Kyrgyzstan by Daniele Somenzi

Kyrgyzstan Of the countries surrounding it, this is the most unfortunate. Someone in our group read in the guides that it's dangerous here, but we don't find that this happens during our stay. The roads with right-hand drive are half off-road, with a pass between the mountains that, for certain, was trodden a few hundred years earlier by Marco Polo himself; and I believe it, because to go towards China this is the only pass coming from the capital Bishkek. Here they speak Kyrgyz but also Russian; let's not forget that it was under Soviet domination for a long time, and only with Gorbachev's rise to power did this spartan country regain its autonomy.

Here getting fuel is an undertaking; there are no petrol stations, only a few in the city; so you stop at the roadside and ask passers-by, who instantly disappear to reappear a few minutes later with glass bottles in hand, or anyway containers of every kind and capacity, with something inside that resembles petrol, and so you fill up. Incredible but true. Naturally the octane rating of the petrol is unknown; the famous engine knock is then the norm. About as big as Austria, Kyrgyzstan is very high, the average altitude is 2700 metres. We sleep in a hotel that calling it that is a slap in the face to the category. A room with 2 beds with straw mattresses at the end of the corridor, and the toilet on the other side with a WC that has nothing left of the white of ceramics, it looks like the toilet of a coal mine.

Anyway, it doesn't matter much; the appearance doesn't matter, effectiveness does. Then not to mention the shower, naturally cold, with a simple pipe hanging on the wall. By the way, toilet paper you have to ask for down at reception, and they give you a little roll without the cardboard tube it's wrapped around. On the other hand, since it's August, down on the street they sell good watermelons, and after buying one at almost zero cost, I savour it with pleasure. Here there are several uranium mines, the largest entry of the national GDP. Tourism is almost nil; even the planes of the local airline are dilapidated, the usual old Soviet Tupolevs. Another reason for discouraging visitors. We set off the following morning towards the Chinese border, and first of all we come across steep climbs, a big checkpoint to check the passage of goods and maybe also a look at the documents.

Shortly after, the road for us motorcyclists is very tempting, also because the day isn't very cold and there's sun. We pass a pass and glimpse in the distance very tall snow-capped mountains; my friend confirms that it's the start of the Himalayan mountain range, which is already in China. Then we descend again into the valley and for about a hundred km we take an unpaved road full of holes; just as well my Yamaha 600 Ténéré is suited to these tracks, a little less so Giorgio's on board a BMW road bike; in fact he then gets a puncture, and arrives last at the little village in the middle of nowhere where we get our last fuel before crossing the border with the Great country. bye bye