On some mornings, you may be gently woken by warm, dappled sunlight cascading through the curtains, filling the room with the promise of the new day ahead and accompanied by far off church bells or twee birdsong nearby. This morning we had a large group of goats herded through and around our campsite, with hooves tripping over guy ropes and tramping on fabric. The frantic whisperings of the goat herders trying to quietly control their bleating charges were more like stage whispers and ki weren’t fooling anyone. It seemed our idea to make a ‘V’ out of the vehicles to protect the camp didn’t account for dumb animals. After the goat blitzkrieg came a steady flow in both directions of locals and singular livestock movements as the day started in earnest and we packed up our little village and headed back down the track we had wound our way up in the darkness, taking in the hazy hills and valley that we could now see.
There’s something to be said about border crossings, and the something is usually “…and now where do I go?”. It’s very rare that any offices are labelled and you’ll be pleased to hear that this one was no different. The “passengers” Tom and Katie, went off to join a queue of people that looked like they were waiting to get into the country, while “driver” Paul (me) simultaneously waited in a queue of cars and also tried to figure out whether he was allowed to jump the queue of driverless vehicles that had seemingly been dumped by their owners. Were those the owners sat smoking on that bench over there? Were they in the compound and would return shortly? Apart from one man who gestured to the river that ran under the bridge we were crossing and indicated all the lovely fish within it, no-one seemed to take any interest in this strange group of westerners and their foreign van and therefore no-one was very helpful.
Taking a chance after checking that the one guard on gate duty wasn’t armed, the van was slowly crept around the waiting cars to be gestured at by said guard (once he had figured out the game) to first stop and wait, and then continue on through the vehicle sheep dip and out through the gate into the Uzbek border post. There the usual demands by various uniforms people for “passport, car passport” (passport and ownership documents) were made by three or four people in and out of booths, including a man in a lab coat in the animal quarantine office who decided he’d quite like to list all the worlds major car manufacturers and their country of origin before his colleague got bored and moved me on.
The van was searched, the usual questions asked about contraband, and we were allowed to drive across no man’s land towards the Kyrgyzstan border. Having a large town right next to the border meant that this side was busier than the country we had just left and somehow the facilities were more haphazard. The passengers were indicated to one unlabeled but while the drivers went to customs to have the car details documented. The guards spoke a little English and were friendly if a little bored with the travellers they had to deal with, since a German couple were also in the hut but seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Once the details had been handwritten into a large book we were told there was a tax to pay, but we couldn’t pay in dollars or using Uzbek money, only Kyrgyz. Not having reached Kyrgyzstan yet we understandably didn’t have any currency on us and after checking that we were permitted to do so, and after stressing to the Kyrgyz gate guard to remember our faces, myself and Elias from the Swiss team illegally passed into Kyrgyzstan, changed money at one of the many little exchange booths that lined the road just past the gates, and then tentatively passed back into the border compound to complete our transaction.
Once our vehicles were registered and taxes paid, we then went to the unlabeled cabin that contained a couple of chipboard booths and one or two passport control officers. Our guy checked Elias’ passport and demanded to know where his visa was. Swiss people don’t need a visa he was told. Not satisfied with this, he asked for my passport and demanded to know where my visa was. British people don’t need a visa, he was told. I’m sure the inside of that booth was getting quite warm as the officer was getting just a little agitated at this turn of events. He disappeared for a bit with various bits of our paperwork and returned with a more senior member of staff to either prove he was justified at being annoyed at these foreigner or get this thing sorted out because I’m sure it was his lunchtime or something. Luckily he returned with a guy that had become firm friends with Elias earlier when they discovered they shared the same birth date. Everything was checked, stamps were stamped and after a quick search of the vehicles and the usual questions about drugs and guns, we rolled through the gate into Kyrgyzstan and into the town of Osh.
The passengers had been making friends with the locals on the Kyrgyz side, and Katie had received a few marriage proposals in that short time, so we decided to make our excuses, hop into our vehicles, and track down a hostel. Well it was probably the easiest hostel to find with just two right turns, a quick spin down an alley, and there we found a lovely gated house with private parking, breakfast provided and the best bit, Christmas themed bedding!
When we went out to find what Osh had to offer in the way of food, we had an interesting and mostly dissapointing game of menu pictionary with the waitress as most food options weren’t available, though our requests for beer, generic though they always are, resulted in large half litre glasses of cold golden liquid being produced, so it wasn’t all bad. We had a relatively early night with stomachs full of who-knows-what food and fell asleep easily under our seasonal bedding.
Team Yes We Khan 