Arstanbek and his family
On a bright morning I set out to hitchhike from Kyrgyzstan to Kazakhstan. Little did I know, the road ahead would be far more challenging than any map could predict. My aimed ‘highway’ appeared to be a desolated dirt road with at leat 12km to the next crossroad. I’m still not sure if I was deceived by my map or my own delusion, but turning around (and therefore failing) wasn’t part of my plan. After two hours and a steep climb, I found myself on higher pastures.
As I passed a small house, I saw three people struggling to set up a yurt. I gestured to offer help, and they quickly accepted. Within moments, I was holding two ropes, helping pull the covering over the frame while the family scrambled around to make it fit. It took the four of us another good ten minutes to get the yurt fully covered and tied.
As I was about to wave goodbye, they insisted I stay for lunch as a thank you for my help. I stepped into their self-built, two-room home, which appeared to be mostly made of particleboard and foam. I initially assumed it was just a seasonal outpost, but I soon realised that this might be all the family had. The first room was a storage space with a sink. The second room served as their living, dining, and sleeping area, furnished with a wood stove and an abundance of blankets, and Kyrgyz futons. A young child slept soundly on one of the futons in the corner.
As I was about to wave goodbye, they insisted I stay for lunch as a thank you for my help. I stepped into their self-built, two-room home, which appeared to be mostly made of particleboard and foam. I initially assumed it was just a seasonal outpost, but I soon realised that this might be all the family had. The first room was a storage space with a sink. The second room served as their living, dining, and sleeping area, furnished with a wood stove and an abundance of blankets, and Kyrgyz futons. A young child slept soundly on one of the futons in the corner.
Despite their limited supplies, they urged me to try everything—bread with homemade jam, fresh yogurt, and more. Even without a language barrier, I’m not sure I would have understood everything they fed me. One of the few things they didn’t produce themselves was the sugar that was scooped extensively in every cup of tea by the father.
Through broken words I learned that the 17-year-old boy, Arstanbek, was not only their son but also the father of the baby sleeping in the corner. His young wife was working in a nearby village, leaving Arstanbek and his parents to care for the child.
That afternoon I stepped into an unknown world for a moment. A world of hard work, resilience and nomadic hospitality. Though the encounter was short, it left an impression I wouldn’t forget anytime soon.
