Talas had been great, but we still had five mountain passes to cross and the Chinese weren’t waiting for us, so it was time to bust a move. As expected the scenery out of the Talas Valley and up towards the Otmok Pass did not disappoint. As we begun to climb we were pleasantly surprised to find that the road had been revamped recently so we spent less time juddering and more time admiring the views – this time broad sweeping plains which were dotted with yurts and numerous galloping horses, as well as the majestic, remarkably clear Otmok river, which ran alongside us for most of the morning.
However, our complacency was dealt a bit of a wake-up call. Miranda was struggling with the unexpected altitude (10,000+ feet) and began to overheat. This meant that Col and I had to limp up the final ascent, making regular pit stops. These stops needed to be just long enough for me to cool down the radiator with Col’s Garden hose spray, but just short enough, for nearby over-friendly yurt folk to get little chance to bully us into downing their prized elixir – fermented mare’s milk. As we learned these guys don’t easily take no for an answer!
It had taken most of the morning, just to do about 80miles and we were relieved to make it to the windy top. However, just as we started to relax again, a burning rubber smell wafted through the car. We had had problems with our right front brake in Iran, which had been squeaking and splattering oil on our front wheelbase and although we had been given the green light to drive, Col had been instructed not to brake so hard. Now, when we stopped just a few miles downhill from the Otmok Pass, I got out of the car to see that the front right wheel already had smoke billowing out from it. It was inevitable. Driving downhill from the pass required Col to steadily steer down a windy, steep descent. However Col’s hand controls do not allow him to select any low gears from his automatic transmission. This meant that the only way Col was able to drive without careering us off the side of the road, was to ride the brake quite hard.
It seemed like the shit had hit the fan (albeit at a low-speed setting), but then we had a brainwave. Back in Bukhara, when the electrics for Col’s gears had failed, we had come to the realisation that if the wire ever shorted again, it was actually possible to disengage the actuator which moved the gears and use the gears manually. Now this electrical misfortune seemed to come to our advantage. We realized that if we disengaged the actuator now, I would need to operate the gear stick manually, but it would also allow Col to drive in first, second and third gears. This stroke of luck not only enabled us to drive over and down the second pass to the Chichkan Valley (our proposed pitstop for the next two days) without melting the brake, but it also reminded me of the old adage ‘things do happen for a reason’. I made a mental note, to myself that if there are any other times on this trip, where we feel we are beginning to sail up shit creek (albeit a little creek) without a paddle, that I will try and remember to tell myself that maybe, in the long term these bad events might lead to some kind of good fortune or advantage.
It took a little practice driving the rest of the day. The makeshift socket-with-extension gearstick we had constructed was not the most smooth (nor sturdy) of operators and so Col had to pull over whenever he wanted me to change gears, to avoid me accidentally slamming the gear from third into reverse. This was actually quite often due to the varying gradient. Luckily, slow and steady was not a problem as the drive down into the Chichkan Valley was no less spectacular. Colourful trailers were now the nomadic Kyrgyz people’s in-vogue motorhome of choice and stood out brightly on the broad green plains. Horses were still galloping a plenty, probably trying to escape the clutches of the hundreds of fermented mares milk sellers we passed. In the background mountains seemed to rise around us so steeply, that I often had to stick my head right out of the window just to find the top. We were wondering how such a beautiful destination as Kyrgyzstan had managed to resist the tourist hoards for so long. We were also wondering how the hell anyone would go about milking a horse?
It had taken us all day to do barely 100miles and just as we began wondering whether we would find anywhere to pitch up for the night, a motel lept out at us as if by fate, just before dusk. Although the motel’s generator was off and the bathroom had no running water, we happily excused this in lieu of the running water outside -that is the whole million gallons of it which seemed to be gushing, noisily past our bedroom window every minute. The motel was really situated in the most amazing setting, rebelliously close to some roaring rapids in the middle of a gorge. To top it off we just happened to be there during Kyrgyzstan’s Independence Day celebrations and perhaps after clinking a few many fermented mare’s milk shots, the friendly and hospitable Kyrgyz staff in the motel’s alpine restaurant, decided to generously shout us to a dinner of fried farel (trout) and other goodies on the house.
No comments:
Post a Comment