My first happy thought on arriving in Kyrgyzstan was that breakfast could finally include stir-fried tofu. I had just come from South America. I had loved the scenery, particularly Lake Titicaca, but a beautiful view and a satisfying breakfast are two separate pleasures.
In Bishkek, I felt more relaxed walking the streets I visited. The Soviet-era buildings did not particularly excite me, but I found the atmosphere calm. That was my experience on that particular journey, rather than a verdict about a country’s safety.
The kind of traveller who stays in a yurt
On the journey towards Issyk-Kul, even a roadside stop gave me something to enjoy: yurts, milk tea and pastries. I tried several with meat or potato fillings. I was still deciding whether to stay in a lakeside yurt or a guesthouse in town. Both interested me.
I also watched an eagle-training demonstration. At first I was curious about the birds and the people who worked with them. After an hour, the repetition had become tiring to watch. When the demonstration involved a rabbit being caught, I found I did not want to keep watching. Curiosity about a tradition did not mean every part of it suited me.
Everyone at breakfast had a different reason to be there
At the yurt camp, breakfast brought me together with travellers from Britain, Austria and the United States. Some were travelling by motorbike; others were involved in snow-leopard conservation. Later, at a guesthouse, I met a Dutch doctoral researcher doing anthropological fieldwork.
The breakfast table held homemade bread, preserves, honey, butter and yoghurt. We talked about food made locally without organic certification. Homemade and certified organic are different things. What I liked was the closeness between the food, the place and the people making it.
The uneven noodles were all mine
Near Issyk-Kul, I visited Fairy Tale Canyon and looked across the lake. Later I watched people fishing with corn as bait. After days of beef and lamb, I was beginning to think longingly about fish.
In Karakol, I enjoyed a bowl of Ashlan-Fu: cold, sour and spicy, with two different kinds of strips and textures. Other dishes reminded me of northern Chinese food. I found meat-filled dumpling-like foods and even a chive-and-egg filling. Familiar flavours can be very welcome a long way from home.
My guesthouse host took me to outdoor hot springs in the mountains. There were three pools at different temperatures. I spent an hour moving between them, lying in the water while drops of rain landed on my face.
Later we visited the Dungan mosque and bought beef and vegetables at the market. That evening, I learned to pull noodles with her. Eating them, I had simply enjoyed their chewiness. Making them was another matter.
We worked for more than an hour. The thick, uneven noodles were my contribution. I liked doing it anyway. When I think of Karakol, those noodles still come back to me.
A yurt after dark
On the next stage, towards Song-Kul, I had not found anyone to share the excursion with. A driver, a guide and two horses accompanied me into the mountains. The night before, I had been the only guest where I stayed.
At the lake I rode a horse, stayed in a yurt and drank mare’s milk. The camp I used had no internet, no electricity and no shower. By night, it was cold. The stars were beautiful, but I also worried about how I would feel at the altitude. I was willing to travel there alone, and I could still become anxious once I arrived.
Looking back, Kyrgyzstan brings me lakes, mountains and stars, but also a bowl of tofu, a guesthouse breakfast and rain on my face. If I return, I want to leave more time for people’s kitchens—and see whether I can make those noodles a little more evenly.
