The Young Kyrgyz

by Olivia Fuller (United States of America)

Making a local connection Kyrgyzstan

The sun had only just begun to descend, sparkling over an endless lake. The view would have been breathtaking, had we not been hiking for hours with nary a change in scenery. The mountain pasture spread before us, teasing the edges of the colossal lake and transforming into springy marshland where it neared the water. Earlier that morning, myself and two companions, Nicky and Ana, had embarked upon a hike at the famous Song-Kul lake in the Naryn Province of Kyrgyzstan. The nomadic Kyrgyz families of the area relocate to the alpine lake each summer to tend their animals, and occasionally host foreigners overnight in their yurts - a unique experience that we couldn’t miss. Five long hours into our hike, we saw smoke rising in the distance and ventured forward with the hopes of finding a bed for the night. As we drew closer, a dog came running out to greet us, barking at our approach and announcing to its owners that guests had arrived. When a young boy appeared, Ana greeted him with a few halting words in Russian. He tilted his head, confused, and said in English, “You stay here?” We all looked at each other, bewildered at the unfamiliar sound of our native language. “Yes, are your parents home?” I asked, motioning above my head with my hand, as if signaling someone taller, hoping he understood my rudimentary sign language. He did not. Thankfully, my translation app could do the work for us, and we quickly discovered that his parents would not be home until much later that night. Regardless, he allowed us to stay, quoting the price and offering to make us dinner. “How old are you?” I asked, peering closer. “ELEVEN!” He shouted, delighted he could understand, and better yet, had an answer. “Wow, eleven!” We all exclaimed. “Twelve, twelve, twelve,” he panted, dismayed that he had said the wrong number in his excitement. He turned to his brothers, pointing. “Thirteen, fifteen.” Over the next hour, we attempted to make conversation through the help of his textbooks, hand motions, and the translation app, but the boys quickly lost interest, absorbed in the games and videos on their shared cell phone. One of the elder brothers whispered something to the youngest. Our little host held out his hand for my phone, motioning typing. I handed it over, curious as to what the next topic of conversation would be. The small hand offered back my phone: “You have a charger?” I looked up, confused, as he wildly motioned plugging in a phone. “Of course!” the three of us girls said in unison, laughing as we scrambled to pull our phone chargers from our packs. Our young Kyrgyz friend shook his head despondently as he saw what we were offering, and held his hand out for the phone once more: “No electricity. Charger.” At an alpine lake 3016m above sea level, working electricity was not just a luxury, but a fantasy. The toilet was no more than a wooden shack covering a hole in the ground, and light came from a hole in the ceiling of the yurt. With a sudden start, Ana exclaimed, “They want a battery pack!” The scramble was on again, each of us hoping we could please the boys, but alas; we came up empty handed.. They turned back to their entertainment disappointed, no longer intrigued by the foreigners who had failed to offer what they needed. Homemade bread, jam, and tea filled our bellies that evening, and we snuggled under piles of furs and blankets. The smell of fermented horse milk and smoke from the kitchen fire created an oddly soothing atmosphere, and we drifted into a deep, comfortable sleep. We departed swiftly the following morning, as we had another 26 kilometers to hike before catching a bus to the next village. After giving the budding host payment for our night’s stay, we hesitated, hoping to get a photo, or share some encouraging words with this little man who had provided for us so generously. He, however, immediately returned to herding the horses with not so much as a “goodbye” to spare. He had a long day ahead.