And we meet Sodatsho...

It’s a Friday, the 2nd of June, and we are on our way to a small town near the border between Kyrgyzstan and China. I’m forcing myself to write about this because the memories are slowly leaving me.

What was it – that first memory of Kyrgyzstan – the Valley of Nomads? After the desolate land and hearts of China, we were given a gift of lush green and smiling border officials. I give the little girl standing there with her father in uniform a small bag from Thailand – it has an elephant on it, with sequins and she at first is apprehensive, not sure yet about the meaning of the thing – is it a gift? And is it for her? The truth dawns on her and she sprints towards the army camp where, doubtless, she has many equally giddy friends who, if we don’t get out of here soon, will want bags of their own. I can see a small group of seven year olds clustering around, and the girl with the elephant bag is pointing our way. They look on curiously, and then a bit hungrily. With border officials for fathers and me, with a limited supply of sequined elephants, I am anxious to move on.

When I first saw Sodatsho I thought he was a tourist, or a mugger. He was riding on the outside of a white Land rover, holding on to the side as the car slowed in front of us. He jumps off before the car comes to a halt and introduces himself as our guide. He’s a small man – but for his face, he would be almost elfin. He looks damningly Russian and has a week’s worth of stubble that stretches from the bottom of his sharp chin to the shallow edge of his cheekbones. He wears a striped white and black shirt that looks like its made of woven wool. Or burlap. He has a cap on, which is shading his eyes from the bright sun. I think it has words on it. Tour guides are not required to have depth, but the look in this one’s eyes tells a different story. I didn’t know it at the time, but our trip will begin and end with Sodatsho.

We are at the Irkeshtam pass, and as we have discerned after our seven and a half hours of trying to get across the border, they don’t see many tourists here. We’ve grown accustomed to the excessive border bureaucracy, and are really too tired to care at this point. Some of the officials in this office are inspecting us like vultures. Me in particular. They think I’m Tajik or Kirghiz, or Uzbek, and pretty, and are confused about why I don’t speak Russian. Even though a few of them are quite handsome in their pressed uniforms and burly bodies, their looks make me nervous. More ‘official’ business ensues – I imagine that means Sodatsho handing over many packs of cigarettes to the vulture guards and maybe explaining to them why I don’t speak Russian.

As we wind our way west of China, we’re leaving behind our frustration at the border. The Landrovers ascend in z’s up the side of the hill and the higher we get, the better we understand that we are in the middle of some breathtaking scenery – to our left a range of snow-capped mountains, to our right, more mountains, these with deeper imperfections. We’re at a much higher altitude than we thought, and its cold even in summer. It begins to snow.

At the base of the mountains on our right stretches a vast green valley. In the distance we see our first yurt – a circular tent made of camel wool. We are traveling through the Valley of Nomads and I see why, of all places a nomad could choose to live, he would choose this one.


to be continued....