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The Kids of Sary Tash

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It took us two days to arrive in China from Kyrgyzstan. We partnered up with three other people: two Finnish travelers from a very small town in southeastern Finland, and Mr. Pilkington, an elderly gentleman who was a dead ringer for John Malkovich. While the Finnish boys hardly said a word the entire time, Mr. Pilkington was fabulously excited, exclaiming endlessly about how wonderful and marvelous every little bit of our experience was. Our trip began when we left Osh around noon, then arrived in a small town named Sary Tash, a very bleak little village in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan (3000 meters high and freezing) mostly dedicated to passersby and locals tending sheep and cows. We stayed with a family in their house; they fed us bowls of soup, cups of endless tea and we all slept in a little room with many layers of quilts and blankets as there was no heating. There were little children in the house, and they took a great liking to my husband, danced around him, played with him and posed for photographs in very bright clothes that were in distinct contrast with the cloudy, white landscape of the mountains. This is how I remember them: full of life, wild and vivacious. Which is exactly how I would describe the people of Krygyzstan.

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