“Or we could just be totally crazy and go west. Since you guys all seem so determined to get us all killed,” I said.
“That’s actually not a bad idea,” he said. “With Uzbekistan so close, I’m sorely tempted to just ditch you waddling whiners and go myself.”
“Oh, you will not, Ammon,” Mom said. “Besides, why can’t we go west?”
“Because.”
“Why?” Bree said.
“It’s tough. Nobody goes that way.”
“That’s hardly an answer,” she replied.
“And so many people go to Kyrgyzstan every day. Right! I forgot,” I added sarcastically. I wasn’t sure why I said it, but I think his comments were working on me like reverse psychology.
“We could totally do that,” Bree claimed, subconsciously flexing her biceps.
He grumbled before slapping his book shut and quickly deciding, “I need to get on the Internet. I have to look up a bunch of stuff.”
His Central Asia Lonely Planet book served as our main source for general information, history, and accommodation. When planning his routes and for more updated information, though, he often consulted the Thorn Tree Travel Forum online. Word of mouth was ideal, of course – if we ever saw another traveller again, that is!
I had complained on our family blog that nobody ever left comments and had outright asked if anyone out there was even reading our stuff. I started to fear that everyone had already forgotten about us. My best friend Terri restored my faith by leaving a wonderful comment that momentarily cheered me up.
**Savannah don’t worry….u r just too good a writer…. so no one sends u comments because they’re speechless!!! I’m soooo proud of u!! Luv u, sis!! Terri**
As great as it was to be taking this eventful trip with my family, I often felt lonely and homesick. Like salt being rubbed in a wound, email messages arriving in my inbox were nearly as scarce as comments on the blog – and not all of them contained good news.
“I got an email from Grandma,” Mom said. “She says the business is not doing well without us there to help work it. And that she’s basically giving me a heads-up that your dad’s child support might not keep coming.” Her lips were tightly pursed, expressing disappointment mixed with determination to take whatever came and deal with it.
Part of me felt like saying, “Yes! Now we can go home!” But I was also deeply hurt. Would he really stop sending money, and by doing so, reject any responsibility for his own children? When we’d left, Dad had taken over our family-run business, helping ESL students who’d come from all parts of the world to learn English in Vancouver schools. Our company organized fun local activities for them to participate in on weekends and holidays. We organized regular sightseeing tours to Seattle, Whistler, and Vancouver Island. More adventurous activities included winter sports, river rafting, whale watching, sky diving, kayaking, camping, horseback riding, bungee jumping, and an annual trip to California’s Disneyland. It was a great family business to be involved with as I grew up, and I got to know all kinds of students from different cultural backgrounds, some of whom lived with us all year round.
When Dad walked out, Mom was initially going to continue to run the business, but her sister-in-law encouraged Mom to look at this development in a new light when she said, “Don’t just automatically do what you think you have to do. What is it that you want to do?” The question made her realize there was more than just one option, and she decided that what she really wanted was to pack us all up and travel the world with us.
With Mom unemployed and two kids under the age of eighteen, Dad was legally required to pay child support. We didn’t have much to start with, and even on an extremely tight budget, we needed his financial help if Mom had any hope of extending this trip of a lifetime beyond the year we’d planned and budgeted for.
“What? Are you serious?” Bree asked.
“That’s just so crappy,” Ammon said, shaking his head in disgust. “Whatever… He’s not worth our time or energy. Just forget about him.”
“How much is his life insurance worth again?” Bree asked as I elaborated on torture schemes for him that ranged from poison frogs to an anthrax-laced envelope full of eggshells.
“I dunno, about two hundred thousand, I guess,” Mom answered distractedly.
“How long could we travel on that?” Bree continued.
“Oh, you guys. Stop it. That’s just mean. He’s still your father.”
“But Mom, just imagine it,” Bree said.
“Yeah, really! I mean, the least he could do is email us. Not that I would respond anyway. Hrmph! He should be trying to win us back, not disowning us and chucking us away.”
“I’ve gotten a few emails from Dad,” Bree said.
“Yeah, right! Like a month ago, he actually said ‘Hi’ and asked how we were doing.” Ammon was distinctly unimpressed.
The tables had turned so drastically. He had always been a wonderful dad to us, and we had always been such a tight-knit family that it was hard to imagine we were really talking about the same man. He’d become a complete stranger in a very short time.
“He’s obviously being swayed by his new girlfriend. Your dad can be so evasive sometimes. I mean, I’ve emailed him how many times about the divorce papers? And he still isn’t responding,” Mom said. “I just hope he survives all of this. I know I will.”
A Rough Night
12
We’d travelled three hours southeast from Bishkek to Kochkor, where we spent the night. The next morning, we hired a driver to take us to a remote camp in the grassy hills of Kyrgyzstan where we could go horseback riding. We drove through jagged silver mountains past brilliant teal lakes and rivers for another three hours until we reached Lake Songkol’s clear waters. The yurt we’d be staying in was planted right on the edge of this gorgeous lake, protected by the ever-vigilant mountains.
We slept like mummies that night, tightly tucked in under a huge pancake-like stack of quilts in complete darkness, until Bree bolted upright and whacked Mom at the same time, crying, “Mom! Mom! Wake up! I think I’m going to be sick.”
“What? Wait! Just hold on,” Mom replied sleepily. In the darkness, my ears became my eyes, and the urgency in their voices was clear. Before Mom had time to untuck herself and reach for the flashlight, we heard a roaring barfing sound. Everyone in the yurt jolted upright as Bree suffered some serious projectile vomiting.
“Aarghh, Bree!” I felt Ammon leap up beside me and try to get out of the line of fire as he was rudely awakened. From my left, I could hear Bree’s laboured gasps. As there was no stove in the cramped dwelling, we had buried ourselves beneath layers of thick quilts to stay warm, and thick carpets covered the entire circular floor, making a single, gigantic bed.
We were lined up from right to left – Mom, Bree, Ammon, and then me. I don’t know how we got arranged that way, since I actually like being squished in the middle, but as good fortune would have it, I was on the edge this time.
Mom finally located the flashlight, which was now shining erratically around the yurt as she searched for something – anything – that Bree could puke into before the next eruption. She juggled the light while holding the edge of the sheet up to prevent the wet chunks from spilling down everyone’s necks.
Ammon and I yelled at Bree to use the door, which was directly in front of her and only five feet away, well within crawling distance. We urged her to get out of the bed, but there was no getting through to her. She was completely freaking out, gasping for air and moaning simultaneously as more and more thunderous storms exploded out of her quivering body.
“I’m gonna…baaaaa, die. I’m gonna diieeeeaaaaagghhhh… Oh, ohhh! I can’t breathe, I’m gonna die,” she kept saying, interspersed with panicked wheezing.
“Oh, that’s so gross. Just hold on while I…” Mom said, trying to calm the situation and get the wet blanket off before it soaked through more layers of quilts. But Bree, the drama queen, was puking over and over again in the
bed. Her moaning lasted almost the entire night. I spent at least half the night wiggling my fingertips in my ears trying to block the noise Bree made as she lay “dying.” My insides were aching with fatigue, and I was desperate to get a moment’s rest without my stomach turning inside out, partly from the smell and partly because I, too, felt really sick. I wondered tiredly how that much fluid could come out of one relatively small human body, and I found myself thinking decidedly unpleasant thoughts like, For goodness sake, just hurry up and die already, Why are you still in here?, and Get your sick butt outside and leave us alone. These less than charitable impulses made me feel even worse than I already did, but I just wanted it to stop!
When she’d finally located a plastic bag for Bree to use, Mom rolled up the blanket and threw it outside, which is where we eventually had to send Bree, partly so she could get some fresh air, but mostly so we could get some sleep.
As relieved as I’d felt when Bree had finally left the yurt, I felt equally bad when we climbed out from our warm little cubbyhole into the early light to see her still there, shivering on the cold ground with her arms wrapped around her knees. We’d grown accustomed to the humid 30 degrees Celsius (86°F) temperatures, but up here, at an elevation of over three thousand metres (10,000 ft), the nights cooled to as low as zero degrees Celsius (32°F).
Our lakeside “camp” had just two yurts that were rented out to visitors, and the host family lived in two rusted-out shacks with a shed out back. Laundry lines stretched between their two shacks, but they were already being used to dry sheets and woollen clothes in the gentle, chilly breeze, so the fouled sheets and quilts had already been washed and laid out on the grass to dry.
“Yeah, she came by and started doing laundry in the lake,” Bree told us, looking up from the ground where she sat, still shivering. “I was so embarrassed, ‘cause I was here when she came and collected them. I probably kept their whole family up, too, making all that noise all night.”
“Oh, I feel so bad,” Mom said.
“It’s fine. I’m okay-ish now,” Bree said, exhaling deeply after her long night.
“Not about you, silly. About her! That poor lady had to wash her beautiful white quilt by hand in that icy cold water.” Bree gave Mom the best raised-eyebrow look she could manage in her weakened state, a look that questioned whether she’d really just said what she thought she’d said. I had to laugh at how very unsympathetic Mom could be sometimes.
“What?” Our mother asked, seeing our disapproving expressions. “I know you’ll survive. You’re strong.” She raised us to be tough, and her style of nursing was most often limited to, “Suck it up. You’ll be fine. Take lots of Vitamin C and eat more garlic.” I doubt she’d win any “doting parent” awards, but she had other strengths, and so far, we’d survived reasonably well.
Bree was still feeling woozy, so the two of us spent some time by the lake, idly skipping rocks across the tranquil waters. We sat on the pebbly shore, aimlessly picking out the flattest stones. The lake was so crystal clear and still, you would hardly know it was even there, but for the reflective shimmer of light piercing the water and the ripples from our skipping stones.
We eventually coaxed Bree back inside the yurt and decided we’d all just take it easy. Despite the light that came in through the open door, it was a bit too dark for reading or writing, so we pretty much stuck to playing Jerk. Though it was comfy within, our yurt was often rented out as a “guest bedroom” as opposed to being someone’s home. Some of its authentic feel was lost, but the structure itself was very traditional and cozy. Lined with red wooden lattice work and insulated with felt, the back wall sported an intricately hand-woven tapestry.
When the daily rains settled in, we could open the wooden door and see the dreamy blue lake from our bed. With nothing blocking the scenery except the occasional horse roaming by, we were often gifted with remarkable views of rainbows. It felt as though we were on top of the world.
There was a short table on which the homestay family placed our food and where we sat cross-legged to eat. For breakfast, we enjoyed warm bread with homemade butter and jam, and we ate freshly caught fish from the lake for dinner. We felt really well taken care of, especially given that we were only paying two hundred and fifty som a night, and then another ninety som for meals. This three hundred and forty som per night came to about ten Canadian dollars apiece, which was about the average price we paid for food and lodging in Kyrgyzstan.
Throughout that day, Bree ran out every so often to use the outhouse again. Once she returned, tear streaked and complaining. “Oh, it was awful.” Shivering with disgust, she continued, “I’d just finished puking, and then I saw all these worms wiggling down there. It was so nasty that I puked all over again.”
“Oh man,” I said. “I saw them, too. It was unbelievably gross!” I had actually been sick just a couple of days earlier, but I’d handled it completely differently than Bree had. I’d just quietly gotten up in the night and done what I needed to do. As I’d crept out the door, Mom instinctively woke up and asked sleepily, “Are you going to the bathroom?”
“Kind of. I don’t feel well.” I’d used the outhouse the first time, with its wooden planks and the same kind of worm infestation Bree was complaining about, but I only made that mistake once. I strategically chose isolated corners in the great outdoors from then on.
When I got back, Mom whispered, so as not to wake the others, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Did you throw up?”
“Yeah.”
“That quickly? You feel okay now?”
“Yeah.” And that was that. I was sick a couple more times, but I don’t think anyone but Mom ever knew. Clearly, it was something Bree and I’d both eaten, though Bree held it off for a couple of days longer than me. This was just one more example of how differently she and I handled stuff.
“I just have to ask. How could you not make it outside? The door was only five steps in front of you,” I said.
“I dunno. It just happened. My mouth opened and it all fell out.” Then, feeling as if she was being accused, she defended herself, “I didn’t do it on purpose. I hate puking. It’s the worst thing, ever!”
“Yeah, we couldn’t help but notice that,” Ammon said.
“I can’t breathe when it’s happening, and I’ll never be able to do it without crying.”
“Yeah, we heard that, too,” Ammon said. Thoroughly exasperated now, Bree threw her hands up and fell onto her back on our big cushy bed.
Later that afternoon, a shadow blocked the light at the doorway and we all turned to look. There was no warning knock before our hosts ducked inside first, followed closely by a man we didn’t recognize. Our hostess spoke not a word of English, but from her gestures, we determined that they’d called him over from another settlement to come check on Bree. There was no hiding her condition with that blanket this morning, let alone the racket she’d made all night.
Our hosts left us to it, after smiling at Bree and giving her a comforting pat on the back. The local shaman had probably been fetched from over the mountains on horseback. He knelt down next to the short table, wanting to understand Bree’s illness. This was only a minor sickness, but I wondered what would happen if we were seriously ill in such an isolated place where no one spoke English.
He asked some questions by gesturing. When he inquired if she had diarrhea, she turned to us questioningly, asking if that was indeed what he wanted to know before nodding, “Yes.” He promptly concocted a flower mixture from a bag of natural ingredients and told her to drink it three times a day. Bree tried it and thanked him as she swallowed deeply and forced a stiff smile. We all expressed our appreciation with many thanks and smiles. As soon as he ducked his head out to leave, Bree spat the rest of it out. “Yuck! This isn’t going to help. This is only going to make me throw up again. It’s disgusting.”
“Even worse than last night’s aftertaste?” I asked.
“It tas
tes like dandelions,” she said, glaring into the little cup before thrusting it our way. “Seriously, you have to try it. It’s like drinking strong dandelion stems mixed with this sulphury egg burp. It’s downright nasty.” She cringed, but she took a few more sips. Then she demonstrated what she felt like doing, and it looked a lot like last night. “I hope this is the only time I get sick on this trip.”
“Me, too!” the rest of us said in complete unison.
Bucking Bronco
13
“I can’t get this horse to go anywhere,” Ammon complained, kicking and swinging his legs wildly.
“Oh, I know what you mean. The one I had yesterday was impossible. I could hardly get him to cantaloupe.”
“Savannah, it’s cantering,” Ammon said.
“I know what it is, thanks. But I prefer to call it cantalouping.”
“Whatever,” he said, shaking his head, but I could tell he was amused nonetheless.
Yesterday had been a nightmare. I’d gotten a couple of good canters out of my puny horse until it refused to even walk fast. Mom and I were left behind as Ammon and Bree galloped along side by side, like warriors riding into battle. It was a beautiful, empowering sight. Our horses, on the other hand, must’ve looked like they were on a death march, dragging our really heavy coffins behind them.
Instead of persuading my horse to cooperate, my kicking and whooping transformed him into a bucking lunatic. Once he felt he’d been ridden enough, even the slightest nudge in his side would set him off. On one occasion, I was thrown right out of the saddle and onto his neck. At the end of the day, we’d sworn to send them straight to the glue factory. Now it was Ammon’s turn to try to ride a dud.
“Well, I don’t think I’m going to get this thing to go anywhere.” So far it had not moved an inch. It was seemingly cemented to the earth. “Here, Bree. Switch horses with me.”
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