When the Aussie’s and I were dropped off on the side of the road in Manjili, a town that consisted of two yurts, lots of mountains and a graveyard, the storm was already approaching. Big, grey clouds began closing in on us as we hurried to the location of the yurts…..actually, yurt (singular). When we arrived the family running the tourist camp had only constructed one of them and it was inhabited by two Dutch couples. They were cozily waiting for the storm to come and pass from the warm, felt insides of their circular lodge while Rachel, Owen and I were left shivering outside with a few red yurt sticks, a shrug and a smile of gold teeth from the owner, and two women furiously stitching up the cover to our home. As the storm inched nearer and nearer, we sprang into action like a true Kyrgyz by helping with the construction of our yurt. It was completed just as the first drops began to fall.
Once the storm had somewhat cleared, Rachel and I took a walk to the cemetery, which lay on foothills and was filled with intriguing burial mounds and photos of its members. We began talking about people we have known who have passed, my parents among them, and when we turned the corner and looked to the sky, we saw two incredible rainbows, one which was in a perfect, glowing arch and the other which stood proudly behind the first. As we sat watching their beauty, I quietly smiled, knowing that I had just witnessed another moment of magic along the trail.
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