A weekend at Lake Issyk Kul

February 20, 2008

Last weekend my boss, Kendje, and her husband, Bayan took me, as well as K and A and H their host daughter to Lake Issyk Kul. It was an incredible trip.

If you look at any map of Kyrgyzstan, you will see a large lake in the north-eastern quadrant of the country. This is Lake Issyk Kul. At around 10:00 on Saturday morning, Kendje, Bayan, their daughter Aishyola, H, A, K and I loaded into the van and began the roughly four-hour long journey. We headed eastward along the same road we’d previously taken on our trip to Burana Tower, although obviously we continued on much farther this time. After about two hours, we stopped at the bank of the Chuy River at the base of the mountains for lunch. The weather was chilly, but the sky was a brilliant blue, and the land surrounding the river was spotless save for brilliant white snow. We dined on chicken, cheese and eggs while drinking hot tea and nursing shots of vodka, then we continued onward.

This is where we stopped for lunch.You can see our tire tracks to the right, where we drove down from the main road.

After lunch, our van began to wind its way up into the mountains. Soon we stopped at a monument on a brown hillside, overlooking the steep valley from which the Chuy River descended. The monument was to Kyrgyz people massacred by the Russians in 1916, as depicted on a moving relief.

This is the monument to the massacres of 1916 as seen from the highway.

After exploring the area surrounding the monument, we got back into the van and ascended even higher into the mountains. Near the top of the mountain pass we stopped again. At the side of the road was a natural mountain spring, considered sacred by the local people. Numerous prayer rags had been tied to surrounding trees, and nearly every car stopped, the passengers disembarking to drink, wash, and pray. The spring was guarded by a sad dog – one who had obviously given birth recently, although sadly it didn’t look as though she had been suckled in a while – who sat patiently, awaiting hand outs.

A passerby washes and prays in the sacred spring

After leaving the spring, we began our descent out of the mountains, toward the lakeside village of Balykchy, the western-most village on the shores of Lake Issyk Kul. Issyk Kul translates to “hot lake” although the waters were certainly not hot; at Balykchy, the lake was actually frozen. Apparently, this is the first time in recorded history that so much of the lake has frozen, on account of this also being the coldest winter in recorded history. How is it that a native southerner like myself managed to land in Russia during their coldest winter in decades, and then repeated the process here in Central Asia? Sigh. Anyway, this part of the trip reminded me a lot of my trip to Siberia’s Lake Baikal, as we all walked out onto to ice.

Our first view of the frozen part of Issyk Kul at Balykchy

K dances on the ice at Balykchy

When we left Balykchy, we all needed to use the bathroom. Unfortunately, while the lake is a popular tourist destination in summer, there were no facilities available for us to use at this time of year. Now, I’m not opposed to going au naturale, but the area was quite devoid of trees big enough to squat behind. So, we got back in the van and continued off along the southern shore of the lake in search of a nice place for a pit stop. The further eastward we drove, the narrower the road became. Additionally, obstacles such as cows, sheep and horses became much more common!

Highway obstacles: sheep, cows and horses

Soon we arrived at a spot with decent enough ground cover for a pit-stop, which also happened to have excellent scenery:

I loved this view of the cows with the tree and the lake in the background.

After relieving ourselves, we once more packed into the van and drove even further eastward. We arrived at a fairly new monument commemorating (I think...) Manas, the national hero of Kyrgyzstan.

Possible monument to Manas

Next to the monument to Manas was a traditional Kyrgyz Islamic cemetery. Now, I *love* cemeteries in general, and the cemeteries here are particularly fascinating to me simply because they are so very different from cemeteries back home. Just take a look:

Many of the graves were covered with yurt-shaped monuments.

After exploring the cemetery, we backtracked about a kilometer or so to our final destination: the small village of Karakoo. (It’s pronounced Kara-koh, and is not to be confused with the city Karakol on the eastern edge of Issyk Kul.) Karakoo is the city where Bayan was born, and we stayed in the house of his 85 year old mother, his younger brother and his family.

This shot was taken from the rear of the property near the outhouse (a pit squatter, of course). The house is on the left, with barns and sheds on the right.

The time we spent at their home was simply fantastic. We ate nearly continuously, from a sumptuous table laden with delicious Kyrgyz dishes.

Yum!

After our main course, Aishyola (Kendje’s daughter) and her Karakoo cousins performed what I can only describe as a variety show for us: singing, dancing and theater, complete with costumes. I have one photo below, but the photos really don’t do this event justice.

After the children were finished performing, it was time for everyone to sing. Singing is something that is definitely missing from American culture outside of religious gatherings, and that’s really too bad. The tradition (of this family at least) was to make a bowl of nasty water (containing hot red pepper, salt, oil, and table scraps) which would be passed from one person to another. When you’re handed the bowl, you’re given a choice: you must either sing, or you must drink the whole thing. Obviously, we all sang, although unfortunately none of us on the American half of the gathering was particularly skilled in this area. In addition, we had a hell of a hard time coming up with songs that were singable which we all knew. Meanwhile, not only could all of our Kyrgyz hosts sing well, but everyone of them joined in with nearly every Kyrgyz song..

After singing and chatting until around 10:00, we retired to our respective bedrooms for the night. In the morning, I explored the small farm where Bayan’s family lived. They raised sheep and chickens, so there were plenty around to photograph. They also own a dog named Rex who is super awesome and utterly adorable.

After breakfast, we piled back into the van again and drove southward from Karakoo. We arrived at a place with some special stones. Allegedly, the largest of these stones was once carried by the Kygyz hero Manas. Currently, it is tradition for local young men to attempt to lift as many of these stones as possible, beginning with the lightest and stopping with whichever one is too heavy for them to hoist. A successfully lifted three, and then we convinced him not to try any further, so as not to throw out his back or anything.

A proves his manhood. Meanwhile, the gigantic stone on the left is the one allegedly hefted by Manas.

Next to these special stones are the graves of forty martyrs, killed by the Russians in 1916. Apparently these forty men sent the rest of their village eastward through the valley, while they stayed behind to fight. They were surrounded and slaughtered, but the Russians didn’t pursue the remainder of the villagers. The view of the valley from the martyrs’ graves is spectacular.

The view from atop the hill where the graves of the forty martyrs lie.

Not far from the graves of the forty martyrs sit the ghost town-like remains of a kolkhoz, or collective farm, which was destroyed following the collapse of the Soviet Union. Today what remains of the farm is overrun by cows and sheep, herded by local shepherds.

Ghost town kolkhoz

The kolkhoz sits at the base of some small mountains (or large hills, depending), and from the top of these small hills one can see a splendid view of yet another valley. One of the small villages in this valley is where Kendje was born. She wanted to take us there, but unfortunately, the roads were too icy.

View from atop the "small mountain" behind the kolkhoz. China lies behind those mountains.

At the site of the former kolkhoz, we met a local man who rode up on a horse. He spoke with us for a while. It turned out that he knew both of Bayan’s parents, and had been a student of Bayan’s mother!

H, shepherd, A, me and K

After leaving the site of the kolkhoz, we drove back to the shore of Lake Issyk Kul. There I was able to ride a horse – just around a field, so not very far. This was the calmest (or perhaps laziest) horse I have ever ridden, and it took quite an effort to get him to even trot, although I did manage to pull that off. I think it would take an act of god to make the thing canter!

Me, riding the world's laziest horse

We walked along the shore of the beach, which was utterly breathtaking: sparkly blue water below a bright blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds. In the distance we could barely make out the mountains ringing the northern shore of the lake. A was the only one brave enough to venture into the lake itself. I stuck my fingers in and figured there was no way I was going to join him!

Oh, gorgeous Issyk-Kul!

A braves the frigid waters of the lake

After exploring the shore of Issyk Kul, we drove back to Karakoo for one last meal, then packed ourselves back into the van for the journey back to Bishkek. The weekend was simply wonderful: relaxing with great people while eating delicious food and enjoying beautiful scenery and breathing clean air... life doesn’t get much better.

My Secret Admirer

February 17, 2008

At The London School, in honor of Valentine’s Day, we had a mailbox downstairs for valentines. Today, when the admin staff were going through the few valentines deposited within, they found one for me: a letter written in both English and Russian. I’m quite skeptical of this epistle, as it is unsigned and as it reads rather like a segment of Evgeny Onegin. I’m half convinced it’s a translation of a modified version of either Tatiana’s letter to Evgeny or vice versa, but as it’s been a good seven years since I last read Evgeny Onegin it might very well not be. I’m also slightly concerned that it might be from that creepy twik guy; while his English is nowhere near this good, he could very well have had help. Or an electronic translator. But as it is unsigned, it will remain a mystery. Anyway, the English version, complete with grammar and spelling errors for authenticity is as follows:

I write to the most charming girl on this world... Ah, what happiness that have this holiday. For the first time seems to me, I understand huge value of this holiday, because knowing that you beside I quail and can’t approach, and contrary to common sense, seeing you, at me language is braided and I lose gift of speech. Singing this letter I feel really worry and I feed hope, what perhaps you heart accept, my dreams devoid reason, perhaps in you the spark of hope for me (will small flame for me). But most likey to mine, unfortunately, having read, through will frown eyebrow and will throw my dreams in a garbage box, perhaps having read through indifference slightly only having raised spongos will smil. Only you such smil, from which since you here without mind. Annie, you are most charming, Annie you are most beautiful, Annie you are most attractive...

Valentine’s Day Musings

February 17, 2008

When I was 18 years old and in high school, I had what I considered to be a serious boyfriend. I was head over heels in love with this guy, and thought he was wonderful. It was pretty obvious to literally EVERYONE else that this was a bad idea, except for perhaps my one friend whom he managed to convince to become his surreptitious girlfriend. Yeah. He was a great catch. What were we thinking? She and I are both well rid of that asshole. (Er, no offense to him or any of his relatives who might very well be reading this.) Anyway, during my senior year of high school, when I was besotted with said asshole, two teachers (who were at the time former teachers of mine) took me aside on different occasions to tell me that my boyfriend was a bad apple and a bad influence, and advised me that perhaps I should consider finding someone different. At the time, I simply felt awkward and uncomfortable during those conversations, and of course, I thought they had no idea what they were talking about. Looking back, it is nice to think that they were able to see that I was in way over my head in a bad relationship and tried to help me out, instead of simply looking the other way.

I bring all this up because one of my students is reminding me a lot of my high school self these days. She is sixteen, incredibly smart, very motivated, and an excellent student – one of my best. And she is completely in love with her boyfriend. I can totally understand what she sees in him: he’s very attractive, and is sixteen as well, although he looks older. He’s incredibly smart and funny, and he’s got that bad-boy thing going on that so many girls fall for. To top it off, comes from a pretty well-off family, which in a country like Kyrgyzstan can definitely be added to the plus column when rating a potential suitor. Sounds like a great catch, huh? Well, he wears this shiny rhinestone belt-buckle, decorated with a marijuana leaf, and his dream is to go to Amsterdam to “smoke the ganja” as he says. He’s also a total punk in class – smart, but much more interested in showing off in front of everyone else, making lewd jokes and whatnot. Those are pretty typical teenage boy kind of behaviors, but... Today he came into class with a video on his cell phone which he and his friends had edited and set to music. The video was shot yesterday. It was a video of him and two friends beating the shit out of another boy. Granted, the other boy fought back (the student in question came to class with an obviously bruised and swollen jaw), but he was no match for three other boys in tandem. By the end of the video, the victim was on the ground while the three others (including my student) kicked and beat him repeatedly. This was the video that they’d taken the time to edit, set to music, and load onto their cell phones. Let’s just say it was incredibly disturbing. Plus he was proud of it. I did lecture him about his behavior, but he obviously took my admonishments as some kind of a joke. I’d love to take his girlfriend aside and suggest to her that he is a bad apple and a bad influence, and that perhaps she should consider finding someone different... but I know exactly how she would react.

Keeping you cats up to date

February 14, 2008

Well, not much of note has happened in the last week, I’m sad to say. I got the flu, and as a result didn’t teach my afternoon classes on Friday, and spent both Saturday and Sunday in bed feeling thoroughly miserable. Luckily, J lent me the entire first season of Monk on DVD, so I had something to entertain me in my misery. Because I wasn’t able to teach my afternoon classes on Friday, I had to make them up on Wednesday, meaning that I didn’t have a mid-week free day to go stalking Chechens and/or Iraqis. Assuming that I am healthy, I *will* be having a bit of an adventure this weekend, however. Kendje (my boss) will be taking me, A and K to Lake Issyk-Kul (the largest lake in Kyrgyzstan) for the weekend. Granted, it’s not exactly lake-going weather, what with it still being frigid and all, but it should be an adventure nonetheless. I just hope I’m done coughing and sneezing by then! And, of course, I’ll tell you all about it as soon as I get back. Or perhaps on Monday. Or whenever the internet café has electricity. In the mean time, occupy yourself by scrolling down and reading the next two NEW posts!

Studying Kyrgyz

February 14, 2008

Friday was our first day of Kyrgyz lessons. A group of 6 or so of us have decided to start studying Kyrgyz together once a week here at The London School. Unfortunately, on account of being out with the flu on Friday, I missed our inaugural class. I’ve been trying to catch up in preparation for this coming Friday. It doesn’t seem that I missed too much, and I hope I’m not deluding myself on this account. For those of you who are interested: Kyrgyz uses the Cyrillic alphabet (which I already know quite well), with the addition of three extra letters. One looks like a theta and sounds like the u in fur and church. One looks like a Cyrillic н with a tail, and it makes the ng sound. The other is a super-stiff looking y (as opposed to the relaxed looking Cyrillic у) and it makes a ew sound. (Sadly, even after installing what is allegedly “Kyrgyz Cyrillic” on my computer, I still don’t have those extra letters!) There are a lot of Russian to Kyrgyz cognates (ex: студент, ручка), although there are a couple that totally throw you off. Like мышык, which is Kyrgyz for cat, while мышь in Russian means mouse! Additionally, сабак is Kyrgyz for lesson, while the similar sounding Russian word собака means dog. It seems that the first lesson focused a lot on new vocabulary, and learning “Who is this?” “Who is that?” “What is this?” and “What is that?” so I think I won’t be too far behind the rest of the group. I’ll let you know though.

Colin Thubron Takes On Central Asia

February 14, 2008

I fell in love with Colin Thubron when I read In Siberia while living in Korea. He’s a travel writer who combines beautiful prose with a penchant for visiting obscure and exotic locales. He also holds a vast wealth of knowledge regarding the histories of his destinations, which he weaves in and out of his tales in a thoroughly engrossing manner. He travels without a camera (which frankly defies my comprehension) but his words are detailed enough to paint an intricate Shadow of the Silk Road which came out last year.

I read The Lost Heart of Asia first. In this book Thubron travels throughout Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kazakhstan and – of course – Kyrgyzstan. This was by far the most informative book on Central Asia that I have read so far, in addition to being entertaining and well penned. I was a little disappointed by the fact that he picture of all peoples and places in the reader’s mind. (Of course, Thubron is somewhat pretentious when it comes to his prose, and at times reading his works reminds one of studying for the verbal section of the GRE. I swear the man’s two favorite words are plangent and faience, and he uses them all the time. I don’t know about you, but I had to look those two up!) I brought two of Thubron’s books with me to Kyrgyzstan: The Lost Heart of Asia (published in 1994) and  spent by far the most time in Uzbekistan, and by the fact that he came to Kyrgyzstan at the very end of his journey, when his enthusiasm for extended travel was obviously winding down. However, I highly recommend this book to those interested in what life is like here Central Asia and/or the history thereof. Also, the fact that Thubron spent so much time in Uzbekistan meant that he penned pages upon tantalizing pages, which have left me itching to go there next.

One of the few places Thubron visited while gathering material for this book was Burana Tower, which, as you may remember, I visitedquite recently. Here is his description of the place:

In this solitude, close by the river, all that remained of the city of Balasagun was sinking into fields of horse-high grass. It had been founded in the tenth century by a wave of Karakhanid invaders, and had petered away with their empire.... It lay inscrutably in ruin. A rectangle of crushed ramparts traced itself in the grass, and a farmer was grazing his donkey among the thistles over a buried palace. Nearby rose the minaret of a vanished mosque. Earthquake had broken it in two, but the eighty foot stub, banded austerely in decorative brick, burgeoned from a huge octagonal plinth in a lonely manifestation of the city’s power.

For Shadow of the Silk Road, Thubron traveled the entire length of the former Silk Road between China and the West, and as such, two-thirds of the book focus on locales outside of Central Asia. Nonetheless, it too was thoroughly engrossing, and I highly recommend it. However, since the space of time which Thubron spent in Central Asia in this book was much less than the time spent in this region for The Lost Heart of Asia, it isn’t as detailed or informative. If you can only read one of the two and are looking for information specifically on Central Asia, I’d go with Lost Heart. But seriously, try to read them both.

Well That Sucked

February 11, 2008

Thursday morning I sent my mom an email saying that I was finally recovered from my rather long lasting cold. Thursday afternoon I was struck down by a swift moving and virulent Kyrgyz flu. I couldn't even teach on Friday, and spent all weekend in bed feeling like shit. At least today I feel human again. Not recovered, just human. Which is definitely an improvement.

Chechen Stalking and Сильный Секс

February 7, 2008

I.T. has befriended a Chechen woman who works at a small kiosk along Chui, the main drag downtown. Apparently she had been stopping there every day for various items, and the woman eventually struck up a conversation with her and invited her into the back part of the kiosk for tea. As they got to know one another, Ina learned that this woman (I'll call her Z) was acquainted with the president of the Kyrgyz Chechen Diaspora (I'll call him S). I.T. asked if perhaps it would be possible to meet with him, to interview him regarding the latest news out of Chechnya and his views on life here in the Central Asian diaspora of displaced Chechens. Z said that she would try to set up a meeting. I.T. thought I should come along too, claiming that my Russian was better than hers; it’s not – although that certainly wouldn’t deter me from tagging along on this interview!

Anyhow, during the course of their getting to know one another, Z asked I.T. if she had a boyfriend... and then, if she was a virgin. I.T’s answer to that question was the best I’ve ever heard: “No, I’m Norwegian.” She went on to explain that in Norway, as in many western countries, it’s normal for unmarried people to have had sex. Today, when I.T. and I popped by to see if a meeting with the mysterious S would be possible, was the first time Z had seen I.T. since the are-you-a-virgin conversation. She seemed very excited to see us.

She sat us down in the back of her kiosk and turned to I.T. in excitement. “I’ve found just the man for you! He is Arabic, and he wants сильный секс!” Now, for those of you who don’t know Russian, сильный секс translates literally into “strong sex” and I suppose would best be translated as “great sex.” (Additionally, it has a superfabulous bit of alliteration going on, what with it being pronounced seelny sex and all.) She went on to tell us that this man was from Iraq but lives in Bishkek. He has two wives, although one is sick and the other doesn’t want to have sex on account of already having had six of this man’s children! Additionally, she stressed that he is very clean and a super religious Muslim, and that of course means that he prays five times a day and that he washes before each time he prays. She also told us that this fellow is 35 (I.T. is 21, by the way), and is a university professor who teaches English, French and Arabic. He also apparently is a karate instructor, wealthy, six feet tall, 200lbs and (according to this woman) super hot. He’s looking for a young, attractive, clean, intelligent woman (not Kyrgyz; he seems a bit of a racist and doesn’t like how Kyrgyz women look; one of his wives is Russian, the other, Arabic) with whom he can have сильный секс. Additionally, if he likes this woman and enjoys the сильный секс, he is totally willing to marry her and make her wife number three. Z was completely convinced that I.T. was the one to make his dreams come true. (She even was willing to bet I.T. $100US that the сильный секс would be good, and coming from a Chechen refugee kiosk worker, that’s some serious dough!) Anyway, it took I.T. a good 45 minutes to convince Z that she didn’t want to have сильный секс with this random Iraqi, attractive though he may be. At this point, Z turned to me and asked if I had any young, single friends (I being apparently too old and all) who might be interested in having сильный секс with the Iraqi.

I immediately thought of A, although not entirely seriously. After showing Z a photograph of A on my camera, she insisted that I call her and try to convince her to come down to the kiosk in order to arrange a meeting with this dude. Ahh, the hilarity which ensued. In the end none of us was willing to meet up with the Iraqi for сильный секс, but at least our time spent with Z was jolly and convivial. Of course, we never did meet the mysterious S, as it turned out that he had just left for Chechnya, where he will be for the next month.

Just Call me Madame Ambassador

February 5, 2008

Okay, don’t actually call me that. I did, however, have my first class at the American Embassy on Monday. Going into the Embassy compound is just like going onto a military base – something I’m very familiar with from my days as the long arm of the law. Of course, back then, my badge would get me in wherever I wanted to go, unescorted. It was an odd feeling to have my things searched and to then be given a bright red MUST BE ESCORTED badge. Amazing how things have changed in my life in just three years. The compound had such an overwhelming US government feel, even though I only spoke with one American, and that was merely to say hello. So many buildings in the former Soviet Union are built of poured concrete, but the buildings of the embassy (at least in the part of the compound where I was) were made of standard US concrete blocks, covered in a thin veneer of bland paint, just like the innumerable government buildings I’ve been in during the course of my life. And it even SMELLED like a US government building: musty, vaguely mildewy, with a stale odor of coffee and that ubiquitous yet indefinable odor which makes one think good enough for government work.

Anyway, about my class: It’s a very low level class (still working on I am / he is / they are kind of stuff). I’d been told that they were very weak, so I’d prepared all sorts of activities to get them talking to one another in English, even if it was simply things like introducing themselves or their friends to each other. Unfortunately, while I’d expected three, possibly four, students, only one showed. He told me that one of the others was sick, and the other was considering dropping the class on account of not having liked the previous teacher. This meant I pretty much had to shelve all my interactive student-to-student activities, but I’d like to think the fellow got a lot out of his personal lesson. He’s the embassy’s plumber. We actually had a good chat (in both English and Russian) about the crackheads stealing my copper pipes, and about how stealing pipes is common in Kyrgyzstan, although here the thieves are usually common criminals, not наркоманки (drug users).

Part of the lesson dealt with nationalities. You know: He is from Germany, he is German. She is from Spain, she is Spanish. That sort of thing. Well, you’d think that He is from Kyrgyzstan, he is Kyrgyz would be a perfectly legitimate thing to say. However, nationalities in this part of the world are a wholly different concept from what we think of back home. I mean, I have grandparents who were born in Europe, but if you ask my nationality, I’ll tell you that I’m American, not Irish or Scottish or Italian or whatever. Perhaps it’s because everyone in the US is an international mutt that makes us all adopt “American” as our nationality; perhaps it isn’t merely the countries of the former USSR which have trouble handling this question. However, I do know that this particular concept is difficult for the entire land of Central Asia. My student and I had just gone over He is from Kazakhstan, he is Kazakh, She is from Uzbekistan, she is Uzbek, They are from Kyrgyzstan, they are Kyrgyz, and I asked him What is your nationality? His answer? I am Ukrainian. Apparently both his parents and all his known ancestors were born in Ukraine, although he was born in Bishkek (and, oddly looked more like an ethnic Kyrgyz than an ethnic Ukrainian or Russian). I didn’t press the issue or try to make him adopt the American point of view, that he is Kyrgyz, since ethnicity is still a big deal in this part of the world. Passports here have your ethnicity printed on them, and there’s definitely a division in the north between ethnic Russians and ethnic Kyrgyz. In the south, ethnic Uzbeks add tension to that mix – I believe the Uzbeks and the Kyrgyz massacred one another in Osh in the early 90s. And of course there are ethnic Uighars, Dungans, Chinese, Koreans, etc all floating around the country as well. Unlike the alleged melting pot of the US, where we all at least dress ourselves in the veneer of American nationality, these groups are far from ready to coalesce into something wholly and intrinsically Kyrgyz.

Burana Tower

February 3, 2008

On Saturday Kendje, my boss took me and A (the other new teacher) to Burana Tower with some of her friends and family. This is apparently something they do with all new teachers, and it was really a wonderful trip. The weather on Saturday was still warm, sunny and spring-like, with clear blue skies – excellent for photography.

We drove out of Bishkek around 11:00 in the morning, and began our trek eastward along what was once a branch of the Silk Road. Along the way, we drove through many small towns and villages. Every tiny town and village along the way had a brand new mosque, concrete, topped with a shiny steel cupola. We were told that these new mosques were constructed by Saudi Arabians, in an attempt to attract more Kyrgyz to the Muslim faith. Apparently, while the northern part of Kyrgyzstan is predominantly Muslim, they tend not to be overly serious about their faith. (Think about Christians you know go to church only on Christmas and Easter, but otherwise don’t think about it too much. The Islam of northern Kyrgyzstan is somewhat analogous.) In Bishkek, you see headscarves periodically, but they’re nowhere near as common as you might expect. Driving through these small villages on the way to Burana Tower, however, headscarves appeared to be substantially more common. We were also told that many of these mosques preach a fanatical Islam, espousing hatred of not only the West, but of all non-Muslims. I must admit that it made me think of the man in The Small Southern Town who invited me to attend a lecture on why the Bible says Muslims are evil. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, fanatics are everywhere.

We also learned that one of the small villages on the way to the city of Tokmok called Kant is home to a Russian air force base. This is especially interesting when you realize that the nearby village of Manas, home to the Bishkek airport, is also the location of an American air force base! (In fact, when you fly into Bishkek, the first thing you see – before you even see the buildings of the Manas Airport – is a long row of USAF fighter jets and transport planes.) I find it absolutely fascinating and rather mind boggling that here in Kyrgyzstan, not many kilometers from each other, sit both Russian and American air force bases. When I was asked why they were here, I was told the following: In 2000 (this was the date I was told, I haven’t confirmed it or anything) there were terrorist attacks in southern Kyrgyzstan. As a result, the Kyrgyz government invited the Russians and the Americans to set up bases on their territory to provide protection against terrorism. I’m not sure if this “protection” comes merely in the form of a deterrent, or if the Americans and/or Russians are actually involved in trying to root out terrorism here in Kyrgyzstan. I’ll have to try and find out more.

But moving on to Burana Tower... When we reached the city of Tokmok, we turned northward, and drove down a succession of narrow, winding roads until we reached the Burana Tower.

My first view of the tower...

Burana Tower, located about an hour east of Bishkek near the city of Tokmok, is all that remains of the ancient city of Balasagyn, once the thriving capital of the Karakhanid Empire. Apparently, at its height, the city manufactured exquisite glass and ceramics, had an elaborate city-wide irrigation/plumbing/sewer system built with fired-clay pipes, was home to scholars, poets and numerous religions (although in its later years it became a Muslim city), it was home to fierce warriors – male and female – and it was a major stop on one of the Silk Road routes (from the Torugart Pass out of China, past Lake Issyk-Kul through what is now Bishkek before heading further westward. Numerous spectacular archaeological finds have been uncovered at the site, although unfortunately, most were taken to museums in Russia during the time of the Soviet Union. The small museum which remains on the site houses only small fragments of artifacts, which are interesting, although somewhat depressing. Apparently, the entire site has yet to be excavated. There is a large hill, under which (supposedly) are the remains of an ancient mosque. However, there is no money for excavations.

When we arrived at the tower, our first item of business was to break out the food. We had a lovely picnic of hot tea, bread, pastries, cheese, sausage and hardboiled eggs. While we ate, a man rode by on a horse, and another drove past on a cart pulled by a donkey. In fact, while on our way to the tower, I saw many people using both such methods of transport.

By the time we were ready to explore the tower, a marshrutka stuffed with a group schoolboys on an excursion had arrived. While they all immediately ran to climb the tower, we explored the museum and the surrounding grounds.

This is how the tower appears today.

The grounds surrounding the tower are filled with balbals, stone monuments to fallen warriors of ages past, and to ancient gods and goddesses.

I have no official explanation for what it's, um, doing...

This one looks quite snooty...

...meanwhile this one looks all fat and happy!

One of the few monuments with ancient script

Burana Tower, as seen from across the balbal garden

The Burana Tower museum and caretaker's house

There is also a large collection of ancient heiroglyphs

This photo was taken from atop the hill under which allegedly rest the remains of an unexcavated ancient mosque

Finally, the school kids cleared out, and we took our turn climbing to the top of Burana Tower. (The tower itself served both as a military watch tower for the town of Belasagyn and as a minaret for a nearby mosque.)

From the base of the tower

The winding staircase inside the tower was incredibly narrow and steep. The only light which illuminated it came from the camera's flash - and my headlamp, which I brought at the advice of the students. It put me in mind of the endless stair that Frodo, Sam and Gollum must ascend to enter Mordor. Luckily, this emerged somewhere much more pleasant!

The view from the top was stunning!

A close-up of the distant Tien Shan mountains

More view, with cows grazing below

Me, atop Burana Tower.

We were lucky that we traveled to Burana when we did; today the skies are grey and dreary and winter seems to have returned.

Friday Night Chinese

February 3, 2008

By Friday, I was feeling mostly better, and was left merely with a sore throat, a voice like an old crone, and a hacking cough. Yes, this was an improvement. Friday night some of the teachers, J (an American studying Russian at the London School), I.T. and I met at a Chinese restaurant in downtown Bishkek (located roughly behind the circus). J used to live in China and apparently speaks fluent Chinese. He had been to this restaurant several times before, and had managed to befriend all the staff. I.T. arrived first and was told there would be no tables available for at least an hour (the place *was* packed), but then J sweet-talked the employees into essentially kicking some people out of a table and giving it to us! Also, I have no idea how much food actually costs at this place, because J apparently got us a huge discount. Six of us shared numerous incredibly delicious dishes and had two to three beers a piece, and the total came to around 1300 soms. For the massive amounts of food and drink we got, that was unbelievably cheap.

Anyhow, when we first entered this restaurant, they were playing Chorny Glaza at top volume. For those of you who have heard the phenomenon that is Chorny Glaza, you know how addictive and wonderful and happy it is. The dance floor was packed with mainly middle aged Kyrgyz dancing away. There was also a small child, probably about two years old, dancing with a ginormous cat. The cat was about as big as she was, and totally placid. The still photo doesn’t do it justice at all.

Additionally, we all got to take turns dancing with various people, most of whom were nice, but some of whom were sleazy and/or drunk. Sadly, one creepy dude kept dancing with me and I.T. (or trying to anyway) and seemed to think it was totally appropriate to stick his hand up the backs of our respective shirts. Boo! Also, I was asked to slow dance with this crazy middle aged Kyrgyz woman. Um, okay.

Next Month’s Schedule

February 3, 2008

Well, I’ve still got a pretty crappy schedule for next month – although I must admit that I quite like the extra $150 I received this month for having taught said crappy schedule. And I’ve pretty much gotten used to it. Being able to take a two to three hour nap between my morning and afternoon classes helps a lot. So yes, next month I still have my morning class. My afternoon schedule has altered somewhat, however. On Mondays and Thursdays I will now be teaching a class at the American Embassy! My students are Embassy employees, who are at the Elementary 1 level. I’ve told that it’s an incredibly weak class, and that I was chosen for it because I speak Russian. Cool. So on Mondays and Thursdays, my afternoon schedule is as follows:

2:30-3:50, Elementary 4

5:00-7:00, Elementary 1 at the Embassy

7:10-8:30, Pre-Intermediate 1

This is nice, since on Mondays and Thursdays I’ll have an additional break from 3:50-4:45 (when I leave for the Embassy). However, on Tuesdays and Fridays, my 2:30 and 7:10 classes will be the same, but I will be teaching Elementary 3 from 4:00-6:50. I’m not sure if that will be good or bad. Most of the students from that class should be students from this past month – if this is the case, it should be a good group. I’m just hoping that it doesn’t turn into nearly three hours of silent-as-death because my god, that would suck. (No class performance harm!)

Wednesday Warmth and the Whispering Club

February 3, 2008

A couple of my students have told me that the reason the power keeps going out is because of the severe cold this January. Supposedly, in addition to the sauna-like heat provided by the state-run heating system, people across Bishkek have been plugging in electric heaters to help alleviate the cold. They must not be receiving as much of the state heat as I am; I continually have to open my windows to cool my apartment down. (One senses inefficiency here...) This January has been exceedingly cold by Kyrgyzstan standards. I’ve been told that it’s the coldest January since 1984, and, alternately, the coldest in thirty years. (How is it I managed to land my southern self in Russia during the coldest winter in decades and then managed to do the same in K-stan?) Anyhow, if these electric heaters really are to blame for the frequent power outages in Bishkek, then we may very well have seen the last of them. Maybe. I awoke on Wednesday to blue skies, shining sun and melting snow. And unlike the previous and unbearably frigid Wednesday, I did not spend this glorious day out and about having adventures.

The view out my window on Wednesday

I awoke Wednesday morning utterly unable to utter a sound. For me, losing my voice is often the last stage of any illness, and sometimes my voice will remain absent for many days. I spent Wednesday morning and early afternoon in bed, feeling like hell while sipping mint tea with honey, and then got ready for work. No, we don’t teach classes on Wednesdays, but we do hold a weekly Talking Club late Wednesday afternoons. Teachers alternate as the host of Talking Club, and as such only have to work one Wednesday a month. I would be assigned to host Talking Club on the day I couldn’t talk. Oh, irony. Luckily, K (one of the other teachers here) was assigned to be my partner, so my whispery self wasn’t completely responsible for conducting Talking Club.

I wish I’d felt better – and had had a voice – as the three Talking Club groups were quite talkative. (You might assume this to be always the case, as it is a club for *talking* and all, but quite often we get students who come and just sit in silence.) The first group (pre-intermediate) didn’t like the chosen topic, and instead just wanted to chat. Since they actually were willing to chat (instead of needing to be guided by a specific topic), we let them. The most talkative ones in the group were my students, and they knew I was sick. They did me the favor of directing most of their questions and conversation towards K, so that I didn’t have to say much. The second group (intermediate) wanted to talk to me, however. This was fine... except that by the third group (advanced) I was feeling miserable, craving Nyquil and bed. The topic for the advanced group was marriage, including Kyrgyz marriage traditions (bride kidnapping, anyone?) and I would have loved to have taken an active part in that conversation. Instead it was just about all I could do to sit erect and look as though I were paying attention.

In sickness and embarrassment

January 27, 2008

I suppose that spending so many hours in subzero temperatures last Wednesday was not exactly the best thing for my body, which was still in the process of adapting to strange K-stan germs. I didn’t feel to great Thursday morning, and by Friday I was feeling miserable with a full blown cold. Saturday I actually felt a lot better, just incredibly tired and weak. I made it to the nearest internet café (the slow one, as I didn’t have the energy to walk all the way to the “fast” one) and then meandered across the street to Ramstor to restock my fridge. I’m usually quite good at knowing how much money I have and making sure that the cost of my purchases does not add up to more than I have in my wallet. Unfortunately, the illness that left me feeling completely weak and drained also left me feeling incredibly spacey. At the checkout, my total came to 100som shy of what I actually had in my wallet. I apologized profusely to the cashier, and fished out 100som worth of things that I figured I didn’t really need. She said she’d have to call her manager to get approval to have those items removed from my transaction. Whoops. I continued to apologize and felt like an absolute ass for making such a mistake... then the guy in line asked me (in English, although he was obviously Kyrgyz – I guess he could tell I wasn’t a native speaker!) how much money I needed. I told him it was ok, that they were going to remove two of my purchases and then I’d have enough. Again he asked me how much I needed. I told him 100som, which he promptly handed to me and insisted I take. Perhaps he was just a really nice guy. Perhaps he didn’t want to have to wait for the manager to show up to void out my purchases. Or perhaps the average Kyrgyz who shops at expensive places such as Ramstor doesn’t stress over the loss of the equivalent of $3 to some random air-headed foreign chick who probably looked a bit ill.

Ripped from the headlines

January 27, 2008

The above headlines all came from last week’s edition of The Times of Central Asia (free copies of it can be found at Fatboy’s, among other places), and seem to provide a little bit of background behind why we here in Bishkek suffered extensive blackouts nearly every day last week. Granted, this edition of the Times was published a good week before the Bishkek blackouts began, but obviously energy shortages – both gas and electric – are of big concern in the Stans these days.

We had all assumed that our Monday blackout was a fluke; however, by the end of the week we had all grown accustomed to teaching by candlelight, and my students had (mostly) stopped laughing at the absurd sight of me, teaching in my LED headlamp. One of my older students told me that the city of Bishkek is shutting off power to different grids of the city at different times each day, because the electronic generators are overworked. Rolling blackouts, I suppose. Not really what you’d expect from capital city of an allegedly developed country, but I guess the Californians weren’t expecting it back in 2002 either.

While other Stans are suffering from shortages of natural gas – and from the fact that Uzbekistan, which exports natural gas to the rest of the Stans recently upped its prices dramatically – Bishkek at least doesn’t seem to be suffering from gas shortages as of yet. So heat, hot water, and cooking-gas are still available in plenty. Meanwhile, I’m getting quite accustomed to doing things by candle and LED light!

In my kitchen, by candlelight,
wearing a headlamp and holding a cat.

Wednesday Weirdness

January 26, 2008

(I’ve been incommunicado for the past few days on account of the combination of sickness and power outages... But here’s my story of what happened this past Wednesday. I’ll try to update on the rest of the week when I feel better.)

We don’t teach classes on Wednesdays, and while I’ve spent the previous two Wednesdays busily engaged in lesson planning, I decided to actually *do* something with my mid-week break this time around.

I awoke promptly at 9am, not thanks to my alarm or my brilliant internal clock, but to the annoying chiming of my doorbell which whines a synthetic Beethoven at an obnoxious volume. After persistent ringing, I stumbled out of bed and peered through the peephole to find S., the school’s cleaning lady, with my freshly laundered clothes. (This is a service we have to pay for, but in my opinion, it’s well worth the money.) After she left, I managed to convince myself to go ahead and get dressed. The lure of the internet will do that.

After spending some quality time (not to mention soms) at the internet café, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and go buy a cell phone. The whole process was remarkably easy. (Additionally, I got to select my own number from a list of options. I ended up with 43-64-51 as my last six digits. Some people might note the significance of these numerical combinations, especially what with 6+4=10 and all. Yeah, old habits die hard.) It’s good to be vaguely wired again, even if it’s not via constant internet access.

A new teacher (he’s actually a student here on an internship, and will only be teaching for one month) arrived on Monday, so we decided to take him out for lunch to get to know him. We went to Fatboy’s (yes, I go there a lot, ok?) and hung out there for about an hour or so.

Before we left Fatboy’s, I.T. showed up. She and I decided to make our way to the Osh Bazaar to see what we could find. The journey there, in and of itself, is quite an adventure. Transport in the city of Bishkek consists mainly of marshrutki, or mini-buses. They are somewhere in between a mini-van and a regular van in size, so they are not very big. Additionally, they don’t seem to have any capacity limit outside of how many bodies can be crammed inside. When going to a popular destination – such as the Osh Bazaar – one should be prepared for conditions that make a tinned sardine’s life seem spacious.

The weather was absolutely frigid, and after wandering about the food section of the market for a while, we decided to take refuge in the one large, fancy(ish) indoor part of the bazaar. (For people who’ve been to Vladimir, Russia that section is like Dobryak was before they remodeled it and made it all fancy.) While inside, I managed to buy the most awesome woolen felt slippers ever for myself, as well as a pair of tiny slippers for M&A’s soon-to-be-baby. The proprietor of the stall where I purchased the slippers threw in a felt-covered papier-mache yurt for free – probably feeling guilty that I’d simply accepted his price offers without bargaining. I.T. and I also spent a long time chatting with a seller in one of the indoor stalls who used to be a Russian teacher. She invited us to come by on Sunday to meet her daughter, whom she claims speaks excellent English. I told her I would come, although as I am currently rather ill, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make it.

(M&A: I'll try and mail them soon, but given my hatred of post-Soviet post offices, I'm not sure how "soon" that will be!)

We left the cozy indoor part of the market and headed out to the clothing stalls. The people who run these places must be utterly miserable, spending all day outside in subzero temps with no heat whatsoever. While I.T. didn’t find what she’d come to the bazaar in search of – a dull yet warm sweater – I managed to come away with a fabulous green and yellow prayer rug. I’d love to hang it on my wall, but as my walls are concrete, I’ve currently got it draped over the side of my wardrobe.

After spending way too much time wandering about the Osh market in the miserable chill, we decided that what we really needed was a nice cup of tea to warm us up. We found a café on the bazaar grounds – indoors and only *slightly* warmer than the great outdoors – and ordered our tea. The interior of the café was thick with cigarette smoke, and cold enough that we could see our breath.

I.T. drinks tea.

Only two other tables in the joint were occupied: one, a man and three women, all exceedingly drunk; the other, a group of seven Kyrgyz men celebrating the birthday of one of their group.

Inevitably, the men began approaching us, one at a time to chat. One told us that he owned a nearby restaurant, gave us its name, and said he hoped we’d stop by. Another, the only young one in the group, shyly sat down and asked for my phone number (which I gave him – not sure if I’ll regret that or not). He told us that he lives in Almaty, in Kazakhstan, but that he often travels to Bishkek to work in the market. Then he returned to his friends.

When I’d taken my camera out to snap the photo of I.T. drinking her tea, the group asked me to take their picture as well. One of the members of the group said he was a photographer (as in for a living), but didn’t have a digital camera. After I took their picture, he asked if he could take the memory card to print out the picture, promising to return in ten minutes or less. You know how I covet my electronic goods, and I was not too thrilled by the prospect of lending some strange man my memory card, but he was persuasive... not to mention that his friends seemed very much to want him to return with photos. He returned with copies of the photo for all of the men, into which for some reason he had photoshopped the Taj Mahal into the background! And, of course, he returned the card to me.

I.T. and I were just beginning to contemplate getting on our merry way, when the waitress arrived at our table with three cups of coffee. At first we were quite confused, but then one of the men came over, said they were from him, and asked to join us. This was another creepy-old-dude of the mouth-of-gold-teeth variety. However, the warmth from our tea had worn off and the café was cold, so the coffee was welcome, even if the companionship was rather suspect. The photographer soon joined us. While Gold Teeth pumped I.T. for information on how she managed to get from Norway to Kyrgyzstan, the photographer quizzed me about my camera, then offered to buy it. When I turned him down, he asked if he could just borrow it, because it was so much nicer than his. Again, I turned him down, although I doubt he had expected me to agree. Besides, I totally understand camera envy.

Then Gold Teeth suggested cognac. Now, I am fully aware that cognac is pretty much an open door to drunken catastrophe, but for some reason (mainly because he went to great length to express to us the purity and quality of Bishkek Cognac) we agreed to one shot, stressing that by one shot we meant just that: ONE. And of course, instead of bringing us each one shot, the waitress brought out an entire bottle. We insisted again that we would only have one shot, and they didn’t press us. However, after our first shot, Gold Teeth made a nearly successful attempt to kiss I.T., although she quite forcefully pushed him away just in time. He didn’t seem too offended, although he did try to defend himself by claiming a kiss after a first shot is Kyrgyz tradition. Um, bullshit. At that point, we decided it was probably time to leave, and despite their attempts to bribe us into sticking around with more shots of cognac, we refused and ventured back out into the cold.

By this time, the sun had set and it was definitely well below 0F (and I mean 0F, which is -17C) outside. Just walking from the café to the nearest place to find a marshrutka van left us cold to the point of pain in our extremities. The marshrutka we took back to the city center was not crowded in the least. Unfortunately, the ones I needed to cart me from the center back to my apartment were all packed to the gills. I squished into one, but only made it about halfway home before desperately needing to get back my personal space and tumbling back out into the freezing night air.

When I finally approached my block, I noticed something eerily familiar: darkness. Yep, the power in my block was out again. Luckily, after Monday’s adventure, I managed to locate my superfabulous LED headlamp, so the next three and a half hours I spent at home were not spent in darkness. Additionally, the state-provided heat and hot water was not out, so my apartment was dark, but not cold – which was excellent, as I was in desperate need of a thaw. The power surged back into life at around 10:15, only to blink off a mere 45 minutes later. Sigh. But I’ll write more about out frequent power outages when I’m feeling a little better.