Sep 7th 2007, The Economist

WE HAVE driven south, a long way, to the town of Jalabad (in Kyrgyzstan, not the one in Afghanistan). We could have made the distance shorter by taking a mountain pass, but the road there has deteriorated so much that drivers usually get drunk before they attempt it, says Polina, our translator. We take a long and sober route along the Bishkek-Osh highway, which has more great views. Looking out at the ragged mountains, I understand why we can't find Osama bin Laden. He's hiding somewhere like this.

At each village of any consequence we pass a newly built mosque, courtesy of the Saudi Arabian government. A kindness no doubt, but not once did I see anyone in or around these buildings. When I ask, the answer is always the same: save for the mosques in the bigger cities, nobody attends prayer in Kyrgyzstan.

I have heard stories about Kyrgyzstan's walnut groves, the world's largest. Now we are among them. I have also heard vague tales of the gunstock trade—that the best walnut from here is ending up on handmade guns in London. A fine gunstock blank can be worth ?1,000 or more, a huge amount of money in Kyrgyzstan. Is any of this money reaching the local economy?

I have a contact of sorts, the proprietor of a run-down resort located among walnut trees at the foothills of the Babash-Ata mountains. He is a powerfully-built Uzbek, gold teeth all the way across his uppers, square-jawed, baritone, a person of obvious status, and, I had been informed, a man of many contacts. Polina makes polite conversation, then eases into the topic of gunstock blanks. Can we see them cut and graded? The man stiffens, and crosses his arms. Difficult, he says.

I discover I am investigating an all-but-forbidden subject. A run on walnut burl for gunstocks and ornate boxes has led to a five-year ban on cutting trees. All walnut trees are the property of the state. Even windfalls must be brought into the forestry office. In practice this makes anything to do with walnut-processing clandestine.

Still, after a day of conversation, meals, exchanging gifts and drinking tea, my contact leads me to a woodworker named Mansur Zeeganshin. A handsome Tartar in his late thirties with an easy, informal manner, he is working on a lathe when we arrive. He steps out of his shop, his pullover covered in walnut shavings. No, he has no gunstock blanks—but his mirthful looks says there is more to this subject than meets my eye.

A former beekeeper, Mr Zeeganshin ventured into working with wood as a hobby. In a village where half the population is supported by remittances from Russia, he makes a comfortable living as an artist, sustaining a family of three children.

Unlike the shyrdak makers and tour guides who rely on exports and tourists to make money, Mr Zeeganshin caters to local demand, overwhelmed with orders for cutting-boards, cups, and plates. His clients favour the forbidden walnut. His raw material comes from "leftovers" stored away before the walnut-cutting prohibition. But he doesn't seem worried about running out.

I wish I could spend more time among these weavers, felters and woodworkers. But I am glad to have met them at all. They reflect Kyrgyzstan's complicated interior, human faces among the rocks and plains. They are, to borrow from Dylan Thomas, the "green fuse that drives the flower".

WE ARE going deeper into the country; we need a vehicle more durable than a taxi. My rug-buying friend hires a Mercedes van piloted by Victor, a stoic driver with a genius for passing on blind corners. We head towards Song Kul, a mountainous lake, where we are guests of Mairum Omurzakoba, a Kyrgyz artist instrumental in developing local tourism.

We meet Ms Omurzakoba, and wander up glacial valleys with streams the colour of jade. The road narrows into a series of switchbacks; the terrain becomes distinctly alpine. Grazing yaks take the place of hay and barley fields. Song-Kul is a destination visited by tourists and Kyrgyz alike, but they can't be encouraged by the road, which is a barely passable two-track.

When we reach Song-Kul, sea gulls swirl around the lake, yurts and canvas tents dot the plains. Snow-capped mountains rise from the south. There are horses everywhere. Some colts are tied to a picket line so their mothers can be milked to make kumis.

We all sleep in a single yurt. Our host sets out layers of carpets and piles of cotton and wool quilts. I burrow down in, eager for sleep. The last thing I remember is noting that the inside of a windowless yurt at night is very, very dark.

In the morning, pastoral sounds begin around four. Donkeys hee-haw and dogs bark. The smell of dung wafts through the air—both raw, and the sweet, dried dung, used to cook our breakfast. After we have eaten, Ms Omurzakoba talks about community-based tourism, which turns local villagers into innkeepers, their huts into rough B&Bs.

With the help of a Swiss NGO called Helvetas, Ms Omurzakoba started Shepherd's Life, a series of homes and yurts to accommodate travellers. In its first year, 1997, Shepherd's Life had 42 customers. Last year it had more than a thousand. Promotion came by word of mouth, and through an advertisement in a "Lonely Planet" guide.

Has there been any help from the government? Ms Omurzakoba chuckles at the thought. "Nyet. Nyet. Nyet. They only collect taxes."

But Shepherd's Life, she says, has been a cultural expander and economic multiplier. In the summer, host families buy food from local gardeners, hire drivers, contract horse handlers. They learn English, and the art of accommodating Westerners.

They also make connections. Recently Ms Omurzakoba was invited by Vista 360, a foundation dedicated to helping mountain communities face the 21st century, to the Santa Fe International Folk Art Market in New Mexico. She sold $26,000 worth of goods in two days—big money when she brought it back to her artists' cooperative.

WE head south for At-Bashy ("Horse's Head"), a village located where Kyrgyzstan starts to narrow between China to the east and the Fergana valley to the west. We are being driven in a 1991 Audi with 333,000 miles on the clock. Every used Audi in Europe must end up in Kyrgyzstan, to judge from the ease with which they can be found in even the most remote villages.

I'm still suffering jet lag, but I daren't fall asleep for fear of missing the view. The topographical relief here is heart-stopping. Around every bend lie dramatic peaks and lush valleys worthy of a national park.

Many of these valleys were arid before Soviet-era irrigation projects brought in water and turned the land into garden. Now it's harvest time here. Vendors line the roads, their stalls bright with fruits and vegetables. They also hawk kumis, a Kyrgyz national drink of fermented mare's milk, in pre-owned plastic bottles.

Calves with scours wander the roadside. Men and boys scythe hay, rake it by hand, and tied it in neat stacks. Once cured, it can be forked into a wagon drawn by horse or by sputtering Belarusian tractor.

We climb in elevation and pass some of the most overgrazed land I've ever seen. The hillsides, grazed as smooth as golf greens and marked by bare streaks of erosion, look as if they would wash away in heavy rain. I'm told that his is the best they've looked in a long time.

The road here goes from passable, to rough, to washboard gravel barely accommodating two-way traffic. There's been no maintenance since the Russians left. Long-haul trucks stuffed with Chinese goods barrel towards Bishkek. They often return empty except for scrap metal.

We end up at the home of Janyl-eje (the "eje" means aunt or elder sister), a master maker of shyrdaks, the brilliantly coloured felt rugs that define Kyrgyzstan's textiles. Of indeterminate age, but probably in her mid-70s, Janyl-eje wears a long, loose-fitting, colourful dress and a headscarf. She's expecting us, and has set up a table for tea, bread and jam. But rug negotiations come first.

As her rugs are laid out, Janyl-eje talks about her art. It barely survived the Soviet occupation, she says. But last year more than 100 buyers made a pilgrimage to buy rugs from her and from other women of the region. She was even invited to Sweden to hold a workshop on how to make felt rugs. This interest from the outside, combined with the poverty of rural Kyrgyzstan, means that locals now see shyrdaks as a source of serious income. Sixteen locals attended a rug-making workshop that Janyl-eje held in June—including two men!