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

The Road to the Evaporated Sea at the End of the World

Travels in Southern Kazakhstan by Nicola
To view the complete set of photographs accompanying this post, CLICK HERE.

(This forms a sister post to “Festive Fun and Frolics” by Ben S, available here)

Working as a TEFL teacher has its perks. The long holidays and disposable income mean that exciting journeys await the adventurous traveller. Having slaved away at our 21-hour-a-week jobs in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, Ben Scott and I eagerly awaited the Christmas break. And where better to spend it than exploring Kazakhstan, home of Borat and ‘Black Russian in a tin’ cocktails. What could be more festive?

The first challenge for the would-be visitor is acquiring a visa. This process involves at least two trips to the Kazakh embassy, usually conveniently during working hours, and the production of a letter of invitation. No letter? No problem, just write a personal statement on the provided A4 copier paper. Something along the lines of ‘Kazakhstan is a world-famous country, fascinating culture, I love manti, etc.’ should do it. Probably best not to mention Borat here.

Once you have your visa, it’s onward to the border. Travelling to Kazakhstan, like almost everywhere in the Former Soviet Union, means a mixture of shared taxis and mashrutkas (minibuses). Firstly, it is necessary to locate a car which is going your way. Usually you’ll be surrounded by jostling men in leather hats, who will try to hustle you into their ancient Ladas, or if you’re lucky, 1980’s Mercs. Do not get into the car until you have negotiated the price down to an acceptable level, usually a factor of 10 will do the trick.

At the border, you will stand outside a tin shed in the rain for an indeterminate period before being called inside by the border guards. They will proceed to do one of three things:
1. Wave you through in a disinterested manner.
2. Grill you for an age before waving you through in a disinterested manner.
3. Grill you for an age, and then demand money in order to wave you through. If you’re female, they might demand a telephone number in lieu of cash. When this happened to me (crossing from Uzbekistan to Kyrgyzstan), I provided them with the number of my male, Kyrgyz friend. Unfortunately, they never did call.

You will then be asked to fill out a customs declaration. If you’re lucky, this will be in Russian, giving you a fighting chance of understanding it. Otherwise (and almost certainly if you’re stupid enough to try to board a flight from Almaty airport at any point during your travels) it’ll be in Kazakh. Try to find a friendly, older person to adopt you and guide you through the customs procedure: this is normal in the FSU. Alternatively, you can usually track down some under-employed student who wants to try out their English on you in the hope of a visa recommendation.

On the other side of the border, the same rigmarole of men in leather caps, soviet-era deathtrap vehicles, and blatant extortion will be repeated until you find transport for the next leg of your journey. From the border, we headed by mashrutka to Taraz, where we just had time to change some money at the only open bureau in town, take a brief glance at the completely deserted and unremarkable main street, and then argue our way into another shared taxi heading towards Turkestan.

By this time, it was getting late, so we were quite glad to hunker down in the comparative comfort of the car (if I remember correctly, a formerly German-owned Ford Mondeo; which had come to Central Asia to end its life after failing “Das MOT,” no doubt). We piqued the interest of our fellow passengers; two guys in leather jackets, the younger of whom was working on his spiv moustache. “Why are you in Kazakhstan? Where do you live? You live in BISHKEK? What do you do there? Are you married? Do you have babies? Why not?!” etc.

Some time in to the journey, we passed through a desolate hamlet which could be charitably called a suburb of Turkestan. Our car began to slow, and pulled up outside a small shop/restaurant of the sort which dot Central Asian highways. The older of our travelling companions said something about cigarettes, which I took to mean a smoking break, as the shack in question was securely boarded up for the night. All three Kazakhs got out of the car and headed towards the rear of the shop. Time passed. What could have been the light from a candle appeared around the doorframe, or it could have been my sleep-deprived and over-stimulated imagination playing tricks.

Finally, without a word, the men reappeared and got back into the car. We drove off. After a while, the older man started to talk to us about jobs; explaining that they were ‘businessmen,’ and was going to Turkestan for ‘business’. We thought best to leave it at that.

Arriving in Turkestan, the driver asked us where we were staying. As we hadn’t arranged any accommodation in advance, we asked him to recommend somewhere. He drove us to what looked like an office block, but which turned out to be the newest hotel in town, and one of the better places I stayed at during my time in Central Asia. The older passenger told us to stay in the car, and disappeared into the hotel lobby. Reappearing, he assured us that we would pay local rate. Slightly fearfully, we thanked him, before lugging our bags up to our room.

As it transpired, we did pay the local rate, and the hotel turned out to be the perfect base for exploring the town of Turkestan. This small town in Southern Kazakhstan would be utterly unremarkable, were it not for the huge Mausoleum of Khoja Ahmed Yasawi, which dominates the skyline. Built by Timur (Tamerlane) over the grave of a revered Sufi mystic, it’s one of the only Timurid monuments in Central Asia still functioning as a place of pilgrimage – according to local custom, three visits here is equivalent to undertaking the Hajj. It also fails to attract the busloads of European tourists that flock to Uzbekistan’s more well-known madrassas and mausoleums, meaning that the only other visitors were a handful of local pilgrims and two very out-of-place-looking camels slowly making their way across the snowy fields.
After visiting the mausoleum, we headed into town in search of food. In the town centre was a bazaar, selling the usual selection of pickled vegetables, plastic rubbish from China and thick woollen socks hand-knitted by Kazakh grandmothers. Buried in this smelly, icy maze was a tiny shack which purported to be a restaurant. The young lady who owned the place was clearly bemused to have it patronised by foreigners in the dead of winter, but led us through to a spartan, unheated room decorated with a huge laminated picture of a Chinese feast, complete with exotic fruit, intricately carved vegetables, and steaming piles of dumplings. We asked what was on the menu. “Lagman” (boiled noodle soup).

After our bowls of hot lagman, we headed across town to change some more money and buy tickets for the train north to Aralsk. We were able to get sleeper berths on the train leaving that evening, in platskart (third class), which in the FSU resembles a dormitory on wheels. We were the centre of attention on the train; men asked us if we knew their relatives who were working in England, women shared their pickled salads with us, and babushkas constantly tried to sell us things. Figuring it was likely to get very cold; I bought a pair of fur-lined leather booties.

The train chugged slowly on, making its laborious 16 hour way to Aralsk. Small stations came and went; with huddled figures hefting vast carriers of god knows what though the gloom. The landscape was flat and white for as far as the eye could see. This part of Kazakhstan is certainly not the most scenic of places.
By the time we arrived in Aralsk, it was early morning, and still dark. We jumped off the high side of the train into the snow, and crossed the tracks to the small station building. After some subdued haggling, we caught a taxi to the only hotel in town, a Soviet-era block next to the old harbour, with tiny, unheated and uninhabited rooms. We seemed to be the only guests, and had the distinct impression that it had been that way for some time. It was Christmas Day.

(Please see Ben Scott’s post “Festive Fun and Frolics” for an account of our time in Aralsk)