Here on the edge of the world our group stands arms akimbo watching, listening to last gasps exhaled.
Our last spare, the driver’s side rear tyre is slowly expiring.
This is our second puncture in two hours and we had one yesterday as well. We have no compressor or pump, no repair kit and our Mercedes mini bus is perched on a remote dirt road that has been s-bend snaking from the valley floor to 3500 metres above sea level. The view is spectacular.
Our guide, Regina (pronounced with a harsh “g”) says, “we don’t know what to do!”
We are still 4 kilometres from the peak and it is another 40 kilometres from there to our yurt camp in the summer alpine pastures. Here in the mountains where there is no phone reception it is cold. The temperature tonight will drop to minus 10 degrees C. We know the van is our only option until morning, huddling together for warmth and with plenty of water we also have a dozen bottles of beer and one of vodka for comfort.
The bush mechanics make furtive efforts to break the tyre bead with the intention of stuffing it with local vegetation but without tools even their efforts to drive over it and to use the jack reversed against the vehicle body prove pointless.
Someone spies a truck on the valley floor. Nearly 30 minutes and 2 beers later it arrives and Regina speaks to the driver in Russian but our hope turns to shock disappointment as it pulls away and Regina explains, “they must account for every kilometre or the company will dismiss them”. Jobs in this poor economy are precious.
Another 40 minutes and the temperature is dropping quickly with the sunlight when out of the heavens trundles a Lada Niva 4X4 heading down the mountain. Regina makes a deal and disappears in the Niva heading up towards the Caravan Sarai. Andrea our driver speaks no english but communicates that we will put a flat on the front and our best two tyres on the rear and this way we begin to inch our way off our ledge and towards the summit.
An hour later we are one s-bend from the top when Regina and a second vehicle from the camp and a spare tyre.
In the comfort of our yurt haven we savour the local food and enjoy the warmth of the dung feed heater and regret only that we have bought only one bottle of vodka.
We trek in these mountains and ride horses. Resting late in the afternoon it begins to snow. Flakes drift through the yurt door and falls over the opening in the top and we savour it before we lock out the wind.
We are the last group here before winter and tomorrow we will help our host family dismantle the yurts before they move their herds to the lower winter pastures. The yurts will remain packed here until next spring.
Here there is no electricity, no phone, no crackle of the mass media telling us the sky is falling on our heads only a night sky full of stars. The air is cold and thin but crisp and clear like the snow melt streams that feed these pastures.
Here with clarity it is easy to think of what is important. We think and dream of good friends and loved ones, afar and yet close to the hearth.
Eventually travel, like a good mountain horse leads you homeward.
