In 2017, my girlfriend, Caroline, and I bought a 1990s ex-ambulance Mercedes-Benz 609D in Berlin. With only 40,000 kilometers on the clock, it was in great shape and ready for adventure. Despite our limited resources, we managed to convert it into our off-grid home under the sweltering southern Spain sun. Without a garage, we did the conversion on the street, much to the interest and amusement of our neighbors. Our loose plan was to overland from Europe to Central Asia, with the aim of reaching Mongolia. Little did we know that our pursuit of this vision would lead to six years of travel and transformation.
When we finally reached Kazakhstan after many months of meandering, we were running out of time to reach Mongolia before the brutal winter swept in. As our truck was too cold to live in, we rented a place in the southern region near Taraz. Nestled in the mountains at the border with Kyrgyzstan, it was an unused house in a very remote area controlled by military border police, with whom we made friends quickly. The border zone’s isolation meant that it was remarkably serene and untouched. It was the last house before the mountains that straddle Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, and the location teemed with wildlife. Occasionally, we glimpsed wolves wandering past the house, their presence a reminder of the wildness of our surroundings.
As we waited for the Siberian cold to pass so that we could continue our journey, news of the Covid-19 pandemic broke. Kazakhstan swiftly closed its borders, and with our visas running out, we decided to head to Kyrgyzstan. Soon after, the other borders around us started closing, too. With the route to Mongolia now blocked, we surrendered to the circumstances. We could have taken a flight back home, but we chose to stay where we were and weather the winter with the locals in their small villages. The high-elevation mountains, coupled with a sparse human population, revealed a dual microcosm to us of untouched nature alongside thriving nomadic traditions.
Embracing a Simpler Lifestyle
A young Kyrgyz man we’d become friends with invited us to stay on his family farm in the valley of Barskoon, and the kind gesture touched us. To say thank you, we helped out as much as we could and gained valuable insights into traditional farming practices and techniques exclusive to the region. As the months passed, we adapted to the simple way of life. Since the roads were blocked, we couldn’t go to the village or visit nearby Lake Issyk-Kul, so we started exploring the mountains toward the border with China in the Arabel’su area. Home to argalis, ibexes, golden eagles, Himalayan vultures, manuls, marmots, martens, and elusive snow leopards, the mountains became our refuge, providing us with the peace and support that only nature can offer.
We acquiesced to the fact that the land borders would not allow us to continue to Mongolia for the foreseeable future, but the situation allowed us the opportunity to explore Kyrgyzstan in much greater depth. For a long time, we were pretty much the only non-residents driving around the country, as the few overlanders who had been there had gone home.
We decided to spend the next winter in the Kyzart. We were fortunate to make friends with an amazing couple, Uzakbek and Asima, who had just finished constructing a wooden cabin on the edge of the little village facing the mountains; they offered it to us as a place to stay. Improvisations to our new home were made by installing a wood burner for warmth, moving the kitchen from our truck into the cabin, and even building an outdoor toilet, digging into the semi-frozen ground. The cabin measured a modest 5 x 4 meters, with the provision of an upper floor where we placed our bed.
Winter living conditions were extreme; morning temperatures dropped to -5℃ on the lower level inside the cabin, freezing everything left standing on the floor. Even the gas canister and its regulator needed heating up in the mornings before we could make a cup of tea. These challenging conditions persisted for many months as Kyzart is in one of the coldest regions in the country. On some nights, temperatures plummeted to a bone-chilling -35℃. The extreme cold had a striking impact on our surroundings: metal components in our truck’s interior compressed, and the paint would flake off at a mere touch. If your hands were wet, touching a metal surface outside, such as the door handle, could result in your hand sticking and freezing to it. Even pieces of rubber turned brittle and broke easily. Access to water posed a considerable challenge during the coldest days, as rivers were completely frozen, adding a layer of caution to our daily interactions with the elements. The locals could not understand why we chose to live in their village under such harsh conditions.
Resilience in Remote Lands
The notion of living as if it were a few hundred years ago was fascinating. I admired the sense of freedom in these environments, where life followed a more natural rhythm. At times, I could glimpse the moment when humanity might have steered itself in a different direction, remaining connected to the root of things rather than allowing the pursuit of progress to take its heavy toll on nature.
We often overlook the value of an unfettered lifestyle, mistaking it for poverty. On the contrary, I see abundance in the Tien-Shan regions—communities of people working hard together to provide a humble yet comfortable life for their families. In Kyrgyz culture, no one is left on the streets or to feel isolated. They care for their elders at home, offering the same services typically provided by social security, medical care, and retirement homes in industrialized countries. Traditions are the mainstays and key to success, and support is administered as a family team. Another example of this self-reliance is evident in the typical grocery shop, which mostly sells sweets, sugar, and pasta. There is minimal need for external sources; sustenance is primarily obtained from local goods. This lifestyle highlights the true meaning of community and self-sufficiency, independent from the system, and shows a richness beyond material wealth.
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We all have a different relationship with economic and social development and how much we derive our identity from the constructed reality that nations provide; being exposed to different life perspectives can sometimes alter our perceptions. Some people prefer the security and comfort of these structures. Others find it intriguing to explore what lies beyond, seeking experiences that resonate deeply with our core as human beings. During our time in Central Asia, one theme was recurrent: how much freedom were we willing to give up for a sense of security? IDs, passports, insurance, taxes, policing, bureaucracy, money—all these concepts come into question when you overland to remote landscapes where all those “essentials” are irrelevant. In our conversations with the few other travelers encountered during the long winters, this was a common subject: we would talk about the latitude found in places such as Kyrgyzstan that felt more untamed. Discussions often took place against stunning natural backdrops, with horses running wild and free across vast, open landscapes. Watching them never failed to evoke a sense of pure awe; it was a powerful image that resonated deeply. We had discovered the means of reconnecting with the most primal aspects of our human nature.
During the summer pasture months in the jailoo (pastures), the land comes alive. Nomadic tradition is a tight code of survival practices with a direct connection between what you do and what you get out of it. Everyday tasks are centered around fulfilling basic needs and keeping one’s animals healthy and safe to provide the necessary resources to pass the winter in isolation. Everything is straightforward, without complex diversions—a direct connection between what is consumed and its source. I became quite taken by the weathered appearance of objects here; everything has more texture, relaying a story of the items being used until they almost dissolve. Most items transcend their original purposes, finding new practical uses in an afterlife of reusability.
An iconic example is the yurt, or boz ui (gray house) in Kyrgyz, due to the color of the felt it’s made from (using sheep, goat, and yak wool). A yurt cannot be sold, and it is passed down from generation to generation, serving a family for many years. There is a strict method for setting up and living in it, which has been preserved over time, even though more modern materials and tools are available today.
In rural areas, the use of tractors and mechanical machinery is minimal, so the essentials are an ax and a spade. One spade is enough to work the ground and redirect water over vast expanses of land for agriculture, achieved by diverting a water channel using upside-down, piled-up chunks of earth and grass. I’ve often helped with these activities, and each time, I have been struck by the sheer strength required for such seemingly straightforward tasks.
The Snow Leopard
One day, while driving toward the Chinese border high in the Tien-Shan mountains, we arrived at our cherished spot beside a glacier-fed mountain river, the perfect place to spend the night. Suddenly, a snowstorm began, shrouding everything in a blanket of mottled white. Not wanting to get trapped in the storm, we hastily turned back in case the pass was becoming blocked behind us. At such an elevation (3,800 meters), the danger lies not only in the snow itself but also in the fierce winds that whip across the peaks and valleys, collecting drifts on the bends of the roads that can swiftly block access.
As we descended, a distant pack of yaks came into view, a typical sight that never ceased to enchant us. Then something extraordinary happened. Like a majestic apparition, a snow leopard leapt onto the road before us, perfectly cutting through the white landscape about 40 meters ahead. “Snow leopard, snow leopard,” I shouted frantically. Quickly, I pulled over and grabbed the binoculars as it crept up the rocky slopes beside the road as we watched, mesmerized. Then, a second miracle happened—it paused, turned, and looked directly at us.
Even just thinking about this moment gives me goosebumps. It was a fleeting visual exchange, frozen in time yet eternal. We were completely transfixed by seeing this elusive ghost of the mountains. Encountering the mythical creature was a moving and spiritual juncture that held a deeper meaning in our personal odyssey, seeming to occur not by chance but with real purpose and timing.
Our journey took another interesting turn when we joined the team at Baiboosun Nature Reserve. When searching for a place to stop, work, and do some repairs on our truck, we stumbled upon a yurt camp in the southern region of Lake Issyk-Kul and decided to stay for a while. One morning, as I was talking to Batu, the father of the family who runs the camp, he pointed to the beautiful peaks in the distance and told me he was the director of a community-based reserve up there. He then pulled out his phone and showed me incredible footage captured by their camera traps, installed to monitor the animals. Snow leopards and other endangered species were living peacefully in these idyllic landscapes. I fell in love with the project and promised to help them in some way.
Driven by our enthusiasm for having the chance to contribute to snow leopard conservation, we relocated to the director’s farm near the reserve. We had no formal invitation or approval other than a mutual understanding and a feeling of trust. The local NGO managing the project was surprised, as they had never hosted a volunteer before, and it was even rarer for someone to contact the rangers directly without involving the managers. Our decision to stay through the winter months surprised everyone.
The remarkable hospitality of the Kyrgyz people continued to amaze us. Batu and his family generously offered a modest room in a dwelling opposite theirs that was part of an old collective farm. We couldn’t have felt luckier being welcomed by the household, who adopted us as their own.
My first contribution to the reserve was to raise global awareness about snow leopard conservation. Because of my design background, I took on the challenge of documenting the activities within the reserve and created a website (baiboosun.com) to showcase their work. I joined the rangers in their daily activities and trekked with them to check the camera traps. It was an intensive crash course in resilience, teamwork, and believing that everything is possible.
Collecting the footage and data involved a high level of risk for the team, with some cameras positioned at elevations as high as 3,800 meters. The key was to remain focused on the trek, stay calm, and work together to avoid dangerous situations. As ex-hunters, they had an intrinsic understanding of the dynamics of the local wildlife and survival strategies. As a team, we depended on each other completely; there was no room for error. We left early in the morning and returned at sunset. If there was an issue while we were up in the mountains, no rescue teams were available, and we would need to wait until the next day for help. With winter temperatures plummeting to -40°C at night, spending a night outdoors would have been a death sentence.
Living alongside nomads for five years taught us invaluable lessons. Our world is undeniably extraordinary but is not tailored for everyone. Recognizing the beauty in nature is a quality that necessitates seeing beyond the fabricated stimuli created by humans—entertainment, fashion, design, art, and architecture—cultural and artificial human constructs that dominate our attention. People’s lack of spiritual connection with nature results in a disconnect that enables the exploitation of something that should be regarded as sacred, solely for the sake of economic growth.
The evolution of our journey, from embarking on a trip across Central Asia to adapting Kyrgyz ways as a lifestyle, taught us something very powerful. In a life overflowing with extraordinary occurrences, making time for oneself and allowing experiences to choose you instead of forcefully fitting them into your schedule allows for the exceptional to unfold. Many people have money and resources, but very few have the time and patience to explore what lies beyond the human context. When we took the time to discover what was hidden behind the noise, a whole new universe opened up to us. Here, wisdom is boundless and abstract, offering perspectives only nature can provide—a mirror for self-reflection and growth. Observing wildlife reveals a language of its own—a primal, essential tongue of existence. Though we may not grasp its words, we feel its meaning, akin to conversing with someone in a different language, where emotions bridge the gap; the crux lies in the profound and unspoken.
This world revealed opportunities for us to make unique contributions to wildlife conservation—contributions deeply entrenched in a spiritual choice that led us to the creation of Now for Wildlife. Our project is dedicated to endangered species in untouched corners of the globe. Combining overlanding with conservation allows us to connect deeply with the environments we work to protect, enabling us to travel to, stay, and also conduct research for extended periods of time. This ensures that our efforts have a deep impact and are aligned with the realities on the ground, whether volunteering or donating solar panels and construction tools to local rangers. Immersion has granted us deep insights into the realities of human-wildlife interactions in places like the Tien-Shan mountains and enriched our understanding of the intricate dynamics between local communities and nature. Overlanding has become our instrument for protecting the invisible, including the snow leopard.
For us, this is the essence of overlanding: embracing the unpredictability of forging a new direction that, in retrospect, feels both familiar and inevitable, as if no other route could have led us here. It’s as though, even in the beginning, we instinctively knew this was the right path for us.
Get Involved
Now for Wildlife believes in the power of spreading the word, sharing the message, and creating a ripple effect that can reach far and wide. Traditional donations are not encouraged because of the vast infrastructure in wildlife conservation already fueled by substantial grants. If you want to contribute, partnerships are welcome. Get in touch to make a real impact on wildlife. nowforwildlife.org
Editor’s Note: This article was originally published in Overland Journal’s Spring 2025 Issue.
Destinations :: Kyrgyzstan’s Karakol Region by Karin-Marijke Vis
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