Distance: 231 miles – Travelling time: 1110 – 1925 – Temperature range: 4 – 29°C
In the middle distance the Fisherman strides along the river bank under Lenin Peak
Both Murray and I had crashed out in our surprisingly cosy ‘dorm’ – we found out it was actually the bedroom of the three sisters who ran the guest house and they had very kindly given it up to us for night – and woke early to see a magnificent morning with the sun lighting up Lenin Peak, a mountain of 7,134m in the Parmir range on the border between Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. It was simply stunning looking across the tundra to see this magnificent sight, but the lure of the ‘red river’ had more impact upon Murray and his fishing rod!
After a delightful breakfast with much chat and shared travel advice amoung our fellow guests we set off with a flask of coffee and a determination to fish the ‘red river’, Kyzyl Art – Ainura had filled Murray’s head with fishermen’s tales and so without delay we set off in pursuit of the elusive trout . . . . and found some hours later at a little fish farm on the way to Osh!
The road from Sary Tash is another feast for the eyes, climbing and falling between hills and mountains of incredible colours of reds and pinks. The weather changed dramatically and the skies darkened. While the winds picked up on the high passes, and we had a smattering of rain, we dropped down into Osh and avoided the worst of it.
At regular intervals along the roads leading into and out of Osh, the second largest city in Kyrgyzstan, we came across numerous herdsmen and boys on horseback bringing their flocks of fat tailed sheep and herds of cows and horses down from the hilltop jailoos – high meadows – as the pastures had dried out and they were making ready to stable their animals for winter. At other intervals roadside stalls piled with water melons, squash and pumpkins were for sale adding more colour to the scenes.
The highest point between Sary Tash and Osh, the Taldyk Pass at 3,615m
We nudged our way into Osh and quickly determined there was little there to keep us so we refuelled, threw in a bottle of fuel injector cleaner (fantastic stuff!) and headed off out of Osh aiming for Jalalabat and on to Arslanbob – which looked about an inch away (said the Nav) from Jalalabat!
The road from Osh to Jalalabat was a shocker. For those of you reading this who enter the Dip Enclave in Islamabad imagine 50 km of tarmac surfaced like the inspection point at the barrier to Diplomatic Enclave off Constitutional Avenue – tarmac rucked and ruched by the weight of vehicles on the hottest of days, deeply welted and pot holed. Add to that what became known as a driving style of ‘bumper riders’, cars hovering on your outer side to overtake so close that you can’t see them, and streams of haulage lorries, it made for a hairy four hours of driving. Ancient former soviet trucks belched out thick black fumes which were desperately headache inducing. ‘Are we nearly there, yet’, didn’t come close . . . on and on we went, through the Friday traffic, slowly coursing through some deeply Islamic areas (Uzgen – the men dashing off for Juma prayers and the women and children filling the bazaars and roads) until we headed off up a beautiful valley.
Arriving eventually at Arslanbob at around 1900, a ‘famous’ Kyrgyz tourist spot, we then had to find somewhere to stay. I had used my time wisely while navigating (economising on relaying absolute distances to keep up morale) and read about the accommodation available at Arslanbob (it’s name was suitably distorted throughout the journey). Kyrgyzstan has yet to develop its tourism but it has capitalised on what it calls Community Based Tourism (CBT) – a network of home-stays offering beds for the night in locals’ homes. This little village has a well developed network and a CBT office. Having found the office, and more incredibly the lovely man who ran it wandering in the centre of the village, he set us off to find our room for the night. Rather ominously, the notice in the office showed a very pretty little village house with a large ‘NO ALCOHOL’ sign underneath it. Murray missed this and I thought it best to keep schtum as it was the last room available! (Apparently some previous guests had got drunk and had a punch up and so, as a devout Muslim, the host had banned booze on the premises.)
Our home-stay
Three kilometres and 25 minutes later, in the dark, up steep unmetalled tracks, and with much fuming from us both, we finally found Zahid, the guesthouse owner. He was delightful and gave us a very comfortable if basic room and offered us supper. It was with much relief we piled out of the car and ate plov with an engaging couple who were Dutch medical students back-packing through Central Asia – they declared we were not the usual sort of people they’d met on their travels!
Whitesides on the Road 