Karakol Black Hands On Issyk Kul ( Timelapse)
When I arrived in Karakol, I got a bunk in an eightbed room. I was by myself, the only two other guests in the hostel were from Switzerland and Uzbekistan. Over the next few days, I made noodles that tasted like crap, I made vareniki that tasted a bit better, and finally I made pelmeni that tasted okay. I drank huge amounts of kvass. When I went out, I found out that Karakol felt a bit like Kansas: wide avenues, singlestoreyed houses with fences in front of them, crumbling plaster here and there and some
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