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At seven years of age Mazarkul plays Uno like an old pro at a high-stakes poker game. He flings his cards onto the pile with a gambler's disregard for rules, his face breaking into a sheepish grin when caught trying to pass a six off as a nine. Sary, kyzyl, jashyl, kok - all the Kyrgyz words we need. Yellow, red, green, blue. Our international Uno tournament includes representatives from Kyrgyzstan, France, Slovenia and the U.S., but our groans of despair and hoots of victory require no translation. We are sitting on hand-stitched felt carpets around a low table in the family's yurt. Outside the air is still sharp with the memory of winter but in here there is laughter and endless cups of black tea, the sour-sweet tang of home-made raspberry jam on fresh bread and the comforting stench of warm wet sheepskin and of dung patties burning in the oven. There is always something bubbling away on the small black stove in the corner where Mazarkul's mother, a ruddy-cheeked woman with a wide smile full of golden teeth, is busy stirring, chopping, slicing and kneading. Very few Kyrgyz people still lead a nomadic life year-round, but living in a yurt remains at the core of their identity. In the summer months, when school's out and the snow melts on the mountain passes, Mazarkul's family comes to the highland pastures of Son Kul lake where they have been spending the grazing season for generations, setting up camp and letting their horses roam free in the surrounding hills. With no electricity or phone signal the rhythm of the days is dictated by the animals and the sun, the daily routine a well-coordinated performance of self-sufficiency set against the backdrop of a starkly beautiful land. Men ride their horses with a nonchalance that comes from a lifetime of horse-rearing and Mazarkul trots around on his donkey, proudly surveying his kingdom. In the vast open spaces distances expand and contract at random, the mountains moving further away with each step, the galloping horses a mesmerising sight but an unreliable point of reference. Eventually the cold crisp wind heralding dusk ushers me back into the kitchen yurt, where steaming cups of tea are already waiting for us. Mazarkul ties up his donkey at the entrance and joins us, warming his hands by the fire before shuffling a deck of colourful cards - sary, kyzyl, jashyl, kok.