Rising out of the steppes, the rugged Tian Shan mountains form an icy backbone of Central Asia with
the highest peak located on the China-Kyrgyzstan border.
It was this border we wanted to cross.  This is simpler said than done, when the crossing, the Torugart Pass is not officially open to tourists.

Following old camel caravan trade routes of the Ancient Silk Road we visited Kyrgyzstan, part of the ex –USSR.  We wanted to cross from the great trading cities of Bukhara and Samarkand (located in Uzbekistan) to the one of the oldest, Kashgar, located in far Western china. 

With the most commonly known historical route now passing through areas of ethnic tension on the borders of Afghanistan and Tajikstan, we thought that it was best to follow a less recognized route – forged in the 2nd Century BCE.

The Torugart Pass lies in a remote region in the world, with unpredictable weather patterns.  Borders are open from 9 to 5 on weekdays, but only if the border guards feel like turning up to work!  And even if they are on duty, their mood is apparently important to the success of your crossing!

We organise a driver to meet the two of us in a high mountain village, from which we will pass through an isolated barren landscape on our two-day trip to the Torugart Pass.

Occasionally we pass by a yurt, or a derelict stone house, weathered by the harsh winters in this mountainous country. We slow as horsemen, rugged up against the cold, and wearing the national hat, “ak kalpak”, herd sheep and cattle along the road.

Caught in unseasonable autumn snow, the Kyrgyz nomads hurry home from the ‘jailoo’ (summer pasture) where their cattle have grazed for months by the shores of  Lake Song Kol. The jewel of Kyrgyzstan’s lakes emerges before us, shimmering iridescent turquoise, embraced by huge snowcapped mountains.

We stand on the endless grasslands yellowed and dying from the first snow and are dwarfed by the immensity of the landscape, as is the lone horseman riding by.

After an overnight stay in the home of a welcoming Kyrgyz family the day dawns clear, bright sunshine highlighting the pure white snowcapped mountains, which engulf us from every side.   As we head southward toward the Kyrgyz-Chinese border, the tension in our vehicle is palpable.

A Russian lady who speaks English has joined us to assist with the crossing. Rumour had it that situations could get sticky, and it’s best to have someone who can communicate with the border guards!

We pass a checkpoint and enter a bleak restricted zone. Rounding a corner, we see four men walking towards us, carrying machine guns at the ready, poised across their bodies.   They wear dishevelled army green fatigues, which on close inspection aren’t even from the same army!

Our driver accelerates past the first solider on the road, only stopping at the shouts of the second who insistently waves us down.  The soldier eyes the three women in the car brazenly as he speaks in rapid, rough Kyrgyz with our driver. We sit nervously but motionless, as if we move they may take a dislike to us.

As the solider waves us on, our car is silent in fear and unspoken questions. Our guide turns to us “They say they are soldiers from the checkpoint, they are worried about security because of September 11th. (This was less than two weeks later).  Pale, she adds, “But I think that maybe they were bandits. There are many bad people out here.”

Our road is now running alongside a rusty barbed wire fence that was once electric – no one really knows now, and we weren’t going to test the theory! On the other side of the fence, in China, the mountains are solid ice, the sun’s harsh beams in the high clear air making them appear impenetrable.

It is freezing cold as we enter the Kyrgyzstan Immigration Station, a bare grey building filled with miserable looking men, women and children, swathed in clothes, and sitting on their luggage. A man staggers around, his eyes rolling back in his head, and people quickly carry him away.  He is suffering from altitude sickness, and they must get him out of the mountains to medical assistance as soon as possible.

Our papers processed and our vehicle searched, we pass into no mans land and a spectacular 7km drive upward through mountains of glittering ice and luminous snow.

Only the Chinese could construct a impressive arch in the middle of the mountains at an officially closed border crossing, but is somehow appropriate to the momentous feeling one has arriving at the border. We must now wait for onward Chinese transport to meet us up in this windswept place.  Often, it doesn’t arrive, meaning we would have to turn around and try again the next day.

Two and a half-hours later, a jeep pulls up, and the Chinese guards pick up their machine guns leaning against the wall and stroll over to the arch. Our Kyrgyz driver & guide literally hand us over, and then we are gone on a dirt track winding around the mountain.

At the first customs station, a group of babyface Chinese guards our backpacks. They disregard my novels that openly question the communist system but confiscate newspapers totally unrelated to China!

After jolting over corrugated dirt tracks for two hours we pull up at a brand new Chinese immigration station and are told the border staff are at a meeting. After a while we hear cheers in the distance, and the checkpoint guard admits that border officials are playing a basketball game!  An hour and a half later they amble in, their hair wet from the showers and some still wearing their sports shoes.

We have crossed the infamous Torugart Pass, and as we enter China the roads instantaneously become wide, well sealed, and full of trucks, buses and donkey carts as we head towards the great trading city of Kashgar. 

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