Amongst Afghanistan's numerous ethnic groups are a small number of Kyrgyz herders who purportedly fled Stalin's purges in the early 20th century and became trapped in the Wakhan Corridor once international borders closed. Fewer than 1400 of these nomads remain, eking out an existence with their flocks in the remotest mountain valleys.
Bozai Gumbaz is the furthest point on our trek. It is a Kyrgyz yurt settlement and as far from civilisation as I have ever been. The wind whips icily around the felt yurts as I sit shivering in the last few rays of sunlight. Within a few days the Kyrgyz themselves will have left the mountains, retreating to lower ground during the bitterly cold winter months.
Our shelter tonight is a traditional felt bozui or yurt. We were initially offered room in a brand new plastic yurt but had to decline - it had the insulating properties of a bin bag. Felt is much warmer and the natural oils in the wool make it largely waterproof.
We were shown instead to what normally serves as a storage yurt. There is a dirt floor, partially covered with a plastic tarpaulin. Light enters the yurt through an open cartwheel in the roof known, as in Kyrgyzstan, as a tunduk. This hole also lets out smoke from the fire. Three breeze blocks hold in place dried yak dung cakes and a coarse, fragrant bush whilst they burn. The dung is surprisingly odourless and the small amount of smoke is a small price to pay for the warmth.
Bozai Gumbaz is the furthest point on our trek. It is a Kyrgyz yurt settlement and as far from civilisation as I have ever been. The wind whips icily around the felt yurts as I sit shivering in the last few rays of sunlight. Within a few days the Kyrgyz themselves will have left the mountains, retreating to lower ground during the bitterly cold winter months.
Our shelter tonight is a traditional felt bozui or yurt. We were initially offered room in a brand new plastic yurt but had to decline - it had the insulating properties of a bin bag. Felt is much warmer and the natural oils in the wool make it largely waterproof.
We were shown instead to what normally serves as a storage yurt. There is a dirt floor, partially covered with a plastic tarpaulin. Light enters the yurt through an open cartwheel in the roof known, as in Kyrgyzstan, as a tunduk. This hole also lets out smoke from the fire. Three breeze blocks hold in place dried yak dung cakes and a coarse, fragrant bush whilst they burn. The dung is surprisingly odourless and the small amount of smoke is a small price to pay for the warmth.
*****
Building and maintaining a smoke-free yurt is an art form and, sadly, not a skill that I have acquired. Once our army of small boys had satisfied their curiosity and departed for bed, we were left to our own devices. Within fifteen minutes we may as well have been sitting inside a bonfire, only without the advantage of being toasty warm. The heat managed to escape through the tunduk and also through the now-evident holes in the wall and roof. Thick, slightly acrid smoke lingered in the air, burning our eyes and catching in our throats. We buried down in our sleeping bags, scarves across our faces, to spend a cold and not very restful night in the yurt.
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