REPORT / TIAN SHAN BIKEPACKING EXPEDITION 2022

Here at the central point of the Eurasian landmass, Kyrgyzstan is far removed from large bodies of water, which ease extreme temperature fluctuations. The country is so rugged — 90% of it is above 2000 metres — that neither trade nor connectivity offer much of a cushion in the approach to a future full of turmoil and change. In terms of human geography, by whatever quirk or twist of fate, Kyrgyzstan has always been by some margin the most democratic of the Central Asian post-Soviet states. Perhaps it was because of the reputation of Bishkek as the greenest city of the USSR, or the many Soviet dissidents who fled here and left their mark on it, like Greek communists in exile on Aegean islands. Or maybe it was through the intermingling of intellectual currents with the nomadic cultures that retained higher connections than to nation or economy. From somewhere, a version of democracy emerged. I am happily conscious that I know little or in most cases nothing of the jobs my fellow riders work back home. Perhaps the scale of the adventure we are about to embark on is enough to define us away from the question, to set us briefly free. Deep in the mountains, thoughts of work and the nagging presence of technology recede with the phone signal.

A child from the village pedals his small bicycle among the many leaning against yurt walls. Soon they are upright and being readied by our group as we prepare for our journey east, along the back roads of Kyrgyzstan. Handlebars are straightened, bikepacking bags affixed to frames, bolts tightened — though the ride’s first bumps and vibrations will still shake a few loose — before everything beds in to the rhythm and rigour of the dirt tracks and gravel roads. We ride out into a grassland plateau, following the twin white lines of a vehicle track, more grass growing up between them. Wild horses gallop alongside, startled by the strange, wheeled creatures rolling beside them.

Riding out along grass, gravel and dirt track, I sense, as I always do when I get on a bicycle for a long ride, a forward motion that gives direction and purpose; things begin to make a perfect and clear sense. Strands of thought weave themselves together. Bikepacking shares something of the spirit of non-mechanized time. Each of the riders in our group comes from a place where watches tick to abstract moments that correspond mostly to what is demanded of us, a demand that is generally attached to capital. In cycling through the in-between, however, we abandon the limits of barriers and terminals. Along the way, everything becomes transition; the world is no longer binary, the demands lapse. Much of Western society does not center these philosophies, but our modern, industrial lives — in ways accentuated by the pandemic — have opened doors to a craving for more meaningful processes like travel, family, nature or simple spare time. A herd of horses crisscross our path and gallop with us, kicking up a plume of dust that, as it settles, leaves us in amazement at our location. Along with it comes a beguiling sense of oneness with nature.

We cycle between 50 and 100km a day, through a landscape of wild valleys and open hillsides, occasionally passing tiny settlements whose white yurts look like clouds on an endless grassy sky. One morning we cover 50km of tarmac, which culminates at a junction large enough to warrant a shop and a phone mast, but the rest of the ride is away from such heady consumerist trappings. Sometimes we see roadside vendors selling the national drink, kymyz, produced from fermented horse milk, whose robust flavour makes it feel stronger than its couple of per cent alcohol content. A more frequent sight is that of children riding expertly by on horseback, sometimes tending livestock, often with a saddle comprising little more than a carpet seat and rope stirrups. Herds of goats, cows and wild horses are commonplace. One hot afternoon we speculate as to whether the large bird circling overhead is one of central Asia’s famed eagles or a more prosaic buzzard. At times our progress over the gravel feels so slow that it, whatever it is, might easily swoop to pick one of us off.

After an early finish on the fourth day, a bottle of gin and another of tonic are produced from the transient support vehicle — a pleasingly broad interpretation of “support”. Someone passes round slivers of cucumber, and we drink beside a babbling stream. The driver, Alec, brings more than just driving skills. One evening he resolves to make plov in his giant iron pan, the kazan, that rests over a fire. Sceptical that he can do justice to the famed rice dish with neither meat nor its stock — and bemused by the vegan diets that impose such constraints — he sinks four whole garlic bulbs, fully sheathed in skin, into the bubbling grains of rice, sliced carrot and chickpea.

For all that the ride is full of such comforts, it is not exactly easy. After a week in the saddle, improving condition goes hand in hand with increasing fatigue. None of the riders is an endurance athlete, or much interested in riding to the limit. Each of us has his or her own pace — sometimes matching that of the other riders, sometimes not — and the group takes on an easy harmony. Despite the moments of transcendence, of immersion in mountain air and pristine emptiness, it would be naive to conclude that Kyrgyzstan is a complete escape from everything. Some locals worry about Saudi Arabia paying for new mosques to be built, with Islamic interpretations more conservative than those traditionally favoured here. Our track is also only a few hundred kilometres from the Khorgos Kazakhstan-China border crossing, where I once spent a weekend waiting for the sleepy frontier post to open to the queueing trucks. Now it is a sprawling container terminal, China deeming this area a key node in its Belt and Road Initiative. Chinese money has already upgraded some of Kyrgyzstan’s highways and plans are afoot for better rail links too.

Together we are 10, pedalling onwards. Responsibilities for cooking, cleaning and various chores are happily shared. There is a camaraderie to encourage mutual support, a sense of kin and entwinement. We have a common goal: 300+ kilometres to cycle. In our home countries, little if any such obviously shared purpose exists. In a society of millions or billions, we become accustomed to thinking that there is no higher purpose than ourselves and our own output; the primacy of the individual. Going slowly with a cargo of white quary rock along the worn road, a truck driver pulls to a halt beside our pack of bicycles. “Otkuda?” Having in the past cycled through Russia and Ukraine, I recognize the Russian for “Where you from?” Britain mostly, we say. He responds with “Otkuda yedesh?” “Where are you coming from here?” We give him the details of our lengthy ride; he is silent but etched very clearly on his face is: “Why?”

On the penultimate day, at the foot of a 40-kilometre Tosor Pass ascent, we stop early at a stone-and-concrete hut, built over a fissured rock with a hot spring beneath. In water that is near-scalding we all soak, breathing the occasional whiff of sulphur, and then pick across the stones to plunge into the adjacent river of snowmelt. The process is repeated until our skin tingles and the grazes and calluses of riding are first made to sting but soon start to feel soothed. As is often the case, we camp in the shadow of mountains, beside the river – washing pans in it and filtering the water for drinking the next morning. In their willingness to seek out such interludes, the tour’s organisers, bikepacking specialists Pannier, imbue it with a kindly tone that is at odds with more austere ideas of adventure.

In the morning, we set out up a broken road that for significant stretches has entirely collapsed. On our way up the renowned Tosor Pass, the highest climb of our route at 3,900 metres above sea level, the 4×4 navigates multiple road collapses while we shoulder the bikes and pick our way between rocks, ankle-deep in icy water. The pass is carpeted in compacted snow and lined by boulders the size of small houses. Enormous mountains surround us, absorb us. Wind lashes at our cheeks; a gritty rain throws itself against our faces. The sweat chills on our skin. Together we snack a little, pull on gloves so that numb fingers can still pull brake levers.

Only on this last day do we drop from the mountains, after pushing our bikes for the final, rocky kilometre of the pass, up to 4000M+. Finally, we start the descent down toward Issyk Kul. A manageable track eventually begins to re-emerge more clearly from scattered scree. We gain speed and, lifting in and out of the apex of each mountain bend, for a while we become larger than ourselves. Possibility unfurls before us. For two hours down, out of snow and cloud back into sun, we become unstoppable, effortlessly powerful. The domed roof of an old village mosque flashes quickly by our flickering wheels. It is a particularly Kyrgyz phenomenon, too, to plummet for two hours to the shore of Issyk-Kul and yet still finish 1,600m above sea level. The name translates as “warm lake”, owing to the saltiness of the water, which means that, unlike many in this part of the world, Issyk-Kul does not freeze. Arriving in late June, this is not an issue. The sun shines, the lake is sapphire, the sky cobalt. We walk from a sandy beach into the water. We step in. It is not warm. But it is good.

Later, from the lake shore, I look across the water toward a sawblade of peaks and recall that the Chinese name for these ranges translates as “celestial mountains.” Celestial: the passage of time determined by moon, sun and stars. The gatekeepers to time as it is experienced by the groups living among these mountains.

Words
Julian Sayarer
Originally featured in the Financial Times [Aug 2022] and Noema [Nov 2022]
juliansayarer.com

Photos
Stef Amato

Expedition Group
Oli, Heidi, Nate, John, Andie, Davka, Simon, Julian, Stef, Nelson, Alec