Pakistan Visa Progress

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

Singing to Song Kul

The minibus leaving Bishkek is slow to fill up. It is the proverbial oven inside, and the sweat is pouring off us. One of the waiting passengers foolishly has 'chut chut' vodka to while away the minutes. It is clearly not his first, and he has the determined countenance of a man intent on prolonging his drunk. He gives it a good shot, so to speak, but by the time we set off, he has removed his shirt and shoes, his fly is down and he's slumped unconscious on the floor in the aisle. Before he passed out we managed to catch his name: Ahmad. For some reason a man seems equally determined to make sure he doesn't just sleep it off. Ignoring the maxim "Let sleeping drunks lie", he shouts at Ahmad, tugs and pulls him up and awake, and shouts some more. Never a quiet moment on a Kyrghyz bus. Five hours later and we stop for a Kymyz break. Kymyz is a drink of fermented mare's milk, and this is the season for it, as thousands of horse herders set up stall beside the road, with yurt or old railway wagon, and flog the foul fizzy milky stuff that tastes a bit like the school milk I had as a child, after it had sat by a radiator for half the day. We all get off to stretch our legs and Ahmad appears looking rather spiffy and quite literally a New Man. Was it the kymyz??He is chirpy and laughing and joking and wants a photo of us all in a group. When we set off, he launches into a folk song that gets some of the older men singing along. It is awful, but kind of entertaining.

a revived Ahmad stands to the left of John (in the silly hat)

At four in the afternoon we are dropped off and start a trek to Kyrghyzstan's second largest lake, Song Kul. There's plenty of light these days and we walk beside a river until about seven thirty when we climb above the path and out of sight, onto a grassy ridge. It's a lovely camping spot, with great views on all sides, and it reminds us yet again what a joy it is to camp out in the wild. The next day we cross fold after fold on the mountainside and hit the track to a high pass that looks down on Song Kul, at 3000 metres. Looking back, the valley we have climbed out of sits far lower, which seems a little odd. The lake is huge, and on the far side the mountains are still topped in snow. We drop down to the lakeshore for another great camp spot, a quick bathe and an early tea, no-one but a few horses and cows to share the place with. In the morning the good weather seems to have gone and we have to shelter in our tent from a thunderstorm almost as soon as we begin our return journey. Thunder and lightning leave me a bit twitchy after the incident in Romania last year, but there are no nasty shocks for us, and the horses nearby continue to graze unperturbed. But the rest of the day continues to produce cold nasty showers that appear suddenly and then melt away just as quickly. Amazingly we end the day dry and in another sunny spot, and despite having forgotten the cheese, the instant mash is still pretty tasty. Ymmmmm. The whole walk has been great therapy for our visa-addled minds. We get up early to catch a bus from a nearby village. It's a sleepy quiet place - not much happening and not many people out. A couple of young lads trot past on their sleek horses. A man in a Lada pulls up to buy petrol out of a jerry can. We're told in the little shop that a bus comes at 9am and, amazingly, we see it trundling towards us, right on time. It stops short to deposit two passengers and then goes straight past us. Charming. We sit around for almost another hour before we finally find a car with space going our way.

We continue the visa therapy with a couple of days on the beach beside Issy Kol, the largest lake here. It is getting hotter every day now and the chance to swim in a freshwater lake is to hard to resist. This is a popular spot for Kazakhs too, but it's early season, and the place is quiet. Regrettably though, it's back to business the next day, as we return yet again to the capital for more embassy frolics........

A Kafkaesque Pantomime

A man and woman enter from the side and approach a small window in a large wall. It is unclear what the building is or what the window is for, as it is low down and shaded in black. There are no signs. The man presses a tiny button next to the window and waits. The man presses the tiny button next to the window again and waits. The woman looks at the man and the man looks at the woman. The woman presses the tiny button. After another long pause the window opens inwards. We can't see inside but there is some movement. The man and woman bend down to peer through the window. They appear to be talking to someone. They both hold their hands up to the window sill, and wave a pen in the air. The window closes. They sit down.

Another man from the other side approaches and, seeing the couple, shakes their hands and then turns to the window. He presses the tiny button and waits. After a pause the window opens and this man also bends down to peer through into the dark square. The window closes. He sits down next to the couple. They wait. It's just another day at the Pakistan embassy in Bishkek.


We've made lots of new friends in Bishkek. They are other travellers who are stuck in Visa Limbo. On our fourth visit to the Pakistan embassy we met the same Japanese man who has been there on all the other occasions. We are back at Nomad's Home, which should possibly change its name to something more appropiate, like Hanging Around For Visas House. Our first day back we have to get a visa extension to stay in Kyrgyzstan longer. It seems we only need this to give us the time to get the visas to leave. We are required to fill out a form in duplicate and write a letter explaining why we need another 30 days. Fools. What do they think tourists want to do here? (One traveller considered mentioning killing the president. He did have a weird look in the eyes when he said it too, but then he'd been queueing all day and had also been shaken down by police on the street.) The policewoman who dealt with us spoke quite good English, which came as a shock to us because the last time we called in she only spoke Russian and made no attempt to communicate in English. Must've felt shy I suppose. Fortunately we got the extension. At last, something has worked here.

Next day we head off to the Indian and Kazakh embassies. We're feeling lucky. We put in our applications with the Indians who make us sit around for an hour and a half before telling us to come back to collect in a week. We trot down the road to the conveniently located Kazakh embassy and hand in a pile of paperwork and photocopies there too. We have to fill in an immigration card and write a little cover letter. The man there wants to keep our passports. "Come back next week" he says. He always says this to us. Maybe he thinks it means goodbye. We don't have any more visas, but we feel like we have actually accomplished something. So it's chicken kebabs and triple vodkas all round. And tomorrow back to the mountains!

The Joy of Treks

We have walked for a day up a good track climbing up a narrow valley and reached a turquoise lake, at 3000 metres, surrounded by peaks. It's mid-afternoon, we have pitched our tent at the far end of the lake with a view of snowy peaks in the upper valley behind us and the lake in front of us. It is perfect and worth the sweat and toil. There is no-one around, just cows and horses grazing on the grassy slopes around the lake shore. We have walked past several yurts and herders' huts lower down, and met lots of boys and young men riding to and from the town of Kochkor in the main valley below. The tea is brewing and we're enjoying the view when we notice someone walking along the lake towards us. As they get closer we guess it's another foreigner, a woman, and then we think about the other tent we saw at the head of the lake and realise just before she arrives that it's Evi, the Austrian we met in Arslanbob. Small country, Kyrgyzstan.

We catch up on news and the next day we head further up the valley looking for either a pass over to the next valley or a glacial lake, whichever looks the likeliest - none of us has a map. Eventually we return to the lake, having failed to reach either objective, but the scenery is lovely and very peaceful. Before tea it rains and snows. When the clouds finally lift the landscape has completely changed - the slopes and mountains around us now wrapped up in a quilt of fresh snow. As the sun sets the peaks glow orange. Good stuff this. We retrace our steps to Kochkor the next day and return to our homestay, making the most of the sauna on offer to steam ourselves and give our clothes a good scrub at the same time.

Kyrgyzstan has a network of community based tourism offices dotted around the country. They provide tourists with homestays (or yurtstays in the mountain pastures), horse treks, guides, transport etc. The principal idea is to increase income for local people and it's a great idea. This is our second homestay. We have a room decorated with shyrdaks (felt rugs) with bedding on the floor. The family ply us with tea and yoghurt, fresh salad and there is always a supply of fantastic homemade raspberry jam on the table. The sauna is a bonus. There's no shower and it's a simple concrete room with an open tank of hot water heated by a wood fire, plenty of buckets and a cold tap. Basic but priceless after three days walking.

We decide to leave some things here and trek over the mountains in the north and down to the big valley where Bishkek lies. There's a pass of 3500 metres to cross. Evi comes up with a cunning plan to get us to the trailhead at Shamshy. We know it costs about 60 som each in a shared taxi, but that if a taxi driver sees three foreigners the fare will reach a ludicrous 1000 som. So Evi goes off in search and negotiates a decent price for the whole car alone. When she calls us over the taxi driver looks a bit miffed, and his friends all laugh at him. It's a rare day when you feel you've got one over on a taxi driver in these parts.

We set off up a track that climbs onto a jailoo - the summer pasture for grazing the animals. It's here that the herders and their families move to for the summer months May to September. The tradition is to put up a yurt or two, a circular tent made from a wooden frame and covered in felt. The yurt has a hole at the centre of the roof for light and to allow smoke from the stove to escape, the wood frame arches across it. This hole has become the emblem of the Kyrgyz flag (although it still looks like a cricket ball to me). We walk up to the highest yurt. We know that one or two of them take tourists in, but we don't know which and we want a good start for the next day's hike. It turns out that the family we talk to are happy to have us even though they're not set up for tourists. They have family from Bishkek visiting, but they are extremely welcoming and the young mother takes it in her stride. We are fed well and she bakes fresh bread for the evening and morning meals, in between milking the horses. (We never see the cows being milked, so we think they are just kept for the meat.) There are lots of young children around and Evi turns into entertainer, organising games around the table during a rain shower. Finally the visitors say goodbye, the table is taken out, and the bedrolls and quilts are laid out over the floor for us all to sleep. The sheep are brought back to the pen, and the horses and cows huddle close by. Just before we nod off the father takes his shotgun outside and fires off a couple of rounds. That'll keep the wolves at bay........


Next day is perfect - clear skies and bright sun. We set off along a good track and up a narrow valley, finally reaching a barren pass of stone shale at lunchtime. The way onwards looks long but interesting, and Evi, like any good Austrian, leads us running down the scree slopes below the few remaining snow fields. The wild flowers are coming out and the path cuts through swathes of forget-me-nots, buttercups and cowslips, yellow poppies and more, as we follow the river down. At a pretty little spot at the junction with another river we pitch our tents and rest our weary legs. The next day takes us down through the twisting valley and out to pastures where animals are grazing. We have to wade the river three times, and huddle inside the tent occasionally when thunderstorms pass over, but find a hidden camping spot on the riverbank for the night. On our fourth day we reach a village with a bus stop, and eventually get a ride into a nearby town where we can pick up a taxi to Bishkek.

Visa Madness

After three nights in idyllic Arslanbob (not sure of the origination of this name, but 'arslan' means lion in Turkic, so you can hazard a guess), we feel we should get to Bishkek and start working on our visa applications. It's a task we have avoided in Tashkent. We get up early and take a shared taxi down to the nearest town on the main highway. Here we agree a rate to Bishkek and then have to wait while the other passengers have finished their shopping in the bazaar. They are two women with a little girl, and one of them is drinking beer when we set off (not the girl, but her aunt, she of the gold teeth upper front left). It's 10.30 am and we know we're in for a long ride. Luckily our driver seems sane and although he hammers his Audi saloon he shows no inclination to overtake on blind corners, of which there are many. The scenery is marvellous. There are rolling green hills covered in poppies, mountains left, right and straight ahead, narrow gorges, reservoirs, and big open expanses of green grassland. It is the start of the summer and herders are moving their cattle, horses, goats and sheep to the higher pastures to graze. They use the main roads like everyone else, so we get a close up of the cowboys on their horses. This is Big Country. We climb over two high snow-covered passes, the second descending in a blur of hairpin bends into a gorge that belches us out onto a low plain leading to Bishkek. The little girl and her mother have a tendency to vomit at every twist in the road, so there are several breaks whilst they retch onto the roadside. Aunty just pops another beer and laughs raucously with our driver. Occasionally he taps me on the arm, points to the huge peaks in the distance, and asks "Anglia?" No, we don't have scenery quite like this in England. One time he indicates a donkey with the same question. Then he wants to know how much my walking boots cost in dollars. It's an interesting cultural exchange......

In Bishkek we come across a rather disturbing phenomenon amongst the travellers staying in our hostel. It is called Multiple Visa Psychosis or MVP for short. The symptons are varied but can include some or all of the following: a general listlessness, alchohol dependency, onset of Tourette's Syndrome, an inability to focus on anything for more than ten minutes, and obsessive and repetitive discourse on pending visa applications. There are some physical signs too - principally varicose veins and bruised kidneys from standing outside embassies and then scrimmaging to reach the counter. One Belgian cyclist we meet was clean-shaven when he arrived, and finally departs with a Rasputin beard. Everyone here is hanging around waiting for visas, going west, north, east and south. We have reached a cul de sac, with China as the end wall. But we are not alone and we get tips on flights and stories about our friend James, lots of stories. He has managed to get a visa for Pakistan here, against current form, and we need to do the same because that's our next destination. Because of the lack of flights we decide to miss Tajikistan and spend longer here (to apply for more visas!!). To get to Pakistan we have to cross into Kazakhstan to Almaty to take a flight to New Delhi, where we will then backtrack to Islamabad overland. Not quite what we planned, but hey ho. This means we need three visas and a visa extension. It's at times like this that we question our sanity, but then we are surrounded by other equally crazed travellers, so we kind of feel okay.

oh dear what can the matter be......

For those uninterested in the visa process, look away now. I too have succumbed to MVP. We visit the Kazakh embassy on Thursday and are given a form to complete. Come back Monday, they tell us. We ignore them and complete the form outside in 5 minutes. We queue up and submit it. Niet, come back Monday. We come back Monday and after being told by a stupid Englishman that we should not jump the queue ("What queue??" we ask), we submit our form again. They pass it straight back with a bank slip. Pay the fee and come back. At this point we pause. We need to extend our Kyrghyz visa before we complete our application, otherwise they may refuse us. We have already visited the Indian embassy where we are thrilled to see on their noticeboard that we can pay for a one-year multiple-entry visa. But when we submit our application the consul official tells us that it's very hot in India and 6 months is enough time to visit. Also the visa starts to run from the date of application so in this case we should resubmit it closer to our date of arrival. Undaunted we head for the central police office for visa extensions. We are dealt with by a warm, friendly and interested police woman. Like hell we are. Niet, niet, niet. Parusski? No, we don't speak Russian, but we do understand niet. We can only apply for an extension three days before the visa expires. Finally we try the Pakistan embassy. They have craftily employed a Russian receptionist to field queries from applicants. "Why haven't you applied in your home country?" she barks at us. We explain, and she tells us " The process is six weeks." This is her ace card, but we can trump her: "we have a letter of invitation from a friend who works for the United Nations in Islamabad". She hesitates and waivers. We have to bring the application form back with the letter. When we do, we are told to return the next day - no official is present to look at our application. Time for the vodka.
We need to get into these beautiful mountains that are visible towering above the city as soon as possible. Our sanity depends upon it..............

Way over yonder

We finally tear ourselves away from Tashkent, and I tear my back in the process, thus requiring enforced rest and sympathy for almost three days. Unfortunately we have only reached Ferghana, in the valley of the same name, and end up in an old Soviet-era hotel that obviously hasn't been maintained since the day it was built. The bathroom has been plumbed by a madman and the room creaks and groans and sighs like some of the old men in the park. Mind you, we have a room with a view of the mountains in the distance. Gayle goes out on our first night to look for a natural remedy for my bad back but incredibly cannot find any vodka.

The Ferghana Valley is the part of Uzbekistan that produces the most - agriculturally and industrially. It is surrounded by big mountain ranges and consists of the interlocking fingers of Kyrghyzstan,Tajikistan and Uzbekistan. Have a look at a map. In some parts there are 'pockets' of a country stuck in the middle of a neighbouring one. It's a mess. The valley is supposed to be more traditional and conservative, with a greater Islamic influence, but we cannot see it. After the Andijon massacre in 2005, the Uzbeks banned the call to prayer here.

Once I'm back on my feet and Gayle has tired of tasting all the different ice-cream that Ferghana has to offer, we head East and cross into Kyrghyzstan at Osh. It's a surprise to us, because Osh is quite a scruffy ill-kept town, and yet we thought Kyrghyzstan would be wealthier - apparently Uzbeks come here to work because the pay is better. The people look noticeably different in their facial features, less Turkic and more Mongol perhaps? (The Kyrghyz people originate from Siberia.) Old men are wearing traditional tall white felt hats. We check out the hustle of the bazaar and try the food but move on the next day, eager to get into the countryside and happy to keep the taxi-drivers of Central Asia in gold teeth.

We arrive in Arslanbob, a small village of Uzbeks, famed for its walnut groves. It sits on a river overlooked by a wall of mountains streaked in snow, and it is so green and so refreshing for our eyes. They have developed a network of community-based tourism organisations in Kyrghyzstan where locals provide services to tourists. Here in Arslanbob we can get food and accomodation in the house of a local family. We meet Evi from Austria here and go for a long walk up to a waterfall in the afternoon. The villagers are friendly and the place is very quiet and peaceful. We are fed huge quantities of food. It's perfect. After tea there is nothing to do but curl up in bed and sleep. The next day we take a walk through the walnut forest - the largest in the world. In September each year about 1,500 tonnes of nuts are harvested here. Our guidebook tells us that the walnuts originated in Malaysia, so we can only assume they travelled here over the old Silk Road. Anyway, the walking is lovely and shady and green. After what has felt like three months in the desert we are so relieved and excited about being in the mountains again. Mmm. Green.

China Crisis

We are in Tashkent and it is hot and sunny and, beyond our expectations, actually quite nice. The city is brimming with trees in full leaf, and despite the huge boulevards and large soviet-style buildings, it's a good place to hang out. There is no heavy traffic, and there's a good metro for getting across town. We arrive on Wednesday, and go along to the Kyrghyzstan embassy first thing on the Thursday. On their timetable of opening hours for Thursday it reads "Rest Day". We return on the Friday and wait nearly two hours for somebody to be bothered to open up. We are then asked for 300 dollars. This comes as a bit of a shock. Fortunately we work out that there is a variable pricing scheme and the official thinks we want "express" service. Not at that price we don't. In which case we can come back on Tuesday. They are closed on Monday for their "Constitution Day". Tough job, this embassy mularkey.

We need a bit of time to work out our real problem: how to get to Pakistan now that entering China looks unlikely. We seem to be heading into a cul-de-sac, with no way out. We would prefer not to fly if we don't have to, but apart from trekking from Tajikistan, across Afghanistan and the Hindu Kush, and into Pakistan illegally, we seem to be short of sensible options. Now if we could just get a map of the Wakhan corridor.........The alternatives are a flight from Almaty to Karachi via Sharjah, or a flight from Tashkent to Lahore. Sounds simple, but we still have to obtain a Pakistan visa and a visa to return to Tashkent, if necessary. Each embassy in each country seems to have different criteria, and quite frankly it's a pain in the arse.

Kent means city in the turkic language, so it's a disappointment not to see a single moustache in the city. We feel like we have drifted into Russia by mistake, not deeper into Asia. There are definitely a few Russians hanging on here. I am reprimanded by the hotel cleaner for speaking Uzbek with her and not Russian. On the train from Samarkand we had a long conversation with an army major. A bunch of squaddies who were finishing their national service filled our carriage. The major sat next to us and ordered one of his charges to translate for us. Savar was a very nice young man who wants to study in England or the States when he finishes university in Tashkent. But it seems like a pipedream because he lacks the money for fees. We asked if life was better since independence, and the Major thought so, except for the standard of education. He seemed to know a lot about Europe - even when the Channel Tunnel opened - and of course knew all about English football. We were asked about Iran and the Major suggested it was a better country for having been "colonised by the British". And then he laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "We were colonised by the Russians!". This is Great Game territory, where Russia vied with Britain for influence in the area in the 1800's. At one point Savar whispered " He doesn't like the United States, but don't say anything!". The Major had worked with British soldiers and later we were told by someone else that the US had trained soldiers in the desert here before going to Iraq. However, Uzbekistan's current 'best friend' appears to be Russia. The Great Game continues.

We keep meeting lovely French people - they certainly outnumber any other nationality of tourist here. On one evening we go to an 'opera ballet' with Yann, who we met outside the Kyrghyz embassy. The ticket costs one pound forty and it's fair to say we get value for money. The ballet is a bit of hop skip and jump in chiffon, and the singers get drowned out by the orchestra, but the music is good. However, none of us can decipher the title of the opera from the cyrillic. We think it's an Uzbek composition judging by the story and the costumes. We leave none the wiser. In the cafe afterwards we are approached by Anvar and Sacha. They're a bit drunk but friendly, and Anvar speaks enough English to start discussing French literature and English rock music. He looks like Johnny Depp on a bad night. The next evening we meet up with Yann again to eat. Whilst looking for a cheap place we are picked up by a bunch of ex-pat teachers who invite us to a party. It's in a large plush house and waiters bring us drinks in the hallway. There's a large buffet. Everyone is interested in what we are doing, and we are interested in the red wine and food. It's a pleasant evening but ends disappointingly early. The freeloaders are almost the last to leave. The next night Anvar finds us again. We are having a hectic social life all of a sudden. Anvar tells us he is a writer, photographer and musician in a punk rock band, but he works in a bookshop. I ask whether he did national service, and he tells us that he failed the psychiatric report. When asked by the psychiatrist what he thought of his Motherland he replied that the whole world is his Motherland and he loves everyone and he could never use a gun. If they gave him a gun he would kill everyone. A bit more of this talk and a quick flash of his tattoos and they soon marked him down as 'unfit'. We also discover that he keeps a pet rat called Seed. "Seed?" "Yes, after Seed Vicious." The rat and his brother are the only vegans in Uzbekistan apparently...................