Into the Mountains of Kyrgyzstan
May 2012: As part of a 12-day journey through Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, I traveled to Kyrgyzstan with one goal in mind—to venture into its rugged mountainous interior and meet the semi-nomadic Kyrgyz people.
I wanted to experience their way of life firsthand, staying with a local family in a traditional yurt, surrounded by the breathtaking landscapes of the Tian Shan mountains. Far from the modern world, it was a chance to immerse myself in the rhythms of nomadic existence, where hospitality is sacred and life moves with the seasons.
My route of travel
Exploring Kyrgyzstan: A Journey Through the Mountains
Kyrgyzstan is a land of towering peaks, with mountains soaring over 20,000 feet. Nestled in the heart of Central Asia, it stands out as one of the few nations in the region with a democratically elected government. The people are predominantly ethnic Kyrgyz, many of whom maintain their semi-nomadic traditions, herding livestock and living in yurts during the warmer months before retreating to stone dwellings for the winter.
A former Soviet republic, Kyrgyzstan gained independence after the fall of the USSR. Like its Central Asian neighbors, it has grappled with Islamic insurgencies, and although tourists have occasionally been targeted, the country remains a fascinating and rewarding destination.
During my six-day journey, my goal was to immerse myself in Kyrgyz nomadic culture, explore the rugged mountains, and experience the country’s Silk Road heritage.
My 6-Day Kyrgyzstan Itinerary
Day 1
- Arrive in Bishkek from Tashkent in the afternoon
- Meet Slava (Driver)
- Overnight in Hotel Alpinist
Day 2
- Depart early for a 250km drive into the mountains
- Stay the night in a yurt with a nomadic family near Kochkor village
Day 3
- Spend the morning visiting a Kyrgyz family
- Drive four hours to Tash Rabat, an ancient Silk Road caravanserai
- Overnight in a yurt camp
Day 4
- Explore Tash Rabat and hike in the surrounding mountains
- Second night in a yurt camp
Day 5
- Return to Bishkek, stopping to visit Kyrgyz families in high mountain pastures
- Overnight with Slava’s family in Bishkek
Day 6
- Early morning bus transfer to Almaty, Kazakhstan
This journey offered a glimpse into nomadic life, breathtaking mountain landscapes, and a taste of Kyrgyzstan’s Silk Road legacy—an adventure into the heart of Central Asia.
Sick as a Dog
A Rough Arrival in Kyrgyzstan
I flew into Bishkek from Tashkent, arriving in the evening. Almost immediately after checking into my hotel, I started feeling sick. What began as discomfort quickly escalated into severe diarrhea, vomiting, and chills—classic signs of food poisoning, likely from the meat kebabs I had eaten in Tashkent.
The night was brutal. Dehydrated and exhausted, I forced myself out of bed and stumbled to a nearby convenience store, grateful to find it still open. I bought a large bottle of water and guzzled it down on the spot, desperate for relief.
By morning, I was still in rough shape—weak, barely able to walk, and still battling relentless diarrhea—but I refused to let sickness waste my time in Kyrgyzstan. My driver, Slava, arrived as planned, and I dragged myself into his tiny Lada, determined to push through.
The journey was long and brutal, bouncing over rough, uneven roads with the car’s poor suspension offering little relief. I drifted in and out of restless sleep, trying to ignore the twisting nausea and constant discomfort.
My first impressions of Kyrgyzstan weren’t exactly glowing, though I suspected that had more to do with how awful I felt than the country itself. Every village we passed seemed full of severely intoxicated men, stumbling through the streets at all hours of the day. It was not uncommon to see men taking shots of vodka in broad daylight—in bars, convenience stores, or just about anywhere they could find a spot to drink. Inside the very store where I had bought my lifesaving bottle of water, men were casually doing rounds of vodka shots at the counter before stumbling back out into the streets.
One guy didn’t quite make it home. I saw him passed out on the sidewalk, lost in an alcohol-induced stupor, oblivious to the world around him.
Through my haze of sickness, one detail stood out—I was impressed by the traditional wool hats worn by many Kyrgyz men, a unique cultural touch that gave the country its distinct character.
Despite everything, I pressed on—hoping that the mountains, the nomadic culture, and the adventure ahead would make it all worthwhile.
A drunken man passed out in public.
A fair number of men both young and old wear the traditional wizard hat.
Healing in a Kyrgyz Yurt
When we arrived at a nomad camp, my driver, Slava, introduced me to a Kyrgyz family living in yurts. They generously offered to host us for the night, but I was in such agonizing pain that I could barely speak. Seeing my condition, the family laid out a mattress in the center of the yurt, where I collapsed, too weak to engage in any conversation.
The experience was surreal. As I drifted in and out of a delirious, feverish state, life in the nomadic camp carried on around me. The family ate, worked the fields, and welcomed visitors, who came and went, chatting and sharing meals in the flickering yurt light. I remember laughter, conversations, and the clinking of vodka glasses, but I was too drained to join in, my body utterly spent.
Then, in the middle of the night, I woke to the sensation of hands pressing into my stomach. Disoriented, I realized someone had removed my shirt and was kneading a pungent, oily ointment into my skin. It was painful, and I cringed at the pressure, too weak to resist. The matriarch of the family, sensing my suffering, was administering a traditional remedy, rubbing the homemade salve deep into my stomach. After about five minutes of intense discomfort, she finally stopped, covering me with blankets before I drifted back into sleep.
By morning, I felt completely renewed. Whether it was the ointment, the mountain air, or sheer luck, my sickness had vanished. For the first time, I was able to properly meet my hosts, and they were thrilled to see me revived. Ready to explore the mountains, I stepped out of the yurt, feeling as if I had been given a second chance at my Kyrgyz adventure.
Staying with Nomads
I spent the night with a Kirghiz family in their yurt. The family was very hospitable.
I came down with food sickness and this nice nomad mom tried to help me out by rubbing some strange ointment on my stomach to try and cure me, which left me feeling better in the morning.
Slava, a Ukrainian, was my guide/driver standing next to the mother of the Nomad Family I stayed with.
Mountains where the nomads live
Nomad man
Mountains where the nomads live
More Nomads
Unexpected Encounters on the Road to Tash Rabat
Eager to see the well-preserved Silk Road caravanserai of Tash Rabat, we set off into the Tien Shan Mountains for a half-day journey. Along the way, we passed numerous nomad camps, their yurts dotting the vast, open landscape. Intrigued, I decided to make an impromptu visit, stopping at a few along the route.
The first time, we had simply pulled over for a roadside break, but in the distance, I spotted a yurt camp and felt compelled to approach. Before my driver could react, I ran ahead, eager to meet the inhabitants on my own.
When the nomadic family emerged from their yurt, their shock was palpable—a foreigner suddenly standing at their doorstep, unannounced and smiling. But true to Kyrgyz hospitality, their surprise quickly turned to warmth. Without hesitation, they welcomed me inside and offered tea and snacks, embracing me as a guest.
By the time my driver finally caught up, we were already seated inside the yurt, sharing stories and sipping mare’s milk—a fermented, mildly alcoholic drink made from horse milk, often mixed with vodka for an extra kick. It was an authentic and unplanned encounter, a perfect reminder that sometimes, the best travel experiences happen when you least expect them.
Mountains where the nomads lived
Me with the nomad family
Hospitality and a Kyrgyz Hat
Another nomadic family welcomed me as an honored guest, greeting me with cups of tea and bowls of fermented mare’s milk. True to Kyrgyz tradition, their hospitality was immediate and genuine, making me feel like part of their world, even if just for a moment.
The family was especially proud of their new yurt, so much so that they insisted I photograph the interior, posing their young son inside as a symbol of their home and heritage. It was a touching moment, capturing not just their living space but also their pride and traditions.
Of course, I couldn’t resist trying on a traditional Kyrgyz hat for a photo—a proud and fitting souvenir from an unforgettable encounter in the mountains. Now, I just need to figure out a way to send them this photo—a small way to return their kindness.
Me with the nomad family
Proud Kirghiz family of new yurt and boy.
Tash Rabat-Silk Road Caravanserai
High Mountain Hikes and a Thunderstorm
Slava and I stayed in a rustic camp deep in the mountains, surrounded by the vast, untouched landscapes of Kyrgyzstan’s highlands. Wanting to explore, we set off on a steep hike toward the high mountain ridges, pushing ourselves up the rugged terrain.
Despite being decades older than me, Slava moved with effortless strength, his years of high-alpine climbing still evident in every step. I struggled to keep up with his pace, my legs burning as he charged ahead like a seasoned mountaineer.
As we neared the ridge, dark clouds gathered, and suddenly, a thunderstorm rolled in, lightning cracking across the sky. The distant rumbles grew louder, and we knew it was time to head back before the storm closed in around us. It was an exhilarating hike, one that reminded me that in the mountains, experience is everything—and Slava had plenty of it.
These little marmots, the size of a fat small dog, are almost everywhere in the high alpine pastors.
Tash Rabat: A Silk Road Fortress in the Mountains
Believed to be over 1,000 years old, Tash Rabat was once a fortified caravanserai, offering shelter to Silk Road traders navigating the remote mountain routes. Its most striking feature is its location—perched at 12,000 feet in the heart of the Tien Shan Mountains, surrounded by vast, untouched wilderness.
We arrived early in the morning, finding the serene stone structure standing in quiet isolation, a silent witness to the countless caravans that once passed through. Inside, the dark and foreboding chambers added to its mystique, their thick stone walls whispering echoes of history.
For a time, we had the place entirely to ourselves, wandering through its arched corridors and picturing the merchants and travelers who once sought refuge here. But as we were preparing to leave, the stillness was suddenly broken. A convoy of vehicles arrived, releasing a flood of excited schoolchildren from local villages. Laughing and running through the ancient site, they explored its rooms and tunnels as part of a school field trip, learning about their heritage in the most immersive way possible.
Watching them climb, play, and discover within the centuries-old ruins, I realized that Tash Rabat was more than just a relic of the past—it was still alive, a place where history and the present intertwined.
The old caravanserai
Inside of the caravanserai
From Tash Rabat to Bishkek: A Journey of Landscapes and Friendship
Outside the ancient caravanserai of Tash Rabat, life thrived—the sunlit meadows stretched endlessly toward snow-capped peaks, marmots wobbled between their burrows, and the crisp mountain air carried the scent of untouched wilderness. But stepping inside was like entering another world. Dark, cold, and eerily silent, the thick stone walls swallowed every sound. To the right, a raised rock slab marked where Silk Road traders once slept, seeking warmth during the freezing mountain nights.
From Tash Rabat, we began the long drive back to Bishkek, where I spent my final night in the home of my driver and friend, Slava. His house, perched on a hillside overlooking Bishkek, was surrounded by a beautiful, well-manicured garden, lush with apple trees and vibrant flowers. That evening, his wife prepared a traditional dinner, using fresh local ingredients, and we sat on his porch drinking plum brandy, watching a lightning storm illuminate the night sky.
As we talked, Slava shared stories of his mountaineering adventures, his life as a mining geologist, and what it was like growing up in the Soviet Union. His grandparents had migrated to Central Asia during Soviet times, like many others seeking a better life beyond the hardships of their homelands. Slava, born and raised in Kyrgyzstan, had spent a lifetime exploring its peaks and landscapes, accumulating incredible experiences along the way.
Before I left, Slava gave me a gift—an old stone Stalin statue from his garden, a relic of the past that would become a cherished addition to my collection of travel artifacts. He had welcomed me not as a client, but as an honored guest and a friend, and I knew I would miss him.
The next morning, Slava drove me to the Kazakhstan border, where we parted ways. With a handshake and a final farewell, I stepped across into Kazakhstan, ready to chase a new adventure.