CHOLPON ALTA, Kyrgyzstan — Where Nomadic Spirit Meets Chaos
Arrival: Marmots, Yurts, and a Very Suspicious Welcome Drink
The road to Chopan Ultra felt like a scene from Lord of the Rings if Gandalf drove a Soviet-era van. My marshrutka (minibus) from Bishkek rattled past emerald valleys dotted with grazing horses and marmots that popped up like furry prairie dogs. Twelve hours later, I stumbled into a sea of yurts, the air thick with the smell of sizzling shashlik (kebabs) and something… fermented.
That’s when Aibek found me. A Kyrgyz horseman with a handlebar mustache and a grin wider than the Tien Shan Mountains, he thrust a bowl of kymyz (fermented mare’s milk) into my hands. “For courage!” he declared. It tasted like fizzy barnyard. I chugged it anyway.
By sunset, I was adopted by Aibek’s family, sleeping in their yurt under a blanket woven with sheep’s wool and centuries of tradition.
Day 1: The Games Begin (And So Did My Existential Crisis)
The World Nomad Games aren’t a sporting event—they’re a time machine. Forget TikTok trends; here, the “viral” attractions include:
Kok-Boru: Imagine rugby played on horseback… with a headless goat carcass. Brutal? Yes. Mesmerizing? Absolutely. I watched a rider dangle upside mid-gallop to snatch the “ball.” My contribution? Yelling “JUST KICK IT!” in English. They did not.
Eagle Hunting: Golden eagles with wingspans wider than my Airbnb perched on leather-clad arms. A 14-year-old girl named Aisuluu let me hold her eagle’s leash. It weighed more than my backpack. “She likes foreigners,” Aisuluu lied, as the eagle side-eyed me like I owed it money.
Togyz Kumalaak: A board game using sheep knuckles. I lost to a 7-year-old who smirked as I accidentally swallowed a piece.
But the real showstopper? Horseback archery. Warriors in embroidered robes galloped past, firing arrows at targets with the grace of ballet dancers. Inspired, I joined a “beginner’s workshop.” My horse, Bakdoolan (“Storm Cloud”), interpreted “trot” as “charge.” My arrow missed the target, took out a vendor’s kymyz jug, and earned me a nickname: The Disaster Tourist.
Day 2: Indoors, Outsmarted, and Overdosing on Kumyz
The indoor arena was a symphony of grunts and thwacks. I watched Alysh wrestling, where opponents grip each other’s belts like lifelines, and Kuresh, a Tatar martial art that looked like a mix of judo and a sibling rivalry.
Then came mas-wrestling—a Siberian sport where two people tug a stick over a log. A beefy Kazakh man waved me over. “Tourist try!” he barked. I lasted 1.2 seconds before face-planting into the sawdust. The crowd roared. Aibek’s grandma filmed it on her Nokia.
By night, the games transformed. Bonfires lit the valley, throat singers harmonized with wolves, and I found myself in a yurt with a shaman who read my fortune in sheep bones. “You will ride many horses,” he intoned. “And lose many times.” Accurate.
The Great Kymyz Incident (Or: How I Became a Legend)
On my final day, I made a critical error: I accepted a “friendship cup” of kymyz from a grinning herder. Six cups later, I was:
Arm-wrestling a Mongolian wrestler (I lost).
Attempting to throat-sing (I sounded like a dying seal).
Promising to marry Aibek’s cousin (Aibek still texts me weekly).
The night ended with a bonfire dance-off. Picture this: a Canadian backpacker, a Kazakh eagle hunter, and a Kyrgyz grandma twerking to folk music. The nomads have moves.
Leaving Chopan Ultra: Felts, Feasts, and Farewells
Aibek’s family gifted me a hand-stitched felt hat and a jar of honey “to sweeten your next disaster.” As I boarded the marshrutka, Aibek yelled, “Come back! We find you gentler horse!”
Jokes on him—my next stop is Caracol, Belize, where I’ll swap horseback archery for jungle trekking and kymyz for rum. (Spoiler: Howler monkeys are less judgmental than eagles.)
Nomad Tips for Surviving the World Nomad Games:
Embrace the Chaos: Say “yes” to everything—even the suspicious drinks.
Wear Stretchy Pants: You’ll eat lamb, lamb, and more lamb.
Rent a Slow Horse: Trust me.
Befriend Grandmas: They’ll feed you, laugh at you, and save you from yourself.
Final Thought:The World Nomad Games aren’t about winning. They’re about dusty boots, kymyz-induced courage, and realizing that “nomad” isn’t a lifestyle—it’s a heartbeat. And hey, if I can survive a Kyrgyz wedding dance, you can survive anything.
Next Up: Caracol Chronicles: How I Got Lost in a Jungle Chasing a Toucan (Spoiler: It Wasn’t Worth It).
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