After a few hundred kilometres of nature and mountains, the first signs of human habitation (other than the occasional yurt or metal container for herders and their families) appear in the valley.
However, the first encounter with the local people in front of the village does not go quite as I am used to from hitchhiking. A guy on a horse doesn’t even say hello to me. “Where did you get your horse from? How much did they cost?” he says instead of greeting. “What breed are they? How old are they? Where are you going?” He almost starts giving the horses a pre-purchase dental exam. He’s taking pictures of us from all sides. Remembering the good advice from the prep, “if you don’t like someone, take a picture with them,” I pull out my camera in return. “Can I take a picture with you?” I ask politely, because I’m a GDPR nerd and people should actually give permission to take photos. “With me? No.” The guy barks in puzzlement. So what now. He hasn’t given permission, but I still want to take a picture of him for security reasons, so I have something to show the cops if I get hassled on the way out of the village. “Well, if you’re taking my picture, I can take yours.” I don’t give up and, wham, the picture is taken. Three straight. The guy looks offended, turns his horse around and rides off. Finally. It’s actually not bad in the mountains without people.
*
A hiker with a horse just always attracts a lot more attention than a smelly hitchhiker with a raggedy pack. That’s the way it is, unfortunately. As a hitchhiker, you’re a beggar who can’t even afford a car. A horse costs money and good horse gear is the staff from cosmic ufo visits in the local village. Aussies, chaps, hats, things the locals know from American cowboys at best. But to fit in with the local style of dressing, I’m not going to wear a completely crappy waist-length Chinese jacket, chamois trousers that make me see the sore bottom on the first day, and a cap under which I burn my face and neck. The visit to the shop is therefore a bit more dramatic. The shop is about the only place you can buy booze here, and so groups of men often gather in front of it, drinking vodka and beer. Stopping with three horses in front of the shop is therefore a guaranteed magnet for drunks.
**
“Whoa, the cowboys have arrived!” one of the drunks comments on my arrival. Yes, chaps and aussies are handy on horseback in the mountains, but you can’t play the image of a bum with them.
“What’s that for?” another of the men stops me and points to the chaps. “That’s so I don’t rub my feet.” I explain.
“Oh, and you’re not going to rub your legs in that?” the man doesn’t give in. “No, I won’t.”
“Oh, and will it get wet?” “It won’t get wet,” I argue, even though almost any rain wouldn’t give the chaps a chance if it weren’t for the large PVC raincoat.
“And you don’t sweat in it?” the man looks for at least some flaw in my gear. “Well, of course I’m sweating” I say outside the shop in about thirty degrees in the shade, looking forward to getting back into the mountains, and this answer genuinely amuses the guy.
“Oh, you’re sweating”, he laughs and shakes his head incomprehensively as if to say “those tourists are crazy”. However, the interrogation doesn’t end there.
“What’s this?” and half an hour of explanation follows. “It’s a saddlebag. It’s a saddlebag. That’s a harness. It’s a harness to hold the lower back. These are the ropes. The ropes hold the underbelly back.” And so on. Endless conversations outside the store will delay the purchase by a good couple of hours.
***
So, what to buy. Beer. Czechs on the move. I’ve been eating only freeze-dried food for three weeks and anyway, if I could only buy one thing in the store, I’d buy beer. So beer, we got that covered. Next? Bread, cheese. Next… a shelf in a Kyrgyz village shop neatly solved my indecision. Next on the shelf is a snickers bar and a tin of corned beef that may have remembered Uncle Lenin. That’s all. “One snickers, then.” Every time I come home, I’m so full of it, I can’t even smell the bars.
