Kochor and Saraly-Saz

Arslanbab, Kyrgyzstan

When I first got to Kyrgystan, I didn’t really have a plan of where to go. I knew I needed to make it to the capital of Bishkek to start working on visas, but I wanted to take a scenic route there. The nice and knowledgeable guesthouse owner in Osh had recommended two towns to stop off at along the way, one with a waterfall and one with a lake. He said he could arrange a private car and guide, which would only make sense if I had a few other people to share the costs with.
That afternoon a Swiss couple arrived who were also looking for a scenic route to the capital. We started talking and it seemed as though the trip was in motion when the word “rain” was thrown into the conversation. This ruffled some Swiss feathers and they began, “We must check zha weezaire rayports. I rayfuse to go in zha rhain. I can see nuhsing in zha rhain.” They immediately started pulling up weather reports on the internet and when the forecast didn’t call for total sunshine, they smothered the idea with a croissant and booked a car straight to Bishkek.
I booked a car straight to Arslanbab. As forecasted, it was drizzling when I arrived at the village square where I was promptly greeted by the CBT director. CBT stands for Community Based Tourism and it is a fantastic program which provides small communities the training and economic opportunity to tap into the tourist industry through homestays while giving the traveler an opportunity to experience places from a local perspective. A house was chosen for me and soon the soft-spoken owner, Ibrahim, arrived ready to escort me to my new village digs.
Ibrahim and I walked up the rocky dirt path, next to the stream, over the little wooden bridge, past vegetable gardens and flowering trees until we reached his house, a modest white structure with oriental rugs, lace curtains, potted plants, a cozy veranda, wandering grandchildren, wandering chickens and an outhouse. He set me up in a simple and quiet room as his daughter-in-law poured me a piping hot cup of tea on the porch, where I sat with a book, listening to the rain until it was time to take a nap (forecast that).
One small nap, in a little country house, listening to the rain, without a pressing agenda was all it took to restore some of my recent traveler’s fatigue. When I awoke, the storm had cleared and a beautiful sun had emerged over the snow-capped mountains, which stood at the far side of the village. I took a walk and was greeted by grazing cows, children playing stick-ball and friendly locals.
The next day’s sunshine had managed to prove the forecaster’s wrong and as the Swiss couple were couped up in a car on their way to Bishkek, I was wandering the surface of picture perfect postcard, along small winding dirt roads, through apple orchards and pastures of green, past horses and streams, toward a waterfall that could be heard in the distance.
As I sat on a rock, enjoying the sounds of nature and the sun on my face, I thought about where exactly I was. This was Kyrgyzstan? Kyrgyzstan had always been just a place I couldn’t spell, an alphabetical nightmare, but here, sitting next to a babbling brook and an open meadow, I was finally placing the images with the name and it was different than what I had expected. All those uneven and opposing letters made it seem like the country would be disorganized, harsh and confusing. On the contrary. The people are warm and kind. The landscape is spectacular. And the food…well, the food is not so good, but the hospitality around it is. Huh, well how about that…this is Kyrgyzstan.
I was so enamored with the solitude and peace of Arslanbab that when the CBT director asked me to stay on and teach English for three months, I almost dropped my bag on the spot and said yes. Knowing I wasn’t quite ready for the commitment, I compromised by staying an extra day; an extra day that was filled with the same simplicity and calm as the previous two.
If I had let doubt, over planning and pessimism be my guide, like the Swiss couple, then I would have never found the magical little village of Arslanbab. The forecast is not always going to call for sunshine, so the sooner you learn the love the rain, the easier and more full life will be.

Osh, Kyrgyzstan

Finally arriving in Osh, after miraculously surviving the Great Irkeshtam Pass Adventure, I officially felt like a skewered piece of lamb. My eyes were blurry with the residue of involuntary vodka shots and insufficient sleep from the night before, which was mixed with a heavy mutton kebab smoke that hovered over the city like a threatening storm of raining sheep’s rump. I wanted to just crawl into bed, but the fact that the sun was shining and I was in a new country after such an extended stay in China had my curiosity radar beeping and I chose instead to tie up my laces and hit the streets.
Kyrgyzstan, like it’s Central Asian neighbors, has a reputation for partaking in some seemingly obligatory post-communist corruption. And after walking around for some time I could validate this as truth; not so much with sticky fingered government officials or rogue police officers, but rather with the crooked dentist who convinced the entire population that they needed not one, but an entire mouthful of gold teeth. As the friendly smiles of the locals were blinding me in my tracks, I couldn’t help thinking that this guy had pulled off the greatest gold heist of all time and was probably sitting beachfront somewhere on the Riviera, carefully dabbing a slight caviar stain with seltzer water from his seersucker suit as his countryfolk sold bread, fixed trucks and manually plowed the fields of the farm….in winter.
The remaining evidence of Osh as an ancient hot spot along the Silk Road is with its massive bazaar, which is still kicking 2,000 years later. I chose to inaugurate my journey through Kyrgyzstan with two purchases that were impossible to obtain during the three months I was in China: a jar of pickles and a pair of shoes that fit my size ten feet (kind of, almost, really, really close). In my short time interacting with the local people who make up an eclectic ethnic Eurasian Casserole, with a cup of Kyrgyz, a tablespoon of Uzbek, a pinch of Tajik, and a dusting of Turkmen, their openness and warmth is immediately apparent. The mostly former nomadic cultures are built on centuries of hospitality (and tribal war), which is still very present and makes for a sincere welcome into the country.
As I was sitting in a café near the park, there was a group of teenaged boys at the table next to mine. After some time they called over to me in English and we struck up a basic conversation. We went through the normal rounds of questions before they started to speak of Osh. They wanted to know what I thought of Osh or if anyone in New York knew about Osh. They wanted me to go back and tell people in America how great Osh is. Finally, they asked me if I would want to live in Osh. I said that I really liked Osh but that I would miss my family. Almost in unison they replied, “Yeah, but if your family lived here, then would you want to live in Osh?” As I looked over at seven pairs of young, hopeful and proud eyes, I said, “Yes, if I could bring my family here, then I would definitely want to live in Osh.”

The Great Irkeshtam Pass Adventure

Irkeshtam Pass Adventure Part 1
There are two entrances into Kyrgyzstan from China: either over the bureaucratically difficult to organize, but beautiful Torugart Pass or over the Irkeshtam Pass, also beautiful and one which the Lonely Planet Guidebook describes as a “straightforward”, hop-on-the-bus experience.
Of course I had wanted to take the Torugart Pass, but the thieves who had robbed me managed to steal my time along with my passport. I had three months left on my original visa, but the newly issued one had the clock ticking into days, if not hours. With an approaching holiday, which was going to shut down both countries for four days, I was told I had to take the bus through the Irkeshtam Pass. No Problem, I’ll just take the bus, it’s “straightforward”, right?

Cut to Monday morning:
Me: When does the bus leave for Osh (in Kyrgyzstan)?
Moon (Hostel Owner): Monday, Thursday and Friday.
Me: Well, I will take the Thursday bus because Friday is the start of the holiday and my visa expires on Saturday.
Moon: Yes, you have to take the Thursday bus. Friday, everything will be closed and China has big fines if you overstay your visa.

Cut to Monday afternoon:
Moon: Um, well, I called the bus station and they said that maybe the bus leaves on Thursday, maybe not. It depends if it fills up.
Me: Well, when will they know this?
Moon: We must wait until Wednesday and then call.
Me: Shouldn’t I try to book a ticket now and at least count for one.
Moon: No. We can’t do anything until Wednesday.
Me: Hmmpf.

Cut to Wednesday morning:
Me: Good Morning Moon, did you sleep well?
Moon (slightly panicked, but ultimately not his problem): I just called the bus station. They decided to close the border two days early - by this afternoon. There is a bus going to Osh today, but it’s full.
Me (in denial): O,K, let’s try that again… Good Morning Moon, did you sleep well?
Moon: Your only option is a driver to the border.
Me: What the @%$#! What exactly does “afternoon” mean and what happens when and if I get to the Kyrgyz side, how the heck do I get to Osh?
Moon: They won’t tell us exactly when it is closing, they only said afternoon, and I don’t know what happens on the other side. I hear you can maybe hitch a ride with a truck. You better pack your stuff, you have to go….now!

Without a Taco Bell drive-thru in sight, I was literally making a run for the border. How poetic. After three months in China and two robberies later, here they were, mercilessly booting me out. “Thank’s for your business Ma’am, now don’t let that customs door kick you in the ass on the way out. Have a great holiday and come back again soon! (after you have purchased yet another expensive visa from us that we will eventually try to steal from you)”


The Great Irkeshtam Pass Adventure Part 2
The chain-smoking driver showed up, but without the necessary permits to get to the border. He had a friend who had a friend who was friends with his friend’s friend who could get him the permit, just not quickly. My head was ticking seconds. It was already eleven o’clock in the morning and the drive was over three hours long. This already put me in the murky “afternoon” region.
Finally and thankfully a driver with permits and without a chain-smoking habit showed up. I threw my bag in the car, looked at the clock (noon), said goodbye to my friends and prayed for the best.
My anxiety was in fourth gear, but as soon as we got out of the city and rolled onto the pages of Geology Magazine my jitters were smashed under the weight of all the incredible surrounding mountains. In the very last stretches of the country, I saw some of the best scenery it had to offer. It was as if China was telling me, “Think what you want about everything else, but one thing is clear - you will never forget my undeniable beauty.”
The clock had now hit 3:30 p.m and we were finally approaching the border, which was in the middle of nowhere, flanked by open fields, a few rusty trailers and snow-capped mountains. We hurried up to the office entrance where a middle-aged Kyrgyz trucker gave us the international sign for “closed” (two arms criss-crossed). Closed! Closed! My heart landed in my shoe. But no sooner had he signed “closed,” when he was already adding on another internationally understood hand movement, food going into mouth. As he pointed to the clock, I understood that the border would re-open at 4:00, right after lunch. Aha! I made it! My first ever Border Run ends in success!

The Great Ishketam Pass Adventure Part 3
The border opened, my friendly non-English speaking driver left, the sun was starting its descent and I was wading in a thick marsh of rough testosterone. I was surrounded by weather-faced Kyrgyz and Uzbek truckers with skull caps, cigarette stained fingers and gold teeth, most all of whom were intently staring at the one person who clearly didn’t fit into this picture…me. All of a sudden I became acutely aware of my femininity: the brightly patterned dress over my jeans, my hair tied up exposing gold and emerald earrings, the handbag over my shoulder and the shiny pink lip gloss which I had started to apply frequently out of mounting nervousness. I quickly put on my new army jacket to showcase my rugged side, but unfortunately next to this crowd I would have had to bathe in motor oil and dry myself with sandpaper to fit in. Like surrounding wolves, they started to bark, Osh? Osh? Osh? In my vivid imagination, I saw dripping saliva and fangs and in reality, they were probably very respectful family men, but I couldn’t get past the image they were presenting. Then they started to sign language that I could ride with them in their trucks. This, I thought, was going to take some crafty maneuvering.
As we were in no man’s land (literally between two borders), accepting a ride in a truck was the only option. Standing in the customs line I started devising all sorts of plans in my head. I would accept a ride, pretend my ipod was a phone and somehow communicate that I needed to call the U.S Consulate before we left– just in case. Or I would use the restroom and carefully hide the knife I had bought in Kashgar somewhere on my person. But before I could hatch anymore of these clever plans, the entire building started to rumble and shake and everyone inside started running for the door. An earthquake? A damn earthquake? As the apocalypse seemed to be upon me, I quickly started repenting for my sins.
The tremors soon stopped but my heartbeat was as fast as ever. Confused and panicked, I turned around and, just like an angel sent from above, there stood a short man with grey hair, a red mountain sport jacket, high-jacked khaki trousers, sensible shoes and holding a large framed picture of a pastel colored embroidered horse. “Osh?” I asked. “Yes, Osh,” he replied and it was as if the heavens opened up and started singing carols of pure, cool comfort.


The Great Irkeshtam Pass Adventure Part 4
Maybe, just maybe, crossing into Kyrgyzstan on the public bus would be a “straightforward” affair, like the guidebook said, but it is anything but straightforward without an assigned mode of transportation. And I do not know how I would have managed without Muktar, my Sensible-Shoed-Savior, who was Kyrgyz and spoke about ten key words of English, but had managed this border before and knew the drill well.
First you have to hitch a ride with a truck to the first checkpoint. We loaded our stuff and got 3 km down the road before the traffic piled up and we were at the end of a long line. We then unloaded our stuff and walked the distance of about twenty big rigs, with me now holding the pastel embroidered horse picture, and reloaded our stuff in the truck that was first in line. We then drove another fifteen kilometers down the road and reached another checkpoint.
The entrance Health Minister, who was collecting and pocketing money from the truckers in great frequency sat behind his desk oinking at me. Oink, Oink and he would crumple his nose up like a pig. “No, I don’t have swine flu.” Then he started flapping his arms like a bird. “No, I don’t have avian flu.” Then he started pointing at a bunch of papers. “No, I don’t have a health certificate.” Which I guess is what required the money. No papers, no entrance. Money, entrance. My novelty as a women and an American seemed to outweigh the need for another illegal som into his pocket and so we came to a fair compromise: he could watch me stick a thermometer under my armpit and I could enter the country without health papers.
The truck let us off at a village of tin cans; a collection of rusted, Soviet era train cars that housed people, bars and restaurants. It felt like someone had rubbed raw with a Brillo pad and ammonium the lives of the locals here; they were hard and the concept of comfort was as distant as a warm sandy beach. Muktar was busy trying to organize a ride to Osh, and I was busy feeling my thirst and my hunger, but soon realized that I had no local currency. My Border Run had prevented me from going to the bank and exchanging some Chinese Yuan for Kyrgyz Som, but Muktar, my Sensible-Shoed-Savior came to the rescue once again and bought me some food and water.
As Muktar’s efforts were proving unsuccessful, I was standing outside a trailer becoming a local spectacle, of which I caught the attention of the Alai County Police Sheriff, a gold-toothed guy in his late twenties, clad in army fatigues and a Russian fur cap. He approached me and started speaking a very broken English, to which I was at first stand-offish until I realized that he was offering us a ride, not to Osh, but to a town before it that was pretty darn close. As darkness peeked around the corner and the cold mountain air started invading all layers of fabric, Muktar, and I hopped into the police car with Tokyo the sheriff and Macho, his toothless driver.
The pass, which was an unpaved, winding, cratered “road”, was packed with snow and the trucks were at many times caught in a blocked standstill. We would approach, lights and sirens flashing. Tokyo would get out of the car, make everyone move out of the way, collect money from the truckers to pad his pocket and then we would proceed. Before long the vodka came out and as Tokyo sat repeatedly scolding Macho for hitting unavoidable potholes, he would then reward him with a pat on the old man’s shoulder and a shot of the hard stuff.
The rotation of vodka shots, sirens, and money collection went on all along the pass, until the wee hours of the morning, until finally, men became men and all the formalities disintegrated into one long running joke about the American Girl, of which I couldn’t understand linguistically, but I didn’t need language to know exactly what territory the joke was in. I played along, pointing my fingers at them, accusing them of being naughty boys and dirty old men. Although I would love to think otherwise, dirty jokes at my expense were to be expected, I guess, at some point. I was, after all, still bathing in a marshland of testosterone. But even though I was trapped in a car, in the middle of a snowy mountain pass, at night time, in Kyrgyzstan, with a group of men taking hefty rounds of vodka shots, one of them a police sheriff who could cover up any crime, I never felt threatened. My hand never even approached my Kashgar Knife, not once (O.K…maybe once).
It was about four in the morning when we arrived at the town of the sheriff. Muktar and I stayed in a local guesthouse and got a few hours rest until daybreak when we arranged for a shared taxi to Osh. In Osh, Muktar picked up his car from a friend’s house and dropped me off right on the doorstep of the guesthouse.
I can’t say for sure exactly how I survived my Irkeshtam Pass Adventure; arriving at the Kyrgyz border with no money, no arranged transport and getting a lift from Tokyo and Macho, a man who liked to drive the steep, dark and winding pass fueled on Vodka. Perhaps it was through my Sensible-Shoe-Savior, or maybe my parents are still protecting me from the other side. Whichever the case, I now know that real travel does not come with a manual and life is never as “straightforward” as it may seem.

Kashgar, China

The old city of Kashgar is a place where sheep are butchered on the streets, where children in traditional embroidered vests and hats walk hand in hand with children in track suits, where men have homemade knives hanging from their belts, where blacksmiths craft nails for horse shoes by a hot fire, where electricity lines are supported by forked tree branches and where the city buses have wooden seats from a bygone era.
The last stop on the Silk Road in China, Kashgar was, and still is, a place of bustling trade, evident at the famous Sunday Bazaar, which is touted as the best in Asia. Here you can buy everything from livestock to raw goods to herbal medicine, food, clothes, household items and anything else you can think of. Walking around during the buying and selling chaos, you start to feel like someone might just run up and slap a price tag on you and before you know it you will be in the back of an open pick-up with some furry, horned and hooved friends.
The new city surrounds the old like an ugly fence, but from hours spent people watching the Uyghur people in Kashgar, it’s clear that modern tile and brick is no threat to the timelessness of their culture.

Supremely Unconnected

While I have been busy sheparding sheep on horseback, solving Kyrgyz crimes with local detectives, building yurts and throwing disco parties in the remote countryside, the internet situation in Kyrgyzstan has remained the same....very uncooperative. I am heading back to Bishkek tomorrow and I am determined to hunt down a wireless connection and post the pictures and stories I have been gathering so far. I am also determined to hunt down a "Barbie in a Burka" at the Bazar.
The adventure continues.......

Wireless in Kyrgyzstan

Hi All...thanks for everyone's concern on my whereabouts....no worries, I am alive and well, but have been in the pretty disconnected country of Kyrgyzstan...and wireless only exists for $20 per half hour at the Hyatt Regency Hotel in Bishkek...that's equal to almost a week's lodging so I refuse to pay it. That means no entries on the blog until I can get a good connection...but it certainly doesn't mean there is a lack of material. My border crossing from China into Kyrgyzstan could possibly beat the experience of showing up at 3:00 a.m on a dirt road in Albania without any reservations or a clue....I am still having visions of gold-teeth, scull cap wearing truckers, flashing police lights, rusty train car skeletons turned into houses and bars and a toothless man named Macho swigging lots of Vodka as he tried to navigate the roads of the snowy Irkeshtam Pass in the dark...can't wait to find a connection and share the adventure!

To be continued......