying guests who hang around long after the party is finished. There is no sign of our goats once again. The beasts of the mountains would stay hidden from us. I doze until dawn, when the soft but warm rays of the sun pierce the clouds and begin to warm the sodden land.

Sid is up, looking remarkably well for a man too sick to move the previous day. I show him my treasures from the previous day. He confirms that both the stool and the bone are that of a goats. I'm happy with that, though it is the smallest of victories. But there is no time for anything more.

Meanwhile, Murbik has gone to round up the horses for our return trip. We work our way through breakfast with very little enthusiasm. Today, we will be back at camp for a late lunch, a real lunch, with real food, with no sprats.

With breakfast done we set about breaking camp. Halfway through this task I am suddenly and acutely aware that I have not answered "nature's call" in three days. With now a certain amount of urgency I grab my bog roll and head for the nearest tree, which is unhappily a good 500m away. My pace is the fast march - not quite walk, not quite run - that one does when wanting to get somewhere fast but without making too many sudden movements.

Luckily I make it, and with explosive joy empty myself of three days worth of sprouts, bread and devon. I can't explain to you the feeling of relief and elation of that moment. There are no words strong enough.

I head back down to camp, several kilos lighter and practically skipping, to find the horses saddled and all ready to depart. We mount up and head off. This time the trip is mostly downhill. My knees are ok with this, however my groin seems now to be the focal point of the saddle. After the first hour I lost my ability to reproduce, after the second hour I lost my desire.

The rain has made the rivers a little higher and the crossings a tad more dangerous. Sid tries to avoid this by proposing a little shortcut. Instead of following the valley all the way back down and then turning and following the offshoot valley back to our base camp, we would go over the top of the mountain. Murbik seems uncertain, Cam and I have little to offer in the way of advice. So we head up hill on Sid's plan.

The path is a path for only a very short while. After that we are in thick shrub and dense trees, littered with hidden holes and obscured ravines. We backtrack many times trying to find a way through the tangle. In the end Murbik declares it to be impossible and we head back down to our original path. The first of Sid's shortcuts has not gone well.

We reach the river without event. After the concern the guys had with the river crossings I had thought they might be a little more attentive to our attempts to cross it than last time. As before, however, they cross ahead of us and ride on, not stopping to ensure that we make it across. Cam and I hold up well though and make every crossing without injury. I'm pretty impressed with us both, even if Sid isn't going to give us due credit.

After the river crossings, Murbik parts ways with us. He wants to visit one of the neighbouring camps and will meet us back at base camp later on that night. With him goes the two dogs, leaving only Sid, Cam and myself. Cam and I can remember the way from here however and we aren't too concerned.

Sid leads at a moderate and steady pace, always a few meters ahead. We have been some hours in the saddle and haven't stopped for a drink. The few stops we have made have been to adjust Sid's loose saddle. Both Cam and myself are quite thirsty and we attempt to indicate to Sid that we would like to stop for a drink. Sid either doesn't hear us or ignores us. Finally, Cam just stops his horse and dismounts. I follow suite, whistling at Sid. He turns in his horse looks at us, then turns back to the road and walks on.

Oh well, stuff him. Cam and I sate our thirsts. Cam mounts up before me and rides on. I turn to mount my horse and in the process my saddle slips loose and slides off the horses back. Sid is long gone, so I am on my own. I have seen Murbik working on Sid's bag and eventually manage to work it out, though I know it is only a partial fix. I ride on. Cam is waiting around the corner for me. Sid continues on ahead.

Sid for some reason leads us into the tree lines, instead of following the wide open path. We stick to him, but he always comes back to the path. Cam eventually stops following him and just stays on the path. Foolishly I follow Sid up a narrow windy path under trees too low for horsemen over six feet tall. As I came out of the trees again, a large branch catches me at waist height. There is no way to duck it, and the horse will not stop. I do the only thing I can, I grab the branch, face jammed with spiky bushes. The horse whinnies and moves out from under me, leaving me dangling, before I drop ungracefully to the ground.

Cursing Sid, I grab my hat from the tree, my sunnies from the ground and my horse from a few meters on. I mount up and followed on, but now staying to Cam's path, not Sid's. Eventually we come to a junction. We have come from the path to the right, but Sid wants to take the path to the left. Cam questions him, I express my general disregard for Sid and his shortcuts but Sid is determined.

Eventually we give in, following Sid up his preferred path. Within 500 meters the path disappears. We are forced to dismount and lead the horses up a steep, slippery bank. Both horses and humans are slipping often and it would make more sense to turn back. Sid stubbornly pushes on.

It is hard work, we climb for an age. Sid keeps trying to cut back to the right but a deep valley of thorns and nettles blocks the way. We continue to climb, this exhausting work is made all the worse by the knowledge that we are heading in the opposite direction to our camp.

We know we have all ready taken much longer than the trip up, but Sid, the stubborn little mountain gnome, is still trying to tell us that this path was better than the other. Cam and I laugh. There is little else we can do. We climb and climb, eventually we reach the top. Here the trees give way to a grassy slope on the far side of the cliff. We are finally able to mount up again.

From here the riding is easy, as we are on the south face of the mountain and there are no trees. We follow cattle tracks around the outside of the mountain. We are many peaks from our camp and we have a long way to go on this 'shortcut' of Sid's. Still Cam and I take solace in the spectacular view of lake Issyk-Kul miles below.

Eventually, tired, sore, hungry we plod into camp. We are just in time for dinner, and we devour it completely. Hot soup, and honey and jam and sweet bread and no devon and no sprats! It is one of the best meals of my life.

And so our adventure was over. The expedition finished. We saw no wild animals apart from a few marmots and a host of wild birds. The ibex and the sheep remained hidden by the mountains and the snow leopard, lord of the cliffs, was but a shadow amongst the shadows, too clever and too proud to reveal himself to us.

We spent the last two days at the Rehabilation Center, reunited with Isi and Sveta. Here are three snow leopards in captivity, and at last we came face to face with the creatures we had sought after. These magnificent animals seemed too proud and too wild to be kept in the small cage they were in. So it was good to see the new, large enclosure that they will be moving to in the next few weeks.

Cam and I worked on building a path to a look-out for the new enclosure. This will allow tourists to visit without actually disturbing the animals. It was good to be doing something real, something solid, but we worked for barely a couple of hours before we were forced to rest.

Also here was a French man and a French woman, making a documentary on the eco-volunteer project. They were finding it even more frustrating, the lack of coordination and snow leopard focus, that we were. Understandably they had been hoping to film volunteers out in the snow tracking snow leopards for days. They were however about to head into the mountains with the team of Gruppa Bars. These are the police force set up to catch snow leopard smugglers.

The Gruppa Bars arrived. Three huge Russian men, with crew cuts, full camouflage gear and rap around black sunglasses. These are the kind of guys who appear in Bond movies, with rocket launchers over one shoulder, lifting a jeep or truck above their heads. What's more they drove a banged up old van. Had it been black and not gray, you could easily think that the A-Team had just arrived.

At any rate the French film crew were happy with this. It was definitely something for the cameras. Isi was also a little excited, running around like a school girl. She had another two weeks with the project and had volunteered to go up and be part of the activity.

So as the van puttered away over the mountains, loaded with film crew and Isi, Cam and I packed our bags and hopped into our own little four wheel drive jeep to bring us back to Bishkek and civilization. For me now, it's on to China, to Urumqi and Glover. Now the first chapter of the adventure is over, the next one is about to begin.

Where eagles soar (part 1)

There were three of us in all, eco-volunteers that is. The first was Cameron, a 26 year old New Zealander who had been teaching English in Korea but is now on his way to Europe via central Asia (overland!) - a true nomad if ever there was one. The next was Issy, a 52 year old German woman, who works as a teacher in northern Germany. And of course, the last was me, a 27 year old, computer geek from Sydney, who works as little as possible.

Our team also included a translator, Svetlana (Russian for 'moonlight'). Svetlana was a 22 year old Kyrgyz girl and the definition of cute. She was the tiniest, most petite girl I have ever met - small enough to fit in your pocket. Also with us was our field expert, a 57 year old Kyrgyz mountain man. Seitkaze (who we called 'Sid' to make life easier and because really, he looked like a Sid) was a stocky little man, who had lived in the mountains for 25 years and had the traditional moustache and funny Kyrgyz hat to prove it.

Other people appeared along the journey, in various roles (as well as shapes and sizes) but this was our core team of explorers. We met on the Sunday at the designated time before heading off in a mini-bus (after a few hours delay that is - nothing happens on time here). Our first camp site was on the shores of the great mountain lake of Issyk-Kul. Issyk-Kul is a huge expanse of water (the Russians once had navy vessels on it, in the glory days of the USSR) nestled between two huge mountain ranges. The water is warm enough to swim (but only just), and we spent two days here getting used to the altitude, relaxing, swimming and soaking up the general ambiance of the surrounds.

We slept in traditional yurt tents as promised (in Kyrgyz, a yurt is called a 'bosi'). To call a bosi a tent is a bit like calling a Harley-Davidson a bicycle. They are huge structures, usually about 7 or 8 meters in diameter and 3 or 4 meters high at the peak. They have a wooden frame - lattice at the base, and wooden poles leading to the peak. At the top is a heavy wooden ring, a bit like the wheel off an old fashioned wagon. This ring is the symbol of Kyrgyzstan, and is used on their flag. With the poles leading into it, it looks like the sun with rays coming out of it.

It was a comfortable camp, the food was excellent - delicious and fresh. There was sweet bread with fresh cream and jam made from mountain berries. Breakfast was either a delicious porridge (yes, it's true, porridge can actually taste good) or a fresh but tangy yoghurt. The facilities were surprisingly civilized as well. Rather than squatting in the bushes as expected, there was a little pine hut nestled in the bushes. Inside was a standard old-fashion bog hole, but a nice pine seat had been built over the top of it, and it even had a lid!

Nature surrounded us. To the north loomed the 'mountains of sunlight' where we were soon to start work. Across the lake, to the south, lay the 'mountains of shadow'. We soon discovered however that the 'nature' wasn't just on the far off horizon. When heading to bed, Issy noticed a movement under her sleeping bag, she lifted it up to discover a beige and white snake, maybe half a meter long, casually sliding along her mattress. Naturally she did what any sane person would do in this situation - she dropped the sleeping back and legged it from the Bosi.

The boys, of course, were called in to clear it out. Why they thought we would be any less afraid of a bloody great slithering snake, I don't know. Our field expert had disappeared for the night (I assume off to a neighbouring camp to catch up with friends) so we also had no idea if this snake was poisonous or not. Standing at the edge of the Bosi, using two-meter long sticks we pushed aside the blankets until at last the snake appeared. We hadn't really worked out what we would do once we found it. In the end we decided to move out all the gear and relocate Issy and Sveta. The bosi would belong to the snake this night.

Back in our own Bosi, Cam and myself, now just a tad paranoid, decided it was vital to check every nook and cranny. We pulled all the gear apart and searched under every mattress. At one point, Cam leapt about 3 meters into the air when he felt something round and long under the blanket he was standing on. With long sticks we pushed aside the blanket to reveal ... a candle. Of course, we knew it was a candle all along, we weren't afraid in the slightest. Definitely not.

The next day, Sid returned with the information that the snake was a harmless water snake that had come looking for somewhere warm to sleep. He confirmed that the candle was also not in anyway poisonous.

We relocated to our work camp, a few hours drive along a dirt track into the 'mountains of sunlight'. Here again we were in Bosis, however this time we were the only camp in sight. The setting was spectacular, and in many ways resembled the European Alps. Fir trees lined the mountains on all sides, and a frothing white stream, with ice-cold water, zig-zagged its way through the valley.

Sid gave us our first task. The week before, he had found the 'stool' (strangely, one of the few English words Sid knew) of a fox and of a badger. Now it was our task to extract the elements of interest from the stool to get an idea of the animals' diets. So it was that the three of us and Sid, with great enthusiasm, huddled around a pile of stale shit, picking out half digested insects. The high point was definitely when we discovered parts of the rotten carcass of a mouse amongst the shit!

The next day we went on our first real hike. Sid took the lead, with the three of us in tow. Sveta, who I had thought might struggle with the hiking, flittered up and down the line, chatting and joking like some sort of little forest sprite. Sid is bird-mad and he got very excited with every new winged discovery. To be honest most of the birds looked the same to me, but Sid was happy.

At one point, Issy discovered wild strawberries growing in a field full of finchs (or somesuch). Sid was excited by the find, glad to discover why the birds were spending so much time there. He was not as glad as us however. We munched away happily on the tiny, soft fruits - the sweet juice was ecstasy to the mouth. We had to drag Sveta away in the end, or else she would have spent the rest of the day crouched amongst the grass picking at strawberries, like some sort of tiny exotic mountain finch herself.

The camp where we stayed was run by a traditional Kyrgyz family, who kept cows and horses. It was a summer camp only, allowing the animals to feed on the spring grass. In winter they move back down to the low lands to escape the snow (the way Kyrgyz people have done for centuries). There were no fences up there, so the animals are allowed to wander during the day. In the evening the two lads working there (one 13 and the other probably in his early 20's) ride out and round them up and bring them back to the camp. Myself and Cam also each had a couple of goes on the horses as well.

Our next task was to carry salt into the mountains to leave for the animals to eat in winter. With humans encroaching on their territory, the animals were running out of natural sources for salt. The walk was a fairly difficult one, along stony ridges, and we had to cross the river several times (sometimes by leaping from stone to stone, sometimes on trees that had fallen across it). It was not overly tiring though, as we stopped many times (every time Sid saw a bird) and moved very slowly. Issy kept good pace, though I think the river crossings were a little tough for her. Sveta, again flittered along beside us, apparently out on a pleasant stroll.

After some four or so hours we reached the top of the tree line. The stony ridges gave way to rolling grassy hills, full of spring flowers. Here we ate lunch by a small mountain pond, the sun was warm and it was a generally pleasant day. Not so very far away, however, we could see snow capped peaks and black rock cliffs. We questioned Sid on these, and were informed that this was the land of the ibex and the snow leopard. The animals we had come in search of. I could see in Cam's eyes, the same fire that was in mine. This is where we wanted to be and soon.

We dropped off our salt and returned to the camp. The next day was a rest day, though we each headed off on our own individual explorations through the mountains. Spectacular views were present at every turn in the road, and at every hill top. Below, to the south, was the sprawling blue of Issyk-Kul with its little camps, and occasional towns littered around it. To the east and west were endless mountains of green fields and fir trees. And up, up there where the wind threw the snow from rocky peak to peak, up there was an icy wild land of mystery daring us to discover its secrets.

The following day our task was to chop grass (using a rough old hand sickle) into bundles and hang it from the trees. These bundles were for the deer, who in winter would have trouble finding food without venturing into the dangerous terrain of Man in the valleys below. We had to push some way into the forests, off the main tracks, so that the grass would not be found and eaten by the fat, lazy cows wandering about the place. It was not a difficult task however, and we were finished and back at the camp by lunch.

So far the work had been interesting and rather fun, but it was not yet the true task we had signed up for. Cam and I were beginning to feel a little frustrated. We were hoping to be up in the land of the leopard, looking for it's tracks, following it's prey for clues. We were not so naive that we expected to see a snow leopard. We knew they were elusive creatures and virtually impossible to see even when sitting only a few meters away. What we wanted however, was to walk in their domain, to understand a little about them, and in some way gather information that could be used to help them. No self respecting snow leopard would come anywhere near the cosy little camp we were in now.

At dinner that night, we were told that the next day would be a free day again to relax. Not impressed, and in an effort to discover when we would be 'up top', we questioned Sid on the work to come. "Take salt. Look birds. Plenty jobs. No problem". This was not what we wanted to hear. Issy too was surprised that the focus was so far removed from snow leopards and their prey. Cam and I decided it was time to take matters into our own hands. We had seen some tents in the back of one of the bosis. Through Sveta, we asked if the two of us could hike up the path Sid had shown us, camp up there, in the grassy field. Then the next day we would hike to the snow and look for tracks and stool in the mountains. We would return to our tent the following night, and hike back down the following day.

Sid was not impressed and a long and uncomfortable debate followed. The tents were pulled out and examined. Sid, in an angry tone of voice, kept telling us (through Sveta, who was now in the middle of it all) that it would be too cold, we would be hungry, it was impossible, it was too far. Cam and I had hardly expected this reaction, it was barely a few hours slow hike to the camping spot, we could carry all we needed. It seemed to us not a problem at all. Sid was adamant however. In the end we gave up. Sid got his way, but instead we asked if the two of us could hike up to the peak for reconnaissance the next day and then come back late in the evening. Even with this plan, Sid was not happy, though neither Cam nor myself could work out why. Surely this was the job we were all here to do, including Sid?

In the end Murbik (the older of the two lads working at the camp) piped up and said he had hiked up there before, that it could be done and that he would take us up. We would leave at 7am, take lunch and be back by 9pm. We prepared our day packs and went to sleep. Sid, who we shared a bosi with, now seemed a little cold towards us.

The next morning we were up and on our way. It was a glorious sunny day, and all thoughts of Sid and the troubles were left behind at the camp. Murbik led the way, and his three dogs raced along side us. Murbik set a cracking pace, though watching him, he moved casually, as though taking a slow stroll. We headed in the same direction as we had with Sid on our first salt hike, though Murbik took us on a slightly different path that was a little shorter and also avoided most of the river crossings. We reached the spot that we had with Sid in under an hour. This hike had taken four hours with Sid. It was barely 8am and we were at the spot where we were planning to camp.

Cam and I were now really confused as to what all the fuss had been about. We were still willing to give Sid the benefit of the doubt however. The snow capped mountains were still some way off in the distance. Maybe reaching them would be more difficult than it looked. We carried on without stopping. Within another hour we were through the grassy fields and at the base of the black cliffs. Here the terrain changed again and became less friendly. The path became quite steep and was covered with loose shale and unstable stones. We stopped for a snack and a drink, before continuing at a slower pace.

The next hour was tough, and exhausting. We were now moving steadily up hill, ploughing through soft snow that might either hold you, or might give way, letting you sink to your waist. I was feeling it more than Cam, and had to stop to catch my breath often. The dogs however, leapt past, skittering up and down, mocking me with their endless energy. Ahead Murbik strolled casually on. Maybe Sid was right, maybe this was too far, it was only 11am and I was exhausted. But the peaks were within spitting distance, there was no way I was giving up now.

And then we were there. We were at the top, Murbik pointed to the cliffs around us and said something, then made a tiger-like motion. We had no translator but we didn't need one - we had entered the leopards' domain. It had been barely a three hour hike. A hard one for sure, but definitely not the impossible task that Sid had declared it to be. Had we woken later had a solid breakfast and then taken it a little slower we could still have been here by lunch time and not been exhausted. What was Sid on about?

We ate lunch and rested for a while. Then we spread out and looked around. We were searching for tracks or stool or anything, but we had no scientist with us so it was a difficult task. We spent a good couple of hours searching. We picked mountain flowers for the botanist who was down at base camp. Strangely, there were many orange butterflies, an unexpected site in this snowy land. We found marmot holes, and the track of one goat - I took a photo with my digital camera to show Sid. Overhead a huge eagle soared silently passed, tracking our progress. It was a magical place, and all around the mountains loomed.

We decided it was time to head home, but not directly. There had been a mountain lake some way off to the east of the trail we had taken. We decided to check this out on the way down. It was a beautiful little lake, on three sides it was surrounded by steep, snow covered peaks, streams trickled into it from melting snow. On the east side, one of the large streams formed a little waterfall, bouncing from the white snow, off the black rocks and then trickling down into the pale icy lake below. This view alone had been worth the hike for me.

Naturally, the journey down was easier than the journey up. Though it required extra attention on the rocky bits to avoid injury. Even so we made very good time, and we were back at camp well before 5pm. We had hoped this might reassure Sid somewhat and that might encourage more expeditions up top. Unfortunately not. Sid was still grumpy and wasn't interested in knowing anything about the trip north. Even the goat track we had found and photographed was shrugged off and forgotten about. Ah Sid, could it be that you were just too comfortable down here and this has all been to avoid any real exertion on your behalf?

The next day the weather was poor, it rained for most of the day. We spent the time around camp helping out (or trying to) with the daily workings - chopping wood, milking cows, etc. I was, to be honest, glad of the rest, though not so glad to be in close quarters with Sid and his unpleasant mood. I had hoped that with our successful trip something might start happening, but it looked as though we were going back to our original plan of just salt carrying and bird watching. Issy however had managed to get word to Thorsten, and we was heading to the camp - we would see what he had to say.

Thorsten arrived. Picture the most German man you can. Not an old German man, perhaps on the young side of middle aged. Picture thick grey socks pulled up high, and at the same time picture black sandals. Now also picture shorts so short that even a professional rugby player would pipe up and say "Ah come on boss, these are a bit short aren't they?". Picture a black t-shirt with the face of a snow leopard printed on it, slightly curved out by a well rounded stomach. Picture all this on a backdrop of stark white skin, and throw in a swollen red nose as well (he had a cold). Now you've pictured Thorsten.

He was, to be honest, a decent bloke. We explained to him the situation, how the work we'd been doing differed from the work we had signed up for (Cam had luckily brought a print out of the project spec with him, which helped). He seemed surprised himself that we had not been doing our preferred work and he was apologetic. Perhaps sensing that we were on the verge of asking for some money back, he looked for a solution. He chatted with Sid, and with the few others in the camp and came back with a plan.

Myself, Cam, Sid and Murbik were to take horses along a different path, high up into the mountains to a place where the locals believed snow leopards lived. We would be out for three days, and then come back to this camp for one night. For our last two days with the project we would be transferred to the Rehabilitation Center back down near Issyk-Kul. Here they had three injured snow leopards, and there was work there to be done in preparing for their move from the current small cage to a larger enclosure. Issy wisely decided not to go with us. She and Sveta would go to the Rehab center the following day and work there while we were up the mountain.

This sounded as good as could be hoped for, given the time we had left with the project. Sid seemed satisfied with it, now that Thorsten had explained it all to him. Maybe it had been a misunderstanding, maybe he wasn't aware of the project aims. Thorsten disappeared as quickly as he had come, Sid headed to the nearest town to organise supplies and Cam and I, a little happier now, packed our bags and prepared for our adventure.

... to be continued ...