Or, not wanting to appear ignorant they nod blankly, only to race home and pull out their dusty school atlas. An old atlas will be little help; this tiny republic was formed in 1991 when the former Soviet Union collapsed.

Unlike its resource rich and well-equipped neighbours Kazakstan and Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan was left out on a limb, undeveloped and with few assets. It has also encountered its fair share of ethnic tensions, being located on the border of China and strife torn Tajikstan and Afghanistan to the south.

To be honest, we wouldn't have known where Kyrgyzstan was if not for the pages of a glossy travel brochure. Spectacular mountain scenery and the idea of following the path of an ancient Silk Road appealed to us

Most tourists come to Kyrgyzstan to see stunning Tian Shan and Pamir Altay ranges that dominate this landscape. A whopping 94% of Kyrgyzstan is mountainous; three quarters of the nation remains permanently under snow and glaciers!

About 1000 years ago the Kyrgyz people started moving to these mountains, where they lived a peaceful nomadic lifestyle. The Russians arrived in about 1860, a lady telling us that when her people arrived, "We treated the Kyrgyz like monkeys, they had no real homes, no agriculture. We taught them to live in houses, we taught them to be civilised."

In the capital of Kyrgyzstan, Bishkek, the stark, harsh lines of grand Russian victory monuments are a bizarre testament to a system that failed. No one had the money to tear them down, and now weeds sprout freely from cracks. They are visited only by the odd tourist, and provide a gathering spot for teenagers, who swig on beers insolently, eyeing up and down foreigners.

The streets of Bishkek are like being in a time warp, long nose buses, 1940s trucks, and ancient Russian-made cars weave dangerously on disintegrating roads.

As part of the decaying transport system, there are no official taxis in Central Asia. In their place are people who are lucky enough to own cars. They drive around waiting for someone to wave them down, and you then negotiate on a price (no easy feat when you don't speak Russian or Kyrgyz!).

A half-hour after leaving Bishkek an acrid burning smell fills the cabin of our 'modern' bus. At the insistence of shouting passengers we grind to a halt! We exchange buses, and an hour or so later a slightly older, and definitely shabbier bus heads off for our destination eight hours away.

Yurts on Lake Song Kul, Kyrgzstan

Trekking on a glacier near Lake Issyk Kul, Karakol, Kyrgyzstan

While the Kyrgyz are an Islamic people it is said that they only adopted as much of the religion as they could fit in their saddlebags. Abstinence of alcohol didn't fit, and excessive consumption is one of many Russian leftovers.

Bottle after bottle of vodka was finished and left to roll up and down under the seats as we rounded tight corners on our ascent of a mountain range. Belching dark smoke, our bus painfully crawls up through the rugged mountains into the high altitudes where the landscape is a dull umber brown, and the scenery breathtaking.

Breathing heavy fumes of vodka, one of our fellow passengers finds in the recesses of his mind English learnt long ago. A Kyrgyz, he was educated in Russia as an engineer. He speaks without malice, but despite his education, he laments the state of his nation, for there is no money, and no work.

We skirt the shores of sparkling blue Lake Issyk-Kul, the second highest lake in the world. Shimmering, it blends into the snowcapped mountains on the opposite shore so that it is hard to know where the mountains end, and the clouds start.

Villages pass by, full of gingerbread houses and European trees turning colour in a blaze of glory. We slow as sheep graze across the road or the bus waits patiently as barefoot boys herd cattle home in the long shadows of late afternoon.

Night falls, and the bus windows opened during the stifling day are stuck, letting in a freezing stream of alpine wind straight from the mountains.

The bus grinds to a halt in the darkness. There is a mob scene outside as people push and shove to get on the bus. It fills up, three a seat, as people keep piling on, carrying buckets and sacks of potatoes. Dirty, colourfully scarved women come together like a concertina, till there are at least forty or more squeezed in the aisle.

Illuminated in the moonlight villages of whitewashed houses pass by and we smile in relief at the sight of lights in the distance. Finally, perhaps this is our destination, Karakol, the 6th largest city in Kyrgyzstan.

We stop, beside a poorly lit shop in a town that slightly larger than others we have passed through. Outside, drunks stagger, and the potato pickers clamber off the bus, hurrying away into the shadows.

We have no idea where we are, but driver gestures us to get off the bus and from the eerie darkness several men caps are pulled low, and their threadbare jackets pulled around them, approach us slyly, "taxi?"

We take a deep breath, and begin to bargain. It's then that the full force of the situation in Kyrgyzstan hits you like the icy wind that is howling around our ears.

These people are angry - since independence the structure in their lives has been removed and replaced with freedom of speech; a homeland for the Kyrgyz people. But this doesn't put food on the table, and it is as if they hold the western foreign tourist to blame.

A fare settled upon, we clamber into the old car and shiver as the holes in the floor let the cold in. With only one headlight, negotiating around the huge, deep potholes on the streets is arduous, but we finally make it to our hostel.

It's surprising we remember Kyrgyzstan so fondly considering the bleak desperation we felt at the time! It's a place of ashen, dingy hopelessness just as it is a place of inordinate, extravagant beauty.

Copyright Ariana Svenson, 2005 - Comments and enquiries, please email us.