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It was right before sunrise that we reached the Son Kul. Nobody at the hostel had truly believed me back in Osh when I enlisted them for a two days drive headed to a phantom festival at the heart of the Kyrgyz plateau. It still took a while for the yurtas to wake up, as finally two women started tracing the sunpath with flags. A few men smoking pipes nearby; neighborhood coming at a slow pace, joining in; a poor black sheep at the end of her happier days.
The Son Kul lake is a magic, rather unapproachable place on a 3.000 meters plateau, home to the nomadic summer season for Kyrgyz herders. People may even live miles away from each other, yet no one needs the Facebook to know what's going on: they will know it from the next horseman passing by their yurt, he will stop for a tea and will be back for the end of the season, to follow the festival. He was born to be wild, nomad and free, which is something we all do have inside, but we have forgetten how it feels.