desoLINKS

I know that we haven't posted anything in rather a while... unfortunately we haven't yet figured out how to make a living off of full time Desolation Travelling, so we all have jobs that keep us boringly occupied doing hundrum and non-desolate things.

Well, except for Joe who is about to get evacuated from Yemen and, as such, is hardly occupied with the humdrum! In fact, prior to the eruption of all the recent violence in Yemen, he did a good bit of travelling (desolate and otherwise) about that country. Here are some links from his pre-evac travels:

Salalah-blah-blah-blah

Gettin' tanked in Aden

Thrill on Silent Hill

A Ho-hum al-Khokha
Highs and Lows
Tunin' up Thulla

Moving on... we've got some pictures from Kyrgyzstan posted on our website, taken by me (Jane) and by Ben S. They can be seen at the following links:

From Bishkek to Osh

Karakol, Altyn Arashan, and the Valley of the Flowers

And lastly... this coming August, the Desolation Travel team is going to Chernobyl! In honor of this fabulous upcoming event, here are some articles on Chernobyl which have recently found their way into the news:

Chernobyl, My Primeval, Teeming, Irradiated Eden

Lessons from Chernobyl for Japan

Kyrgyzstan 2008

Feeling inspired by Ben R's Kyrgyzstan 2009 video, I decided to make my own. The song it's set to is by Tata Ulan, and the pairing of pictures and song probably will make more sense to people who speak Russian and know a bit about Kyrgyzstan. I tried to match lyrics to pictures wherever possible.

Kyrgyzstan: Faces and Places from 2009

Kurban Ait in Kyrgyzstan

Kurban Ait 2008 in Cholpon Ata and Kochkor, Kyrgyzstan
Written by Nicola
To see the complete set of photographs from Kurban Ait 2008 CLICK HERE.

Kurban Ait (Eid al-Adha), the Muslim festival of sacrifice, is celebrated across the Islamic world with prayers and gifts of food and money to the poor. In the spirit of the time of piety, Ben, D., and I decided to take our 3-day weekend and visit Kyrgyzstan’s premier beach resort.

Cholpon Ata truly deserves the title of Central Asian beach paradise. For a start, the shores of Lake Issyk-Kul are the only place for about 3000 miles where you’re likely to encounter a beach. The golden, sandy shoreline and inviting warm waters (“issyk” means “hot” in Kyrgyz, so it must be, right?) entice sun worshippers in their hundreds from as far afield as Bishkek, Almaty, and even Tokmok city. In the height of the summer season, the small town of Cholpon Ata, on the lake’s north shore, transforms into the Speedos capital of the world.

Not that much of this was evident when we visited in November 2008. The streets were deserted; the guesthouses and Soviet-era sanatoria boarded up and closed. Driving into town in our taxi, we asked the driver to take us somewhere to stay. Every door that he knocked at was opened by hard-faced babushkas who moved us on with barely an apologetic shake of the head. We pulled into the vast, crumbling remains of what must have once been one of the premier sanatoria retreats of the Soviet Union. Here, beds were to be had, at the rate of several hundred US dollars a night, and no doubt cheap at the price to experience this piece of history. Regretfully aware that our budgets were too tight to allow such opulence, we asked the driver to once again try elsewhere. Around this time, clearly aware that we weren’t going to find anywhere, he very kindly offered to let us stay in his house, at much more the going rate for a Kyrgyz homestay, to which we readily agreed.

Once settled into the homestay, after the obligatory tea-drinking, admiring the orchard in the courtyard (nothing much to look at in November) and playing with our host’s fat but friendly cat, we headed out to see the sights of Cholpon Ata. First up was lake Issyk-Kul itself. The “jewel of the Tian Shan”, its Kyrgyzstan’s number one tourist draw, at least according to the locals. It dominated the town, glittering blue in the late autumn sunlight. We searched in vain for a way to get down to it, through a park sporting a huge silver statue of a woman being attacked by birds, and a solitary cow; on through the back streets of what in summer must be a beachfront promenade; past burning piles of refuse. Finally, we found a militsya (an officer of Kyrgyzstan’s military police – the police’s crack bribe-demanding unit). D. asked him in Russian for directions to the beach, which he smilingly provided. Grateful, and somewhat amazed at our still-intact wallets, we headed out onto the golden sands, here and there dotted with discarded vodka bottles and crumbling concrete ruins. Atop one of these concrete structures, maybe once a beachfront kiosk we posed for photos, looking out over lake and beach to the towering, snow-clad mountains. Another concrete wall provided stylish graffiti of Lenin and Stalin. Further down the coast, we could see the much more modern concrete hulks of the private villas where Kyrgyzstan’s elite would come to while away their summers.

Wandering back into town, we paused to admire the smattering of propaganda billboards lining the main drag. “сила народа в единстве” (power of the people is in unity) announced a huge picture of (since-deposed megalomaniac) President Bakiyev, stern in front of lake and mountains. Further along the street, a smiling woman urged us to invest in the kind of gated community which just doesn’t exist in Kyrgyzstan, and which, due to some poor Photoshop skills, appeared to on the verge of being submerged by a tidal wave. But my personal favourite cannot really be done justice in words. Emblazoned with the slogan “коррупцияга жол жок” (corruption is not the way), perhaps its effect explains us escaping a shakedown.

Our next destination was a site virtually unknown to the Kyrgyz and Kazakh tourists who yearly flock to Cholpon Ata. A little out of town, past a cemetery, lies a boulder-strewn field. Unassuming to the casual observer, the field may even seem off-limits due to the huge ditch and concrete markers which cut it off from the town. Clamber over the ditch, however, and wonders await the careful (and patient) observer. Petroglyphs, remnants of ancient Sogdian and Turkic peoples, are carved seeming at random into the rocks. Deer, goats and camels, even a hunting scene with dogs, artistically rendered by enigmatic peoples now long gone. One of the builders working on the ditch had decided that in front of this last scene was the perfect place for to relieve himself.

As we descended from the petroglyph field, sunset painted the surrounding mountains impossible shades of pink and gold, while evening mist over Issyk-Kul seemed to solidify into yet more peaks. Shepherds on horseback drove their cattle down through the boulders to their camp. The ornate tombs in the cemetery stood stark against a fiery sky. The temperature dropped as rapidly as the light, and it was a relief to huddle into a small cafe (seeming the only one open in town). Removing our heavy winter coats, we ordered dumpling soup, and sat shivering until it finally dawned on us that the interior of the cafe wasn’t heated, and was therefore no warmer than the sub-zero temperatures outside. I’m not sure if their represents social conditioning, or merely a distinct lack of common sense on our part. Finishing our dumplings, we headed back through the now pitch black night to our homestay, warmth, and the obese cat.

The next morning, we were up early and hoping to secure transport to the village of Kochkor in central Kyrgyzstan. Cholpon Ata and Kochkor both being renowned urban centres (hah), this may well have taken all day. Luckily for us, we were able to engage a taxi driver to take us without having to wait for another passenger to fill the car. Thanking our host, we set off, and were soon belting through the rolling Kyrgyz countryside on a comparatively good road (it even had tarmac). Speeding around a corner just north of the brilliant blue Orto-Tokoy reservoir, an unexpected sight filled the windscreen. Shouting at our driver to stop (which he did, grinning at the strange behaviour of foreigners), we began snapping pictures of a small herd of Bactrian (two-humped) camels grazing peacefully beside the road, miles from the nearest human settlement, and a very rare sight in Kyrgyzstan.

By this time, one of the pitfalls of living in Central Asia was beginning to make itself known to D., who was suffering from a bout of giardia, so we hurried on toward our destination. We arrived at the office of Community Based Tourism (CBT) in Kochkor, and through them were able to arrange a homestay for the night and a horse riding trip for the next day. We also spent some time perusing and purchasing shyrdaks (traditional Kyrgyz felt rugs) from the attached shop belonging to a local women’s collective. Afterwards, we took a walk around the village, taking in local highlights including a gaudy, silver statue of Lenin on a mosaic plinth, a bubbling spring rising from the ground in the local rubbish dump, and children playing among the rust-and-tetanus-riddled remains of what may once have been a shipping crate. Streets lined with Soviet-era decorations depicting motifs of rockets, hammer and sickles and atomic nuclei provided a counterpoint to the imposing mountain backdrop, viable over the high walls of family compounds lining the unpaved streets. Back at the homestay, we were plied with food and drink almost to bursting by the incredibly mothering proprietress, who made sure that we were comfortable with extra blankets and heaters, Soviet-era tourist literature to peruse, and even going as far as to tuck me in for the night.

The following day was Kurban Ait itself. After a huge Kyrgyz-style breakfast consisting of fermented yoghurt, borsok (fried squares of dough), and copious quantities of amazing homemade jam, we met our guide for the day and saddled up for a day’s horse riding.

Nothing beats the freedom of galloping through the vast landscapes of Central Asia, through cragged mountains and broad meadows where flocks of fat-bottomed sheep graze and golden eagles wheel high above. Each twist in the trail seems to bring you closer to the country. In the grounds of the mosque, the imam and his attendants were slaughtering sheep and goats as part of the festival. Dogs in scattered farms barked as we rode by. Further on, another beautiful, eerie cemetery appeared out of swirling mist, ethereal domes topped with crescent moons recalling Arabian Nights adventure and orientalist mystique. Streams, frozen solid in the harsh mountain climate, made playgrounds for children sliding on homemade sleds.

Arriving back in Kochkor, we returned to our homestay to collect our shyrdaks. Our hostess welcomed us in, and sat at the table, where steaming plates piled high with plov (an Uzbek dish made of rice, carrots and mutton) were pressed on us. A man joined us, one of the festival celebrants, going from house to house spreading good wishes. He ate with us, recited a prayer and wished us good health. Our hostess refused to accept any payment for the meal; during Kurban Ait, food is provided for all visitors, even foreigners smelling of horse!

Sadly, we said our goodbyes, and loaded down with our bundles of felt purchases, we bundled ourselves into the back of a taxi heading for Bishkek. The return journey was largely unremarkable – we chatted about inconsequential things, and at one point were almost involved in a head-on collision with a truck, at which nobody in the taxi batted an eyelid until a few minutes later D. asked “Did we just almost die?” In testament to how long we had collectively spent in Central Asia, this didn’t seem cause for concern. Back in Bishkek, with my shyrdak spread across my bedroom floor, and the horse smell dissipated by a hot shower, I prepared for another working week in the metropolis.

To see the complete set of photographs from Kurban Ait 2008 CLICK HERE

Someone else of whom to be jealous...

If you know much of anything about us here at Desolation Travel, then surely you know that what we all have in common (other than a love of vacations in somewhat abnormal and absurd locales, of course) - and I refer to the fact that we've all lived in Kyrgyzstan. We tend to follow blogs of those souls lucky enough to be living there at the moment, and below are a couple of posts from one we particularly enjoy. Check them out - I hope you appreciate them as much as we do.

New Year in Osh, Part 1

New Year in Osh, Part 2

The Eagles Are Coming! (And so are the wolves...)

Solburun 2008: Kyrgyz Traditional Hunting Festival by Jane

Animal Rights in Kyrgyzstan are essentially nonexistent. This post contains a couple of graphic images. However, there are a lot of really incredible and beautiful things to see/read in this post as well... just be forewarned. Additionally, the complete set of more than fifty photos from this day can be viewed by CLICKING HERE.

Festivals with hundreds of people in attendance aren’t exactly desolate… unless they’re held in rural Kyrgyzstan. In October 2008, two years before our Desolation Travel project was conceived, DT team members Ben, Nicola and I (along with several of our coworkers), travelled about five hours east of Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan (where we were living at the time) to a site just outside of the village of Bokonbaevo, where Solburun – the national traditional hunting festival – was being held.

Left: Nicola, Ben, coworker; Right: Jane and coworker

Solburun is an annual event, which attracts eagle hunters, falconers, handlers of Kyrgyz wolfhounds (called Taigan; similar to the Russian Borzoi), archers, and skilled horsemen from both Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan. I had expected maybe ten eagles at the most, but was pleasantly surprised to discover at least fifty golden eagles present with their handlers, in addition to uncountable hawks, dogs and horses. I got my favorite pictures of the day before the competitions began, when elderly men on horseback lounged around with eagles on their arms, chatting with one another.

This man was one of the Kazakh eagle hunters;
they had incredible outfits.

I didn’t get very good shots of the first events, as the camera I had with me at the time didn’t have that great of a zoom. We watched first hawks and then wolf hounds compete to take down pigeons, rabbits and even a fox. The hawks were incredibly impressive and good at what they did. The dogs were less impressive, mainly because there was only one poor fox. It was killed after the first round, and its maimed carcass dragged behind a horse for subsequent rounds. It was rather distressing to watch, and the poor dogs obviously felt as though they’d been teased when they discovered that their “prey” was already dead.

When they began to launch the eagles (mainly against rabbits, although some were also launched against ye olde dead fox), it began to get more interesting. Ben and I climbed up the side of the mountain to the place from whence the eagle hunters were launching their birds, and I was able to get some rather decent shots:

Of course, these eagles are trained, but they are still wild animals and do not always do as they should. One turned away from its rabbity target and wheeled directly backwards at me and Ben. Oblivious to the people shouting at us to get out of the way, we stood in awe, not even photographing, as it swooped straight towards us. It landed on the ground roughly four feet in front of me. (Later we were to learn why we should have run, but as you will see, the entire day was filled with much foolishness upon our parts.)

While we were crouched on the mountainside, eagles being launched for attack over our heads, we ingratiated ourselves with the small local press pack. Suddenly there was excitement among the press as one shouted, “Davai! Volk!” (Come on! Wolf!) and began bounding off the mountain. They were bringing out the wolf.

What wolf? Well, we had been told us that there would be a captive wolf at the festival, which would be released for the eagles to hunt. The man who had told us this was Ishenbek – a renowned Kyrgyz eagle hunter and our host for the weekend. He had told us that he was the only person – from both Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan – who was willing to pit his eagle (a beautiful bird named Tuman) against the wolf at the festival, and said that she’d killed three or four wolves in the wild. All day we had anxiously awaited the arrival of the wolf, and with excitement, we scrambled down the mountain with the rest of the press.

Ben and I eagerly await the wolf

The press pack were allowed beyond the barricade behind which spectators had to stand. Ben and I – sticking close to our newly made friends in the press – found ourselves standing, cameras poised, not far from the wooden box wherein the captive wolf was held. At one point the alleged professional wolf handler (wearing a shirt which read: Kyrgyzstan – Country of Tourism no less!) came over and told us, “You do know there is a *wolf* in there? There might be problems.” No one moved.

Finally, after what seemed like an interminable amount of time waiting, they brought out the wolf hounds. As only Ishenbek had been willing to pit his eagle against the wolf, there had been a change of plans. It had been decided to have the wolf tired out by the wolfhounds before setting the eagles after it; this way, more eagle-handlers had agreed to participate in the eagle vs. wolves part of the event.

While I feel that eagle vs. wolf is acceptable, I wasn’t too keen on one wolf taking on a pack of trained wolfhounds. Then they released the wolf, and my heart sank; he was chained to a ball of iron. He could run around and even drag the iron ball behind him, but he could not escape. (I suppose the iron ball was probably a good thing for the dumbass journalists – myself and my companions included – as the wolf immediately charged us upon exiting his box. Most of us moved out of its way, as we do have some sense of self preservation. Meanwhile, Ben didn’t move at all, and just stood there taking photos. I wish I’d gotten one of him almost getting mauled. He had a rather narrow escape. The pictures below were taken by Ben as the wolf advanced...

Then they released the wolfounds. They released them in teams of two, starting with the least experienced and moving up to the most experienced. It was utterly heart-wrenching to watch the poor wolf, tied to a chain, defending himself against pair after pair of wolfhounds. I got some very bizarre looks from my journalist comrades for cheering loudly for the wolf in Russian. I must say that despite his handicap, the wolf gave better than he got, injuring numerous dogs. He was still standing at the end... or at least he was until Mr. Kyrgyzstan: Country of Tourism pinned him to the ground with what was essentially a two pronged pitch fork around his neck.

Once the wolf was tired out, he was taken to the center of the field and left on his chain to await attack by eagles. His mouth was also tied shut. Ishenbeck strongly disapproved of all of this, having wanted to prove himself and Tuman against a strong, healthy and free wolf. Additionally, eagles are trained to not attack domestic animals. As such, a tied wolf looks much like a domesticated dog, which rather confused the eagles. Not to mention that they’d had to wait an extra long time for the dogs to try to tire out the wolf. The eagles were cranky. And they were coming.

The first eagle that was launched towards the wolf was one of the Kazakh eagles. It started down toward the wolf, then veered sharply to the right and directly into a crowd of spectators sitting on the side of the hill, attacking one man and sending his companions fleeing for their lives. It was too far away for me to get good quality pictures, but I did get some where you can at least make out what was happening.

Madness took over. Everyone (spectators and journalists alike) ran towards the injured man – including Ben and I, who shamelessly sought to get photos of his wounds. (He was bleeding profusely from the side of his face, but unfortunately, I didn’t get any shots of it.) The Kazakh eagle again swooped down towards the crowd just as Ishenbek launched Tuman toward the wolf. Tuman, heroine of the day, swerved off target and took down the Kazakh eagle, which made Ishenbek quite proud.

Ishenbek holding Tuman
after she tackled the Kazakh eagle.

While everyone was clustered around Ishenbek and the Kazakh eagle hunter, watching them disengage their birds (Tuman was fine, but she injured the Kazakh eagle), another Kyrgyz eagle hunter launched his bird at the wolf. I didn’t get a good shot, as I was too busy watching Tuman and the Kazakh eagle and battling the crowd. It was hard to tell what happened between the eagle and the wolf. The eagle definitely scored a hit, although it’s hard to tell how successful she would have been had the wolf been unfettered.

And with that, the festival was over.

Balykchy, Kyrgyzstan - A Town On The Edge

by Ben R.
To see the complete set of photographs accompanying this post, please CLICK HERE.

I'd heard a lot about Balykchy whilst living in Bishkek (the capital of Kyrgyzstan), and without exception nobody had a good word to say about the place. When I quizzed people as to what the town was like, I usually received a grimace as though someone had just let off a bad smell in the room merely by mentioning its name. Everyone I asked in the nation's capital told me of the squalor that would await me should I travel there. When I mentioned that I wanted to visit the place people would try to persuade me not to as though the town of Balykchy was a national shame that a proud people preferred not to show to outsiders. "Go to Cholpon-Ata, it's much more beautiful" people would say but Balykchy and the horrors it held, or not, had gripped me. I had to see for myself.

On a Saturday morning in February I took a taxi across the city to the main bus station looking for a ride East to Issyk Kul's western corner. I found a mini bus that would be passing through Balykchy on it's way to somewhere else and squeezed into a seat next a young Kyrgyz man in the pre-requisite shiny black jacket and cap. The bus wound its way through Bishkek's traffic before joining the main road towards the lake. I settled in with my knees crushed against the seat in front and stared out of the window watching the world pass.

About 5 miles out of Bishkek I was reminded of the corruption endemic in the nation as our bus was flagged down by a traffic policeman. I watched our driver intently as he walked over to the policeman and in full view of passing motorists handed over a small wad of som (Kyrgyz currency) into the policeman's hand, disguising the action in a handshake. The policeman put the money in his pocket without looking at or counting it and stared down the road for his next payday. It was modern day highway robbery. I spent the next part of the journey wondering how the economics of these transactions worked. Did the policeman share the money with his superiors, how did he choose who to stop, did he have to pay a superior to get this lucrative spot on the main Bishkek to Almaty highway? And what of the drivers who had to pay, was there any point in refusing or speeding on without stopping? I doubted it. I suppose that just like in other countries when you buy a car you accept that you will have to pay for road tax or a motor testing certificate; in this part of the world you accept that a kickback is part of owning a vehicle. If you didn't like it I suppose you just bought a bicycle.

The road passed Tokmok, with its Soviet jet fighter guarding the entrance, before heading out into a barren river valley that skirted the Kazakh border. Kazakhstan was only 500 metres away in distance but a lifetime away in potential. The giant that is Kazakhstan is blessed with huge quantities gas and oil whereas Kyrgyzstan has little to offer the outside world except for, it seemed, land for foreign military air bases.

As we neared the bottom of the mountain range that separated the valley from Issyk kul the road deteriorated, every bump and boulder we hit jarred my knees against the seat making the journey more of an endurance test then anything else. Soon however the gears were crunched down to a lower number and we began our slow ascent up to the pass. To our left, far below were the murky waters of the river Chui, and to our right were the barren mountains of the Alatau range, which had the most amazing clouds I'd ever seen. Running up the faces of the mountains were long slim clouds hundreds of metres long like giant children's slides. I'd never seen anything like it before. We reached the top of the pass and hitting a higher gear began the descent towards Balykchy. It suddenly became warmer.

A sign let me know we had entered the outskirts of my destination. A low built dusty town spread out before me, indistinguishable from other such dusty towns I'd seen in this part of the world. It was the kind of place you would film a modern day western - there was even some sort of tumbleweed blowing across the road. We drove down what appeared to be the town's main road to the bus station. On the side of the road stood women with kerchiefs on their heads selling dried fish on string. I didn't get the impression they were doing much business. We pulled into the town's bus station and I was immediately surrounded by fish sellers as I stepped of the bus. I didn't really have a plan except to have a look around before getting the evening bus home. At one end of the parking area leaning nonchalantly on his Lada taxi was an old Kyrgyz man. I told him that I had heard a lot about Balykchy and asked him to show me what it was really like. We negotiated a fee and set off; I could not have found a better guide.

I didn't need to ask questions as he began pouring out his life story and the town's history in torrents of words as though he had been in solitary confinement for years and I was the first person he had been able to talk to. Little bubbles of spit landed in all directions as he hurriedly pointed out 'landmarks' and told me what they were. A lot of the government buildings seemed disused and locked up but that could have just been because it was a weekend. There was not much happening in town, no markets bustling with shoppers and traders, no lovers strolling arm in arm under the warm sunshine… it was just dead. But then I suppose in my own country it is only really the high street that provides atmosphere and noise and vibrancy; take away people's disposable incomes and you are left with the basics of life with little in the way of distraction. That was my impression of Balykchy, life had been reduced to its bare minimum: there was a petrol station, a food shop, a cafe, a bus station, a railway station, and nothing else. Nothing else was needed.

"I'll take you to the docks, that's really what this town was about......" the driver breathlessly said as we swerved to miss potholes and stray dogs. We turned down a small track towards the ship yard, its main building topped with a torpedo motif as they had tested submarines here in Soviet times. We parked by an old Soviet mural showing, amongst other things, the muscular Soviet-Erectus, arms thrusting a Soviet flag skywards. None of the people depicted on the mural had Asiatic features, the triumvirate of planners studying a map were all Caucasian. The Asian end of the empire always knew its place in the order. They were equal, but some were more equal then others.

I approached the gates and a guard came out of his hut to ask me what I wanted. I asked if I could enter to photograph the abandoned fishing boats I could see in the distance but was told it was not allowed. Of course the words 'not allowed' are merely the opening gambit in the inevitable negotiation, nothing is really 'not allowed' in the former Soviet Union, unless you don't have money. I paid him a 100 som and removed my lens cap. There were rusting hulks beached on the shore. Abandoned repair jobs lay scattered amongst steel debris, old rivets, drill bits and porthole hinges. I walked to the waters edge, here brackish, and clambered on board a beached boat long stripped of anything of use or worth, even the window panes had been removed probably to be used in someone’s dacha or as a motorcycle screen for a Ural.

An old woman appeared out of the reeds with a shopping bag on her way to the shop. I asked her when life was better, now or in the Soviet days. It's a question I’ve often asked, but here the answer was in the junk strewn yard in which I was standing. Balykchy was once a thriving fishing port. Fish were caught here and sent from its rail station all over the USSR to be eaten by families from Leningrad to Vladivostok. Ship building was also a massive part of the local economy. The importance of boats on the local economy can be found all over the town in unexpected places: a motif on a padlock, a boat carved into a wooden fence. That was all before the collapse. Nothing was built here now and it was hard to imagine a time when it ever would be again. Without a subsidised economy, building boats so far from an ocean made no economic sense, and Issyk Kul itself has little need for ships.

I returned to the car and my driver continued his monologue about the town. "I worked in the factory myself, most of the town did, but then our directors started paying us late. We waited months to get our pay, then when we complained, the directors started mentioning ideas like paying us in fish, like we were performing seals! It was then that we knew that we'd been bent fucked by the party. That was when I decided to leave the factory and do this instead." He patted the dashboard paternally.

We drove to the residential area, and pulled into a large dusty area surrounded on three sides by apartment buildings. One of the buildings was abandoned, seemingly having never been completed. A group of Kyrgyz teenagers were hanging around. I asked them to show me inside the building. It was empty except for the occasional mattress on the floor. Some of the walls had graffiti on them, names of western or Russian music groups, English swear words and loving laments ‘Maksim ya tebya lublu, no ti menya ne lubish.’ (Maksim, I love you, but you do not love me.)

I returned to the car to continue my tour. "I'll show you something you wont believe" the taxi driver told me, "we call it our Iraq!" We drove to a dusty plateau overlooking the top of the town along a dusty track that seemed to be capable of bursting our tyres at any moment and then I saw it. Spread out before us on a gently sloping hill was a sight quite like anything I'd seen, a scene of utter desolation. The whole area was a wasteland of rubble, maybe 30 or 40 ruined houses, their walls shattered. These were not just houses that had just been left to fall into disuse, these were houses that had been smashed to bits, crushed to rubble as though by some great hulking fist from the sky, like you see in the early Soviet propaganda posters of a giant peasants fist smashing a Kulak’s house in retribution for grain hoarding. Just the footings were left where once had stood family homes.

It truly was like a war zone; Dresden after the raids. I walked about photographing the destruction and saw a wooden house in the distance, seemingly occupied. I poked my head over the fence and startled an old Russian woman tending to her garden. "I came with my husband in ‘67, it was a beautiful place. My children grew up here, there were never any problems. Neighbours would always help you, but not now. Everyone thinks only about themselves. My husband died in ’87; at least he never saw what we have become." Her children had left, gone to Russia but she would not return. "This is my home. My children call me from Russia telling me to come, but what for? I'm old and I don't want to be a burden, let them live their lives."

We went for something to eat in a cafe where my driver seemed to know everyone, "I have a famous journalist from The London Times" he mischievously announced. We were joined by an elderly Kyrgyz gentleman. I asked him about the future of the town, "Nobody cares about this place, nobody. You see our President* drive through on his way to Cholpon-Ata. We say that the reason for his blacked out windows is not so that we can't see him but so that he isn't reminded about us. They're all bandits. Our mayor is another one, what has he ever done for us?" I spoke to others all telling sad tales of a town that was seemingly falling into oblivion. Another man told me how the town's electricity supply was cut for 12 hours every night. It did not surprise me; I couldn't imagine how the population could afford to pay their bills as it was. Surprisingly another man told me that the municipality cut off the water supply in the summer, I couldn't imagine why. (*This was before the April 2010 revolution that ousted now former President Bakiev.)

I have visited economically deprived areas in other parts of the former Soviet Union but this place had a feeling unlike any other I'd visited - and I realized what it was. There was no hope. In the run down areas of Belarus the people had placed their faith in an autocratic president, in Russia they had their "Real Man" (Putin), the Moldovans I'd met in the backwater of Unghen had hoped for EU accession, but what could the residents of Balykchy put their hope in? I pondered the question but drew a blank. Despite it's location on the shore of one of Central Asia's wonders, tourists would never flock to Balykchy in the way that many did to the other towns such as Cholpon Ata. Balykchy was always a place of industry and trade, lacking the sandy beaches and stunning backdrop of the other areas of the lake and it lacked tourist infrastructure. Who would invest millions in constructing hotels in this wind swept town? No, Balykchy had known the good times but now it would have to live on those fading memories. It was the 'Tomsk' of Kyrgyzstan, always knowing its past was greater then its future.

My driver took me back to the bus station. Whilst I was heading back to the capital's bright lights, the residents of Balykchy would be settling in for another dark night without electricity. I paid my driver and thanked him for his tour of Balykchy. As I boarded the bus he shouted out "Next time go to Cholpon-Ata, it's very beautiful!"

To see the complete set of photographs accompanying this post, please CLICK HERE.

Rockin' the Tash Ra(bat)

Kyrgyzstan: Naryn, Tashrabat, and Koshoy Korgon by Jane
To see the full set of photographs accompanying this post, CLICK HERE.

In March 2008 I was working at The London School in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. The Islamic holiday of Nooruz fell on a Friday that year, giving me and seven of my coworkers a three-day weekend. We decided to make use of our mini-vacation to travel to the city of Naryn, located a six hour drive to the south-east of Bishkek. From there, our plan was to visit Tash Rabat, a stone fortress/caravanserai dating from either the 13th or 15th century (depending on the source), which was once a prominent stop on the silk road, and which is, as far as I can tell, the only remaining silk road era structure in Kyrgyzstan.

We had hoped to make it to Naryn in time to participate in some Nooruz related festivities, although when we rolled into town late in the afternoon, little to nothing was going on, and people were few and far between. Not the least undaunted, we wandered the empty streets, explored the banks of the Naryn River, and hiked high into the mountains above the city. We weren’t planning to embark on our main adventure – the quest for Tash Rabat – until the following morning.

The city of Naryn is a long, thin city,
hemmed into the Naryn River valley.

Public transportation in Kyrgyzstan ranges from iffy and unreliable to nonexistent, depending, and traveling anywhere remotely off the beaten path required arranging for a private car. This, of course, is much cheaper if one has traveling companions with whom one can share the cost, and as I had seven such companions, acquiring vehicles to take us to Tash Rabat was neither difficult, nor expensive. (Anyone seeking to tread in our rather bizarre footsteps should contact CBT Kyrgyzstan, as they are wonderful – especially considering that not many car-owning individuals wish to risk damaging their cars on the less than safe trip to Tash Rabat during the spring.)

Tash Rabat is only about 60km from Naryn; however, due to the quality of the roads, the trip takes about two to two and a half hours. The main road heading from Naryn to the Torugart Pass (leading over the border into China) is traveled daily by numerous semis bringing goods into Kyrgyzstan from its gigantic neighbor. This makes driving interesting, as inevitably both your car and the approaching semi will be driving down the center of the narrow road as rapidly as your respective vehicles can manage! Eventually, you will turn off the main road to China, and head southeast along a small dirt/gravel track. Then you will have to ford a river. The remains of a “modern” bridge can still be seen, although it collapsed several years ago and has yet to be repaired. Depending on the season, the river can be un-crossable in all but the largest, sturdiest of vehicles. Luckily for us, the snows had only just begun to melt, and we were able to ford the river with no problem.

The road towards the Torugart Pass

After fording the river, you will continue up the Tash Rabat valley, following the course of the river. In theory, one should be able to travel by car all the way to the fortress of Tash Rabat itself. However, in Kyrgyzstan, one should realize that just because something is true “in theory” doesn’t mean it will occur in fact. We drove along the river into the Tash Rabat valley. The river was frozen on its surface, yet thawed and flowing underneath. Eventually, we came to a place where the road passed across the surface of the ice for a good fifty meters or so. We were almost across when the ice gave way. Forward momentum ceased and the car simply sunk. There was a moment of silence before our driver said: Uh-oh.

Our driver examines his car, wedged into the ice.What is it with me and strange vehicular journeys across melting ice?

Our driver told us that we were within walking distance of Tash Rabat, and told us to walk on ahead, saying that he’d wait for the second car, and that he and the other driver would be able to get the car un-stuck. So off we walked down the valley. And we walked. And we walked.

As we approached every bend, we were convinced Tash Rabat would be around the next corner. Tash Rabat is located at an elevation of roughly 3500 meters, and the thin air began to make us all quite giddy. At one point my friend Katy and I were even making up a song to the tune of Rock the Casbah, singing rockin’ the Tash Ra, rock the Tash Ra as we tramped an interminable distance further from the car and higher into the mountains. When we finally rounded the final turn and saw the fortress in the distance, we let out quite a cheer.

Our first view of Tash Rabat

As we approached Tash Rabat, a woman soon emerged from the homestead located next to the fortress and ambled over to us. It turned out that she and her husband were the caretakers of Tash Rabat. We were invited in for tea, and rested as we waited for the rest of our party to arrive. When we were all assembled, we made our way over to Tash Rabat. The old fortress was interesting, and had a splendid view of the valley. It was filled with many chambers, some of which still bore the remains of the original decorative plasterwork.

A closer look at Tash Rabat

Some of the original plasterwork inside Tash Rabat

After deciding we’d had enough time rockin’ the Tash Ra, the caretaker informed us that her son was willing to drive us back to where we’d left our cars. Since there were eight of us, he had to take us in two shifts. I was part of the first shift. Our driver was young, into absurdly fast driving and crazy loud music – which was both awesome and frightening, given the road quality and all. Nonetheless, we made it back to our cars in record time.

While waiting with our drivers for the second shift to arrive, a man rode up on a horse. He wore desert camouflage, had a shotgun strapped to his back and wore shotgun shells around his waist. We called him the Kyrgyz version of Walker, Texas Ranger. He and one of the drivers began testing the ice in different places (by jumping up and down and stomping) to see if they thought a car could pass over anywhere safely. Apparently, our fast moving, loud-music-playing driver wanted to get across. While they were busy stomping on the ice, Walker Kyrgyz Ranger’s horse simply wandered off. I told him his horse was leaving, and he replied that it was okay; they lived nearby and it was simply going home. He began talking to me... and then offered me five yaks to become his second wife! I wasn’t too clear on whether he’d be shipping the five yaks to my father (which would actually be quite an endeavor) or if he’d simply be assigning me five of his yaks to take care of. Either way, I declined. But now we know I’m worth five yaks. I later learned that the going “bride price” in that area is more like 200 yaks, which was thoroughly disheartening.

My potential Kyrgyz husband

After both car loads of people had been reunited, we began our trip back to Naryn. However, it wasn’t a straight trip. We stopped along the way at the ruined citadel of Koshoy Korgon, located near the village of Kara-Suu. Not much is known about this fortress (at least according to my guidebooks and the all-knowing interwebz, anyway) but it dates from roughly the 10th century, and was probably Karakhanid. All that remains of this once grand citadel are crumbling earth walls, which are both desolate and majestic.

All that remains of Koshoy Korgon

Osh and Jalalabad: After the unrest

Those of us who currently make up the Desolation Travel collective have all spent time in Kyrgyzstan, and we all share a love of this small, Central Asian country. I was glued to the internet throughout the events of last April's revolution and last May/June's ethnic clashes. If I had the funds, I would return to Kyrgyzstan in a heartbeat, just to see for myself what the situation is really like. As I don't have such funds, I must continue to rely on the internet. The folks at the Herro Asia! blog have just posted their story and pictures from their recent visit to the towns of Osh and Jalalabad. The post itself is fairly short, but the pictures, especially of Osh, are definitely worth viewing. CLICK HERE!

Following Polo

From Osh to Murgab, by Joe
To view the complete set of photos, click here.

Sometimes it's not about travel itself, but instead about the epic fables you manufacture to impress your friends around the dinner table. Some 700 years ago, a young Italian by the name of Marco Polo (no relation to the t-shirt guy) set off to some of the most remote and uncharted lands of his time. His narrative of travels through China and Central Asia are nothing short of legendary, if not half fictitious. Not being one to simply take the words of others at face value, I opted for a little exploration of my own. However, this was not a journey about the destination, oh no. This was a glaring example of the old aphorism, “Getting there is 98.4% of the fun.”

When one arrives into the southern Kyrgyz city of Osh, you might think you've reached the end of the civilized world. Although an important town in the days of the Silk Road, it has fallen somewhat out of favour in last several hundred years. This is the new wild west. But the ubiquitous tumble weeds have been replaced by plastic bags. And instead of a shoot-out at high noon, you are more likely to see a dispute settled by some pissed off motorist chasing a guy down in an antiquated Lada death-trap (actually saw this happen). Sadly, not even a place like this is backwater enough for some. I did not come for Osh. I was here to blindly leap from this “end of civilization” into the unknown desolation abyss.

Osh is typically where travellers come to find transport to the Pamir Highway, the eastern 2/3 of Tajikistan made famous by that young Italian explorer. This was the frontier of the Soviet Union, the bounds of all things refined in a largely unrefined empire. Whereas most holidayers will base their travel decisions on such non-sensical ideals as logic and rationality, these are not for me. Instead, I was travelling to the region at the very end of the short lived tourist season. While the summer months can be lovely along the mostly 4,000+ meter high roadway, winter here is harsh. We're talking 1,000s die due to the extreme cold. Matters aren't helped much by the apathetic central government that provides a mere 3 hours of state electricity a day. And remember, there are no trees for burning at these altitudes.

With no public transport system along the highway, travellers are forced to arrange shared taxis. These go for around $200+, one-way, for the trip from Osh to the Tajik “town” of Murgab. But let me remind you that my rather harebrained travel itinerary had me heading to the region when there were no others with whom to share costs. And with this single trip costing half of my monthly Kyrgyz salary, I was forced to seek out an alternative. Rumours were that I might find something around the bus terminal. When you're desperate, any sign of hope will do. That's when I met Sergei.

Sergei was doing a supply run in a couple hours from Osh to Murgab in his old Soviet Raf van. Loaded with tomatoes, roofing shingles, ghettoblasters, and a variety of “mystery” packages, there wasn't a lot of room for a passenger. But at an agreed price of $20, I was quite happy to forsake a little leg room. I scurried around town, collecting my things and making last minute purchases of road trip grub as I wasn't fully convinced Sergei would let me chow down on his precious commodities. As the time came to leave, I wasn't sure my anachronistic chariot would even make it out of the parking lot. Even so, I carved out a makeshift seat for the 10-12 hour journey.

My fellow passengers

I couldn't figure out if my pilot was lost, but we circled Osh a fair few times. It soon became clear; the van wasn't fully loaded yet. In the nearly 2 hours of make-shift city tour, we managed to pick up more surprise gift bags and even a couple other passengers. We became very closely acquainted, very quickly. It's hard not to when you're essentially sitting in another man's lap. But we were finally on our way. Or so I thought. A couple hours outside town we turned onto a dirt road that would belong in a Texas Chainsaw Massacre movie. Convinced of my looming disembowelment, I toyed with the idea of eating all of Sergei's tomatoes in a last defiant act. But all was for not as we pulled into Sergei's house to pick up the last few items. But as we prepared to leave, again, a rather chilling, disheartening sound came out of what was supposed to be the motor. We weren't going anywhere. Sergei and the other's toiled away for hours, disassembling, reassembling, banging, grunting and swearing, all in an attempt to solve the problem until they finally gave up. He apologized for the delay, and his wife served some meat flavoured water and stale bread as we were put up for the night. We'd try again in the morning.

Daybreak brought good news. Sergei had gone for a replacement part and we were off as soon as we downed the tea and biscuits served by his wife. The trip to the Kyrgyz/Tajik border was uneventful. I tried a variety of contortionist positions to try to watch the beautiful scenery fly by our tiny windows. As the border approached, the normally ominous, 7,000+ meter Pik Lenin, had been rudely obscured by the clouds of an impending storm. Border formalities were shockingly easy. But as the Tajik side of the road crept ever higher and higher, it led us right into the guts of a blizzard. Even the poor mountain goats and yaks in the fields had an expression of “This Sucks!” As we crested over the first alpine pass, the snow subsided, the sky cleared and the beauty of the Pamirs revealed itself. But the show was short-lived as night set in. With no headlights, we were forced to bunk down in the lakeside community of Karakol.

Near the Kyrgyz/Tajik border

Lake Karakol, Tajikistan

The guesthouse was nice. Good food and blankets thick enough to smother a full grown elephant. Morning came soon. We had arranged to meet at 6 am for what was hopefully the final leg of our journey. However, new mechanical problems had us leaving closer to noon. I didn't mind. Lake Karakol is easily the highlight of the Pamir Highway. Finally we were off, yet again, through some of the most remote and desolate territory on Earth. No towns, no power lines, no traffic, just the guaranteed impending death sentence should the Raf decide to crap out again. Shockingly, the other passengers started to stir. A clear expression of anticipation and relief plastered all over their faces. We had arrived into Murgab. A mere 49 hours after leaving Osh. But even after quickly realizing just how backwater the town was, it didn't matter. My journey had finished. No body parts had frozen off and I wasn't forced to eat any of my fellow passengers. After a much needed stay in a banya, I hoped that I'd be able to find transport for the remaining 4/5 of the Pamir Highway.

Reminiscing: Kyrgyzstan

A Coalition Comes to Kyrgyzstan by our friend Andy

Well, news from the Kyrgyz elections suggests that the formation of a coalition government may be imminent. You may have crippling electricity shortages, a total lack of industry, a bloody revolution threatening to topple over into actual civil war, and a deposed president hiding out somewhere whose associates are (supposedly) fomenting bloody internal revolt, but there’s always something worse that can happen to you, isn’t there? Let’s hope they get their position on child benefit and university tuition fees sorted out well ahead of time, or the country really could be in trouble. [click to read complete article]