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Old Aug 13, 2020, 10:16 am
  #2  
13901
 
Join Date: May 2014
Posts: 7,168
II. Hitch-hiking through Kyrgyzstan, or “The best laid plans, part 2”

Osh, I’ve grown to know, is a typical specimen of provincial Central Asia: a substrate of ageing Soviet infrastructure at various stages of dilapidation and reappropriation by the nascent national identity, sprinkled with newer – and usually garish – constructions. The mixture is, here, made more complicated by the fact that Osh is 40% Uzbek: the Soviets faced the multiculturality of the Ferghana valley with a Solomonic approach (this town to you, that village to them, this other hamlet to that other guy) that succeeded in pissing everyone off. Riots and pogroms have been fairly frequent, in the past.

Having said that, let’s go for a quick tour of the city of which, I should say, I’m a fan. It won’t feature on Conde Nast Traveller anytime soon, but – having been here a few times – I’ve to say it’s grown on me. It’s friendly, rather easy to navigate and an absolute kaleidoscope of experiences. There’s a post-apocalyptic bazaar, there’s people selling 4G SIM cards next to blokes peddling kumyss, fermented mare’s milk, statues of more-or-less mythological Kyrgyz warlords and monuments to Chernobyl’s liquidators.

Let’s start from the beginning. Not far off from the airport is a boneyard of Soviet cargo aviation. Il-76s, An-22s and more lie nose-to-tail, parked at the end of a dirt road. How they got there, what they’re doing, who put them there: all questions that I have no answer to. All you need to do to see them is to walk down the airport’s road, turn right at the first turn, turn right again at the football pitch, go past the BMX track and you’re there.


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Osh, when you’ll eventually get there is, as I said, a hotchpotch of styles. Kyrgyz horn ram motifs decorate the gloomiest Soviet wedding halls ever built; bas-reliefs of people playing the qomuz mingle with Misha, the bloodthirsty mascot of the 1980s Olympics and, at the butt end of Leninskaya, the man itself gesticulates in front of an empty street and a big-... Kyrgyz flag. Oh, there’s also a Yak plonked in a park and the bazaar, where you’ll find some great lepyoshka bread and fruit of the kind I can never find in London. A bucketful of raspberries and bread is my usual breakfast when there.


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Today, I’ve a problem. I can’t find the marshrutka (aka shared taxi)for Sary-Tash, the gateway to the Pamirs and where I plan to find a car to the Chinese board. I search everywhere there usually are some, but find none. After a while, I resort to contracting an enterprising local cabbie, negotiate a price and set off, aboard a rickety Chevrolet Matiz that, to borrow from my old man, has seen more ditches and trees than repair shops.

Still, everything seems to be going OK. The taxi, driven by an affable man whom I took to call Robert, purred on the road to the mountains. The town gave way to villages, villages to fields and the fields to hills bleached by the sun. We picked up a hitch-hiker and delivered some letters. All was good, up until when I looked at Robert’s dashboard. Odometer: broken. Oil pressure: broken. Rev counter: broken. Fuel indicator: stuck on empty. Surely he wouldn’t get on an 180-km journey on an empty tank, wouldn’t he?

He would.

Long story short: the Matiz died 300 meters from a petrol station. We pushed, filled up, but then the thing wouldn’t depart. We jump-started it, we found help from another Matiz, rolled cables ‘round the batteries, nothing. After thirty attempts the other driver gave up, Robert called somebody, I gave him some money to cover the fuel and the journey so far, he apologised and I bailed.



The good news is that I was in Central Asia, where hitch-hiking is a constitutional right. All you need to have is an idea of your destination, an arm to stretch and a hand to wriggle about. A few minutes later and I had my first ride, a Toyota to Gulcha, a mid-valley village with some incredible architecture.



And then came Murat with his KAMAZ.



Murat spoke even less Russian than I did, but was going to Sary Tash and, more importantly, drove the most awesome of all rides: a KAMAZ truck. Neolithic suspensions, rock-hard seats covered with a woolly blanket, a handle to lower the window. Heaven.



We stopped in Gagarin for fuel and, then, tackled Taldyk pass.


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Here, Murat decided to show off: as we tackled the hairpins he dished out a Rubik cube. One hand on the cube, one alternating between gears and steering wheel.



Eventually we cleared both hairpins and the Cube. The scenery opened up, in the wide plateau that leads to the Pamirs. God's country if you ask me.


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Murat then dropped me off on the edge of Sary-Tash, refused any money, shook my hand and carried on. A gentleman, and a scholar.



Will continue shortly. In the meantime, if you want to read more stories, feel free to check out the blog.
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