By Katrijn Geerts
Sometimes life doesn’t need a plan – just a dart and a little chaos.
I still remember standing in my living room, staring at a dusty thrift-store globe I’d had for years. On impulse, I picked up a dart, closed my eyes, threw it, and promised myself I’d travel wherever it landed.
It hit Kyrgystan.
I had to google where that even was.
Arrival in Bishkek: Zero Planning, Maximum Confidence
A few days later, I stepped off a plane in Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgystan, with a backpack suitable for quick picnic, not an adventure. No itinerary. No expectations. Just reckless optimism.
I rented a mountain bike – one with brakes that squeaked like they were filing a complaint – and spent my first night in a tiny guesthouse where the walls were so thin I could hear the neighbors thinking.
The next morning, a wild idea took shape:
I was going to cycle into the mountains.
There was only one problem: I had no idea how to get tot hem.
A stranger, a Rusty Bus, and the Power of Gestures
Then I saw him – an older man with a weathered face and a rusty bus that looked like it retired in the 90s but was still forced to work part-time.
He didn’t speak a word of English. I didn’t speak a word of Kyrgyz. But with ridiculous gestures, questionable drawings, and facial expressions worthy of bad theatre, I somehow asked hi mto drie me into the mountains.
He stared.
He laughed.
Then he nodded.
One hour later, I was in his bus, my bike tied with a suspicious rope I’m still nog convinced would survive a strong breeze.
When he finally dropped me off, I realized something:
I was leterally in the middle of nowhere.
And so my six-day ride began.
Six Days in the Mountains – With Nothing but a Paper Map
Let me be clear: I was not prepered.
No rain Jacket
No warm clothes
Not enough food
Barely any water
No proper route
Just a paper map that refused to fold back the way it came
But somehow, curiosity was stronger than common sense.
The mountains were enormous, silent, and wild. Sometimes I cried because the path was steep. Sometimes because my saddle felt like torture equipment. And sometimes because the landscape was so beautiful it hurt.
Saved by Kyrgys Nomads
Despite being alone, I was never truly alone.
Every now and then, I encountered nomadic families living the same way their ancestors had for centuries.
They didn’t understand my language, and I didn’t understand theirs – but hospitality doesn’t need subtitles.
They shared kumis, fermented horse milk. The first sip tasted like cultural shock in liquid form, but I drank it with enthusiasm.
They slaughtered a goat. They handed me thick blankets.
They let me help milk cows – chich, by the way, is much harder than it looks.
And just when I thought I couldn’t be surprised anymore, someone handed me homemade alcohol.
It tasted like paint thinner, fire, and regret – but we all laughed, and in that moment, I felt strangely at home.
Cold Nights, Golden Mornings
The nights were freezing. I questioned my choices more than once.
But the mornings?
Unforgetteble.
Golden light rolling across endless mountains, silence so deep it felt sacred, and a sense of freedom I’d never exprienced before.
The End of the Ride – and a Beginning of Something Else
After six days, dusty, exhousted, and wildly proud, I returned to civilization.
I had left with nothing but a dart’s decision and a stubborn desire to explore.
I returned with stories, bruises, friendships made without words – and a new piece of myself.
Would I do it again?
Absolutely.
Would I prepare a little better next time?
… Probably.
This article is part of the practical work carried out by students on the Master’s Degree in Travel Journalism at the School of Travel Journalism.