An American in Karakol

The landscape exudes a beauty as raw and pure as the sharp pain you feel when inhaling a blast of frigid air.

I am in Kyrgyzstan, a Central Asian country next to China and the poorest, yet most democratic, of the former Soviet republics. My son, Aaron, is here for the third time, completing a work study for his Boston university. We decide to leave the capital, Bishkek, to visit Issy Kul, a two-hour taxi ride and a popular summer getaway for Bishkek residents. Scientists believe that its aqua waters now cover villages that existed two millennia ago; chunks of pottery have been recovered from its depths. Issy Kul, which comes from a Chinese word meaning ‘warm,” is the world’s second largest glacier lake, behind Lake Titicaca in Peru.

Thanks to Aaron’s fluent Russian, we are able to negotiate a good price with our taxi driver, who is playing Eric Clapton songs.

On the way, my head spins as I look out the taxi windows, right to left, and back again, trying to imprint breathtaking views. White-capped mountains, part of the Tien Shan range that roll toward China, look like they are wearing lacy shawls, and descend in chocolate folds to earth. Five minutes later we see red sandstone next to hills that are dotted with vegetation of pale green next to brown peaks that rise to the sky as wispy clouds float across them like halos.

Shiny crescents atop roadside mosques glint against mountainsides; they sit beside cemeteries with iron monuments shaped like yurts.

Animals roam the landscape-- donkeys and sheep and cows and goats, outnumbering the inhabitants of villages along the road lined with golden poplars. Sometimes the herds are distant shadows atop ridges; they seem surefooted enough to traverse the rocky landscape. A lone shepherd on a horse casts a silhouette on the snow.

We ride without seat belts, they seem to be nonexistent here, while our driver impatiently honks at head-scarved women trying to cross the road. In Karakol, a touristy village at the edge of Issy Kul, our taxi driver shows us a splendid Russian Orthodox cathedral, made entirely of wood, then ducks across the street to pray in a mosque built by Dungan Muslims who fled persecution in China.

Our driver takes us for spicy Dungan noodles at a small eatery where the owner tells our driver that we are the first Americans to set foot in her restaurant. Aaron and I ask him to drop us off at a sort of trailhead just outside the village. We follow a mountain stream two hours up to a jailoo, a pasture where my son had spent a night in a yurt camp. In October only the yurt frames remain. On the way up, we see bushes adorned with small bits of cloth, tied like bows on Christmas trees. We hurry back to meet our taxi driver at the drab sanatorium where Boris Yeltsin met with the first Kryg president after independence in 1991.

Back at our Issy Kul resort, Aaron and I watch the sunset on a long dock. Before the sun has slipped into the lake, we pose for a photo with two women from Bishkek while their friend from Moscow captures the moment with her tablet. Before heading back to Bishkek, I pluck some stones and bits of glass smoothed by the aqua waters of Issy Kul.