We returned to Karakol after an unusual breakfast of rice wrapped in pancakes and began our attempt to extricate The Aussie's washing from the local laundry to enable us to leave. However, a tree had fallen on the laundry building and no one could get hold of the owner. This left us rather stuck. We went back to Valentin’s to mull things over.
That evening we got to know another couple staying at the Yak Hotel – who happened to be celebrating the Jewish New Year with a special meal. By bizarre coincidence it turned out that Valentin’s wife was also Jewish and so more than willing to prepare a speciality of stewed pears mixed with cream with crushed raspberries on top and pomegranate seeds. Delicious. Valentin also told us more about his life – the fact that his hobby was to dress up as Father Christmas (with photos to prove it) and of his smallholding outside the town where he keeps yaks, horses and a grumpy Shetland pony. This pony was responsible for a very unusual operation when plastic surgeons from Bishkek were flown in to operate on the lip of a yak that had been torn off by the Sheltand. He was probably rather bemused at finding himself living in the Kyrgyz mountains after an adolescence in Europe.
The next day, held hostage to the laundry, we’d decided to see the sights of Karakol; albeit somewhat minimal. We stopped first at the end of our street at the Russian Orthodox Church. This is a pretty, old building (completed in 1895) which was ransacked by the Red Army at the beginning of the 20th century. Just to rub it in they then used the church as a stable, and a dance hall, before it was turned into a school during WW2. It has now been re-consecrated and sits in the centre of the town with renewed pride glowing from its shiny onion domes.
Another attraction are the ‘gingerbread’ houses built in neat rows by the Russians. They are so called as they really do look like the sort of house in Hansel & Gretyl illustrations – all steeply pitched roof, thick wooden doors and windows that look like eyes nestled under the eves. Sadly (but not surprisingly) they are now falling into disrepair and are often found with a horse/cow/chicken pecking about outside. They are juxtaposed by crumbling soviet apartment blocks that appear on their last legs and that no one seems overly keen on doing up. Throughout the town are squares and parks being choked with weeds and long grass, but are filled with monuments and statues. Against the odds they maintain an impressive air with their avenues of trees turning gold in the autumn, and the stupendous backdrop of the mountains.
We took a detour through the back streets to visit the local mosque but got a bit lost. We were rescued by a very friendly local woman who said she was a teacher at a local school and seemed to want to become our new best friend. She escorted us to the mosque. Karakol mosque was designed by a Chinese architect in 1907 and constructed in wood without the use of a single nail by the Dungans who’d arrived as refugees in 1887. The Bolsheviks closed the mosque from 1933 until 1943, but it was then reopened and has operated as a place of worship since then. Set in its own garden the mosque has distinctive decoration, painted in vibrant red, green and yellow - and bears reliefs depicting various types of flora as well as mythical animals such as dragons and the phoenix, giving it an original character. Our new found friend then insisted on following us to the internet café and asking for The Aussie’s address so that she could send her a Christmas card – very friendly – but a bit full on.
On our last morning The Aussie did get her laundry back – and only 3 days late…. We had a great moment of Central Asian weirdness waiting outside the laundry in a garden of hollyhocks and roses, amongst the damaged trees that caused it to close. Glancing across the road we noticed a local park – proudly displaying a disused tank as its centre piece. OK. Then two workmen turned up to work on reopening the place. The owner wasn’t there so they waited around for 10 mins or so and then got a bit bored. At that point one of them calmly wandered into the middle of a bonfire of tree bits and pulled out a bottle of vodka, the other chap crouched down at the side of the road, put his arm into a drain pipe up to his shoulder and also emerged with a full bottle of vodka – they then adjourned to sit on the tank at 9am looking quite pleased with themselves! Such is the joy of living in a country where the vodka costs more than the mixers.
Eventually someone with a key did turn up (having explained our predicament to all and sundry as they passed by) and David and The Aussie were able to retrieve their clean clothes. The Aussie would have been very upset to loose her purple and silver striped knee high socks. Even the Russians look a bit speechless when she goes out wearing them with sandals; I think its just jealousy.
After all that, we set off from Karakol on the long trip along the southern shore of Lake Issyk-Kul on a 2 day trip over the mountains to Osh. The 1st leg of the journey included David the Aussie, luckily we ditched him in a small town by the lake, and a 6 hour journey with one early 90s tape constantly blaring out Ace of Base and 2 Unlimited – nice.
Thursday, 21 February 2008
Epic Poetry in Kyrgyzstan
We followed our ablutions with another interesting dinner of potato soup flavoured with lumps of bacon fat and had an early night; when the fire died down it was just too damn cold to stay up without it. The next morning was beautifully clear and I took my book out to enjoy in the fresh air. After finishing it I found myself disinclined to return to the lodge and content to just contemplate stuff whilst gazing down the valley. This was a revelation and a sure sign of having removed myself from London life. At home I am constantly rushing – trying to get things done and pack as much as possible into every hour. I never spend time actively doing nothing or giving myself time to think – but it was wonderful.
I’ve always thought that having the sort of life where you spend all day out herding sheep etc would be incredibly boring, but this has changed my mind. Once you are out of the mindset of having to be doing something every moment of the day I think it would be very peaceful and give rise to other possibilities. If you aren’t constantly stressed about work/catching the tube etc then how much more possibility is there for art and poetry? It can’t be a lack of coincidence the prevalence of the oral tradition in places like this, with spectacular traditions of verse, epic stories and music being passed through the ages.
Kyrgyzstan has its own version of the traditional epic poem. Manas, a Kyrgyz folk hero, is immortalised in stories handed down in the oral tradition. He personifies the unique power, freedom and unity of the people. These stories are, even today, recited by highly respected ‘manaschy’. As a nomadic people the Kyrgyz have very little written history. Much of what is known about their origins has been gleaned from this epic – the longest poem in the world (over 500,000 lines) and easily comparable to the Iliad of Odyssey.
The Mamas epic describes the great struggles in the battle for independence, chronicling the hero’s brave actions and incredible feats. Nicely echoing the recent split from Russia these ancient battles for freedom are equally relevant to Kyrgyz today as to those 10 centuries earlier, and most generations in between. In Post Communist Kyrgyzstan the government has grasped the ancient figure of Manas as a means of embodying and encouraging the virtues of the Kyrgyz they wish to see: justice, honesty, dignity, love, patriotism, respect, tolerance, hope and peace.
As valuable to historians are the accounts of the minutiae of life in ancient Kyrgyzstan, including facts about states, geography and ethnicities etc. The epic names over 530 cities, villages, rivers in Europe, Asia and Africa. The Talas valley is synonymous with the epic poem with many of the events in its lines taking place there. By tradition the valley is seen to be Manas’ last resting place with the 14th centuary Mausoleum of Manas being the focal point. It is a popular belief that this was built by Manas’ wife, Kanikey, who was ordered to write on the walls the name of a woman to deceive Manas’ enemies and protect his body from defilement.
I’ve always thought that having the sort of life where you spend all day out herding sheep etc would be incredibly boring, but this has changed my mind. Once you are out of the mindset of having to be doing something every moment of the day I think it would be very peaceful and give rise to other possibilities. If you aren’t constantly stressed about work/catching the tube etc then how much more possibility is there for art and poetry? It can’t be a lack of coincidence the prevalence of the oral tradition in places like this, with spectacular traditions of verse, epic stories and music being passed through the ages.
Kyrgyzstan has its own version of the traditional epic poem. Manas, a Kyrgyz folk hero, is immortalised in stories handed down in the oral tradition. He personifies the unique power, freedom and unity of the people. These stories are, even today, recited by highly respected ‘manaschy’. As a nomadic people the Kyrgyz have very little written history. Much of what is known about their origins has been gleaned from this epic – the longest poem in the world (over 500,000 lines) and easily comparable to the Iliad of Odyssey.
The Mamas epic describes the great struggles in the battle for independence, chronicling the hero’s brave actions and incredible feats. Nicely echoing the recent split from Russia these ancient battles for freedom are equally relevant to Kyrgyz today as to those 10 centuries earlier, and most generations in between. In Post Communist Kyrgyzstan the government has grasped the ancient figure of Manas as a means of embodying and encouraging the virtues of the Kyrgyz they wish to see: justice, honesty, dignity, love, patriotism, respect, tolerance, hope and peace.
As valuable to historians are the accounts of the minutiae of life in ancient Kyrgyzstan, including facts about states, geography and ethnicities etc. The epic names over 530 cities, villages, rivers in Europe, Asia and Africa. The Talas valley is synonymous with the epic poem with many of the events in its lines taking place there. By tradition the valley is seen to be Manas’ last resting place with the 14th centuary Mausoleum of Manas being the focal point. It is a popular belief that this was built by Manas’ wife, Kanikey, who was ordered to write on the walls the name of a woman to deceive Manas’ enemies and protect his body from defilement.
Going Native in the Hot Springs
Back down in the valley we made use of the local natural hot springs. Although they do bubble up into natural basins along by the river – we headed to those under the aegis of the bearded Russian women who act as guardians for the springs and live in battered huts next to them. Both a husband and wife appeared to live in this small house, attended by numerous snarling, yet wagging dogs, but Mr. Bearded Lady was huddled next to the tiny heater and not in the least interested in 2 western girls carrying their bikinis in temperatures below zero.
Having made our minimal fee we were handed an enormous key by Mrs. Bearded Lady who pointed through the gloaming towards 2 concrete structures at the end of their compound. This is where the hot water was channelled into several concrete pools. The very Russian huts had little (if any) lighting and consisted of one changing room (freezing!) and a room with the pool in (boiling). On the wall was pinned a report from some Russian institute that has tested the waters listing what the minerals that appeared in them in staggering quantities – and sounding more like a warning about additives. The water itself was about 40 degrees.
We shivered our way through stripping off in the changing room, toes curling at the slimy mould on the bare floor, teeth chattering at the madness of stripping off below zero! Rushing into the pool the sound of chattering teeth was replaced by the “oh, h-h-h-HOT” as we slowly lowered ourselves in to the water. The heat made my head spin and my limbs turn lobster as I acclimatised to the temperature. The bath is about 4 metres square with a shallow end for sitting in and a deep end where it was possible to swim. We could feel the strains of the day’s activity melting away – along with most of our muscles!
Shortly, David appeared and took a little persuading that although he claimed to be a hippy that was really no excuse for wanting to use the baths naked, we insisted on pants. The pools were lovely and warming on tired legs but so hot that I kept on having to get out to recover.
David, being the eccentric that he was – declared that he was going to do the traditional thing and dashed off out of the hut in his pants. Thinking that the heat had turned the balance of his mind we waited to see what he was doing. Soon enough he returned, glowing, and sunk back into the pool. Evangelising about this invigorating treatment I began to be persuaded. After all, I might as well give it a go… So, the next time he suggested it, I went too; dashing down to the river to douse myself in snowmelt water from the glacier, before running back to the hot springs. Dancing across the pasture in nought but a bikini, trying to avoid stepping on frozen yak poo or icy thistles it did cross my mind that this was faintly ridiculous. A thought seemingly echoed but the expressions of Mr. and Mrs. Bearded Lady. But it was fantastic! Once I had negotiated the rocks to the river’s edge, bashing my head on a pipe taking water to the huts and skidding on slippery stones on the river bed, I found a spot deep enough for semi immersion. Squatting down I splashed snow melt water all over, gasping as I did and forcing myself to continue. Unexpectedly this made me feel not cold, but tingling all over. The tremendous heat of the pool was enough to insulate the body against the cold, only allowing the tingling as a sign that freezing water was coming into contact with the skin. This wasn’t a place to hang around in however and the return journey was made with haste back into the bosom of the steamy Russian huts and a very bemused Aussie. She wasn’t attempting the Yak Poo Dash for anyone!
Having made our minimal fee we were handed an enormous key by Mrs. Bearded Lady who pointed through the gloaming towards 2 concrete structures at the end of their compound. This is where the hot water was channelled into several concrete pools. The very Russian huts had little (if any) lighting and consisted of one changing room (freezing!) and a room with the pool in (boiling). On the wall was pinned a report from some Russian institute that has tested the waters listing what the minerals that appeared in them in staggering quantities – and sounding more like a warning about additives. The water itself was about 40 degrees.
We shivered our way through stripping off in the changing room, toes curling at the slimy mould on the bare floor, teeth chattering at the madness of stripping off below zero! Rushing into the pool the sound of chattering teeth was replaced by the “oh, h-h-h-HOT” as we slowly lowered ourselves in to the water. The heat made my head spin and my limbs turn lobster as I acclimatised to the temperature. The bath is about 4 metres square with a shallow end for sitting in and a deep end where it was possible to swim. We could feel the strains of the day’s activity melting away – along with most of our muscles!
Shortly, David appeared and took a little persuading that although he claimed to be a hippy that was really no excuse for wanting to use the baths naked, we insisted on pants. The pools were lovely and warming on tired legs but so hot that I kept on having to get out to recover.
David, being the eccentric that he was – declared that he was going to do the traditional thing and dashed off out of the hut in his pants. Thinking that the heat had turned the balance of his mind we waited to see what he was doing. Soon enough he returned, glowing, and sunk back into the pool. Evangelising about this invigorating treatment I began to be persuaded. After all, I might as well give it a go… So, the next time he suggested it, I went too; dashing down to the river to douse myself in snowmelt water from the glacier, before running back to the hot springs. Dancing across the pasture in nought but a bikini, trying to avoid stepping on frozen yak poo or icy thistles it did cross my mind that this was faintly ridiculous. A thought seemingly echoed but the expressions of Mr. and Mrs. Bearded Lady. But it was fantastic! Once I had negotiated the rocks to the river’s edge, bashing my head on a pipe taking water to the huts and skidding on slippery stones on the river bed, I found a spot deep enough for semi immersion. Squatting down I splashed snow melt water all over, gasping as I did and forcing myself to continue. Unexpectedly this made me feel not cold, but tingling all over. The tremendous heat of the pool was enough to insulate the body against the cold, only allowing the tingling as a sign that freezing water was coming into contact with the skin. This wasn’t a place to hang around in however and the return journey was made with haste back into the bosom of the steamy Russian huts and a very bemused Aussie. She wasn’t attempting the Yak Poo Dash for anyone!
An Invocation of Kant's 'Sublime'
This climb didn’t look to be too challenging – roughly 200m up a tufty slope to the ridge – and then out along a point that projected like a dislocated vertebra from the spine of the ridge out, over the valley. But at that altitude is wasn’t easy and I resorted to very lowly ambitions – aiming to scramble up the slope bush by bush, and stopping to catch my breath at each one. Eventually I reached the saddle at the top and set out across the ridge at about 3,800m. Either side of the arête were slippery, boggy patches of ground – I presume due to the snow that frequently covers the area. I inched my way along the top, fearful of the drops down either side to the valley floor below – but it was thoroughly worth it.
From the point at the end I had a view that spanned the Tien Shan mountain range in all directions – glistening peaks rearing out above the tree line and towering above shadowy valleys. On several of the closer slopes I could make out avalanche trials evidenced by the husks of fallen pine trees pointing away from the source of their destruction. I had a sense of freedom, clarity and an appreciation of the enormity of nature that I know is hard to find. I studied Kant’s theory of the “sublime” in aesthetics and I think this is the best description of this emotion. To explain: Kant states that there are two kinds of finer feeling: the feeling of the sublime and the feeling of the beautiful. Feelings of the beautiful "occasion a pleasant sensation but one that is joyous and smiling" for example the relatively pedestrian sight of flower beds, grazing flocks, and daylight. Feelings of the sublime however “arouse enjoyment but with horror" and can be the result of seeing mountain peaks, raging storms, and night.
Kant subdivided the sublime into three kinds. The feeling of the terrifying sublime is sometimes accompanied with a certain dread or melancholy. The feeling of the noble sublime is quiet wonder. Feelings of the splendid sublime are pervaded with beauty. I think the Tien Shan inspires a potent mixture of each of these, the exact proportions of which depend on the viewer.
At this point David decided descend by going straight down the face of the mountain through the pine woods (at lower altitude) and Sacha shrugged and left him to it. After his disappearance last night I decided to follow Sacha rather than trust David’s relaxed attitude.
From the point at the end I had a view that spanned the Tien Shan mountain range in all directions – glistening peaks rearing out above the tree line and towering above shadowy valleys. On several of the closer slopes I could make out avalanche trials evidenced by the husks of fallen pine trees pointing away from the source of their destruction. I had a sense of freedom, clarity and an appreciation of the enormity of nature that I know is hard to find. I studied Kant’s theory of the “sublime” in aesthetics and I think this is the best description of this emotion. To explain: Kant states that there are two kinds of finer feeling: the feeling of the sublime and the feeling of the beautiful. Feelings of the beautiful "occasion a pleasant sensation but one that is joyous and smiling" for example the relatively pedestrian sight of flower beds, grazing flocks, and daylight. Feelings of the sublime however “arouse enjoyment but with horror" and can be the result of seeing mountain peaks, raging storms, and night.
Kant subdivided the sublime into three kinds. The feeling of the terrifying sublime is sometimes accompanied with a certain dread or melancholy. The feeling of the noble sublime is quiet wonder. Feelings of the splendid sublime are pervaded with beauty. I think the Tien Shan inspires a potent mixture of each of these, the exact proportions of which depend on the viewer.
At this point David decided descend by going straight down the face of the mountain through the pine woods (at lower altitude) and Sacha shrugged and left him to it. After his disappearance last night I decided to follow Sacha rather than trust David’s relaxed attitude.
Into the mountains
It was absolutely freezing in Altyn Arashan, the sort of cold that knocks the breath out of your body when you try to inhale and forces you inside around a dying fire. To preserve as much warmth as possible we made the executive decision to go to bed as soon as the fire started gasping for wood we did not have. Heat conservation drove me to wear PJ shorts, trousers, skiing socks, T shirt, 2 long sleeve layers, a fleece and a woolly hat to bed, and also to use - but also in a sleeping bag liner, sleeping bag (mine) and a US army sleeping bag for arctic regions! Very warm - if a little smelly (the army sleeping bag)! If you ever want to wipe out a battalion of US army, attack them at night, somewhere cold. Once you get into one of those things it is nigh on impossible to get out! Having bundled ourselves sup in as many layers as possible and rolled into bed we subtly tried to persuade David to go to his own bed rather than sit on the end of The Aussie's bed and talk AT us. It was also imperative to go to bed early and say tucked up until morning as any night time forays to the long drop could include a risk of frostbite on some rather delicate areas!
We got up bright and early the next day for a long walk into the mountains, and a chance to get used to the altitude. Tania (still giggling with Sacha) produced an interesting breakfast involving cold noodles covered in powered pepper and fried potatoes. I think I preferred the cake in Khiva. Having consumed this unusual feast we set off.
The path took us along the valley floor and then began to wend its way up along the wooded flanks of the mountains. It was dry underfoot and obvious that we were following the paths made by the nomad’s animals earlier in the season. We could see the highest peak veiled in snow at the end of the valley and meandered our way up a neighbouring valley, stopping at the glacier melt streams along the way to fill up our water bottles – and catch our breath.
It was too late in the season for any domestic animals to be about, just dry pasture made upof peppermint that released a subtle fragrance when crushed by our walking boots, delicate little gentian plants and a kind of purple geranium. Dotted around the landscape were clumps of juniper (a smell reminiscent of gin) and blackcurrant bushes laden with late berries - blackcurrants are apparently a local cure for mountain sickness. It was a sort of infinite landscape – rolling hills and mountains scrolling into the distance with no sign of human intervention – no fences, habitation or rubbish. Occasionally we came across an area where yurts had been erected during the lush summer – obvious due to the circular scars on the ground from the tents; but other than that it was just us and an eerie hush broken only by the sound of gurgling springs and calls of soaring birds.
After several hours of huffing and puffing following Sacha who was skipping all over the place like a mountain goat we crossed over a river very precariously using a fallen free trunk as a bridge and climbed up to the snow line. This fresh snow was testament to our remoteness as it did not display any other footprints and crunched satisfyingly under our feet. We soon reached a glacial lake for lunch. The lake was what was known as a cwm in our GCSE geography lessons (Miss. Mansergh would be proud) sitting in a hollow below a triangular snow clad peak. It was a limpid jade green silently reflecting the slopes above it and the eagles catching thermals circling above us.
Lovely fresh snow was all around us, but the day was sunny and flopping down to lean against a sun warmed boulder we felt we’d earned our pack lunch (fried bread, tomatoes and cheese that had been sweating in plastic bags – as well as a large chunk of our own chocolate!). After we’d eaten, we left The Aussie smoking (not great for mountains sickness at altitude) and I followed the others to climb up to a pass and a peak nearby to get a decent view.
We got up bright and early the next day for a long walk into the mountains, and a chance to get used to the altitude. Tania (still giggling with Sacha) produced an interesting breakfast involving cold noodles covered in powered pepper and fried potatoes. I think I preferred the cake in Khiva. Having consumed this unusual feast we set off.
The path took us along the valley floor and then began to wend its way up along the wooded flanks of the mountains. It was dry underfoot and obvious that we were following the paths made by the nomad’s animals earlier in the season. We could see the highest peak veiled in snow at the end of the valley and meandered our way up a neighbouring valley, stopping at the glacier melt streams along the way to fill up our water bottles – and catch our breath.
It was too late in the season for any domestic animals to be about, just dry pasture made upof peppermint that released a subtle fragrance when crushed by our walking boots, delicate little gentian plants and a kind of purple geranium. Dotted around the landscape were clumps of juniper (a smell reminiscent of gin) and blackcurrant bushes laden with late berries - blackcurrants are apparently a local cure for mountain sickness. It was a sort of infinite landscape – rolling hills and mountains scrolling into the distance with no sign of human intervention – no fences, habitation or rubbish. Occasionally we came across an area where yurts had been erected during the lush summer – obvious due to the circular scars on the ground from the tents; but other than that it was just us and an eerie hush broken only by the sound of gurgling springs and calls of soaring birds.
After several hours of huffing and puffing following Sacha who was skipping all over the place like a mountain goat we crossed over a river very precariously using a fallen free trunk as a bridge and climbed up to the snow line. This fresh snow was testament to our remoteness as it did not display any other footprints and crunched satisfyingly under our feet. We soon reached a glacial lake for lunch. The lake was what was known as a cwm in our GCSE geography lessons (Miss. Mansergh would be proud) sitting in a hollow below a triangular snow clad peak. It was a limpid jade green silently reflecting the slopes above it and the eagles catching thermals circling above us.
Lovely fresh snow was all around us, but the day was sunny and flopping down to lean against a sun warmed boulder we felt we’d earned our pack lunch (fried bread, tomatoes and cheese that had been sweating in plastic bags – as well as a large chunk of our own chocolate!). After we’d eaten, we left The Aussie smoking (not great for mountains sickness at altitude) and I followed the others to climb up to a pass and a peak nearby to get a decent view.
Altyn Arashan - Alpine Shangri-la
The journey up to Altyn-Arashan a bone shaking ride in Valentin's 50 year old jeep. We spent the 14k journey up squished into the back of the jeep with our luggage, the cook (Tania), the guide (Sasha) and a selection of fence posts that Valentin was talking the opportunity to bring up to the camp. The jeep is a relic from the Russian army that actually starts using a hand cranked starting handle in the front. It constantly sounds as though it is on its last legs – but made is successfully up something that even an avowed optimist could not call a road. We eventually reached the “lodge” - in the loosest sense of the word, with The Aussie, David (who was refusing to SHUT UP! Not that annoying me of course) and a bunch of very friendly mice.
The only people we spotted on this journey were some hard looking men riding back down from the pastures – the equivalent of Kyrgyz cowboys or frontiersmen – not someone you’d want to get into a fight with, or be close enough to smell….. They sat stoically on their scruffy ponies with dirty, white Kyrgyz hats atop swarthy weather beaten faces. Bedrolls attached to their pack saddles indicated their nomadic tendencies – it seems facetious to say that it didn’t look like an easy life.
Altyn-Arashan is remote. The only sign of people were the squat concrete huts next to the hot springs, manned by scary, bearded Russian women and the tents along the track up from the road which were being used by local loggers with noisy dogs chained to their logging equipment outside. The drive up to the valley stutters across pine clad slopes with steep pine clad slopes to the left and a stony drop t the river on the right. At times the road was so blocked with chunks of rocks from winter avalanches that we had to get out and skirt around them on foot, leaving Valentin to coax his beloved jeep up vertiginous rock falls to make it through. It was music to our ears (although maybe not those of the local people!) that bears are known to frequent the area during the summer and that wolves move in during the winter.
The name of the valley translates as “Golden Spa” in Kyrgyz – a reference to the abundance of natural hot sulphur springs to be found. The valley itself sits at 3,000m – an alpine Shangri-la with lush pasture carpeting the valley floor, bathing in golden sunlight – with little stirring but the eagles riding the thermals overhead. At the head of the valley is the 4,260m Peak Palatka (Tent Mountain) looming as a snow capped benevolent giant in the shape of a giant marquee and supplying the snow melt water that courses in a fast, shallow Arashan river down to Karakol. Local peaks (of the Ak Suu rage of the Tien Shan) reach up to 5,022m. That’s quite high!
On our first afternoon Valentin sent us out to climb a local hill to get a breath of fresh air and see how we found the altitude. It was pretty knackering – but had amazing views. Our acclimatisation walk was fun, if slow going, and we came down as it started to get dark to have a warm up in the hot springs. David had sprinted on ahead and disappeared further up the slopes from us and we did get a bit worried waiting for him as it was pitch black and we started to think that he might have missed his footing somewhere. We went and told Sacha who didn’t seem to care at all and eventually dragged Tania out to wave a torch around and look for him. Luckily he turned up – just as we were wondering what on earth to do – and got thoroughly told off.
Our food was provided by Tanya in a leaking coach. There were many giggles as she kept disappearing behind a ragged curtain to giggle with Sacha. It didn’t take us all that long (even with the altitude making us feel a bit peculiar) for us to realise that they were getting it on with a bit of alpine passion between courses.
The only people we spotted on this journey were some hard looking men riding back down from the pastures – the equivalent of Kyrgyz cowboys or frontiersmen – not someone you’d want to get into a fight with, or be close enough to smell….. They sat stoically on their scruffy ponies with dirty, white Kyrgyz hats atop swarthy weather beaten faces. Bedrolls attached to their pack saddles indicated their nomadic tendencies – it seems facetious to say that it didn’t look like an easy life.
Altyn-Arashan is remote. The only sign of people were the squat concrete huts next to the hot springs, manned by scary, bearded Russian women and the tents along the track up from the road which were being used by local loggers with noisy dogs chained to their logging equipment outside. The drive up to the valley stutters across pine clad slopes with steep pine clad slopes to the left and a stony drop t the river on the right. At times the road was so blocked with chunks of rocks from winter avalanches that we had to get out and skirt around them on foot, leaving Valentin to coax his beloved jeep up vertiginous rock falls to make it through. It was music to our ears (although maybe not those of the local people!) that bears are known to frequent the area during the summer and that wolves move in during the winter.
The name of the valley translates as “Golden Spa” in Kyrgyz – a reference to the abundance of natural hot sulphur springs to be found. The valley itself sits at 3,000m – an alpine Shangri-la with lush pasture carpeting the valley floor, bathing in golden sunlight – with little stirring but the eagles riding the thermals overhead. At the head of the valley is the 4,260m Peak Palatka (Tent Mountain) looming as a snow capped benevolent giant in the shape of a giant marquee and supplying the snow melt water that courses in a fast, shallow Arashan river down to Karakol. Local peaks (of the Ak Suu rage of the Tien Shan) reach up to 5,022m. That’s quite high!
On our first afternoon Valentin sent us out to climb a local hill to get a breath of fresh air and see how we found the altitude. It was pretty knackering – but had amazing views. Our acclimatisation walk was fun, if slow going, and we came down as it started to get dark to have a warm up in the hot springs. David had sprinted on ahead and disappeared further up the slopes from us and we did get a bit worried waiting for him as it was pitch black and we started to think that he might have missed his footing somewhere. We went and told Sacha who didn’t seem to care at all and eventually dragged Tania out to wave a torch around and look for him. Luckily he turned up – just as we were wondering what on earth to do – and got thoroughly told off.
Our food was provided by Tanya in a leaking coach. There were many giggles as she kept disappearing behind a ragged curtain to giggle with Sacha. It didn’t take us all that long (even with the altitude making us feel a bit peculiar) for us to realise that they were getting it on with a bit of alpine passion between courses.
Karakol - gingerbread houses and the mountains of heaven
Karakol itself is at the far eastern end of the lake near the old military torpedo area. It is situated in a bowl of the ancient flood plain just in front of the mountains. Karakol, which for reasons best known to themselves means “black wrist” in Kyrgyz, is roughly 150 km from the Kyrgyz-Chinese border. It is pretty; crumbling but peaceful. From about 1860, the town was a Russian military outpost, it grew in the 19th century after explorers came to map the peaks and valleys separating Kyrgyzstan from China. In the 1880s Karakol's population surged with an influx of Dungans, Chinese Muslims fleeing persecution in China whose influence can be seen in the local mosque.
In 1888 the Russian explorer Nicholas Przhevalsky died of typhoid in Karakol, while preparing for an expedition to Tibet, and the city was renamed Przhevalsk in his honour. After local protests, the town was given its original name back in 1921 - a decision reversed in 1939. Karakol then remained Przhevalsk until the demise of the Soviet Union in 1991. Not known for being decisive it seems….
We arrived at the out of town bus stop and decided to walk to the planned hostel as the scale shown on the map in The Book looked doable. Unfortunately we totally misread the map and ended up wandering around in the dusk trying to get our bearings. Eventually, and very hungry, we found it – Valentin’s Yak Hotel!
The beautifully named Yak Hotel was a B&B that was almost comfy, if chilly at night as it had snowed and the doors didn’t completely shut. But it did have hot water (some of the time) and the obligatory yurt in the garden to make us feel at home. The rest of the place was decked out in what can only be described as a Kyrgyz take on Swiss Chalet style – not quite Homes & Gardens but nice enough for weary travellers. We were also pleased again meet some more randoms - this time an Aussie couple cycling from London to Sydney who were having a rest as they found cycling after lunch too dodgy with all the drivers setting out after a vodka based meal. Their dinner looked delicious and I was thoroughly looking forward to ours – until a couple of greasy fried eggs were rustled up by an ageing cook with the dirtiest fingernails, but a very welcoming smile. The hostel owner proudly began his welcome spiel and then entertained us with what must be the only video created by the Kyrgyz tourism department and a series of photocopied newspaper articles in a variety of languages, mentioning him and his yaks, as well as an unexplained collection of maps and info about Kazakhstan “Land of Tourism!” - and this was before Borat.
We also learnt more about the hostel owner, Valentin, a man in his 60s with some stories to tell. A stocky figure with a yak stained moustache and a twinkle in his eye, Valentin looked as though he had Russian ancestry and, with his hotchpotch of cold weather clothing, was clearly far more interested in practicalities than fashion. He was obviously a well known figure in the town we couldn’t tell whether this was due to the yaks, his international flavour (so many foreigners!) or just his ancient American jeep. But, whatever it was – he was pretty unmistakeable. As if these weren’t enough claims to fame, Valentin filled us in on his life and family too – all illustrated with newspaper articles. For a generation this man ran the Kyrgyz rally car team and his daughter spent 10 years as the national women’s weightlifting champion. I’d be prepared to bet money that they are the only family in the world with that demographic.
Having warmed up and wound down The Aussie, David and I made plans to head up into the mountains, to Ala-Arushan where there is an alpine valley, some hot springs - and where the President has his holiday yurt. That definitely beats Margaret Beckett and her caravan as a politician’s holiday destination. You frequently hear of Tony Blair taking up the offer of accommodation from a variety of world leaders and international personalities – but I don’t think he’s ventured this far so far… The camp is at about 3,500m so it is quite high up. But the highest peak here is over 7,000m!
These mountains go proudly by the most romantic name I have ever heard: the Tien Shan meaning Celestial or Heavenly mountains. Mind bogglingly beautiful and wreathed in ancient myth these they were considered by early Persians to be the roof of the world. Standing proud to the north and west of the Taklamankan Desert in the border region of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Province of western China, they link up with the High Pamir to the south. The now widely-used name Tian Shen is a Chinese translation of the original Uyghur name Tengri Tagh - Mountains of the Spirits. Incredibly, second highest peak of this celestial range, Khan Tengri (in Uyhur – meaning ‘Lord of the Skies’) marks the farthest north eastern point reached by Alexander the Great in his travels.
The highest peak in the Tian Shen is Pik Pobedy (Victory Peak) which, at 7,439 m or 24,408 ft, is also the highest point in Kyrgyzstan and is on the border with China. Mountaineers class Pik Pobedy and Khan Tengri as the two most northerly peaks over 7,000 m in the world. The Tien Shan are purported to be one of the coldest mountain ranges on earth and one of the least explored. If we had a bit more time (and money!) we'd have the opportunity to go skiing on the glacier that forms the base of one of the high peaks - but that would entail a helicopter in and sadly our budget is not that flexible – and they tend to fall out of the sky!
In 1888 the Russian explorer Nicholas Przhevalsky died of typhoid in Karakol, while preparing for an expedition to Tibet, and the city was renamed Przhevalsk in his honour. After local protests, the town was given its original name back in 1921 - a decision reversed in 1939. Karakol then remained Przhevalsk until the demise of the Soviet Union in 1991. Not known for being decisive it seems….
We arrived at the out of town bus stop and decided to walk to the planned hostel as the scale shown on the map in The Book looked doable. Unfortunately we totally misread the map and ended up wandering around in the dusk trying to get our bearings. Eventually, and very hungry, we found it – Valentin’s Yak Hotel!
The beautifully named Yak Hotel was a B&B that was almost comfy, if chilly at night as it had snowed and the doors didn’t completely shut. But it did have hot water (some of the time) and the obligatory yurt in the garden to make us feel at home. The rest of the place was decked out in what can only be described as a Kyrgyz take on Swiss Chalet style – not quite Homes & Gardens but nice enough for weary travellers. We were also pleased again meet some more randoms - this time an Aussie couple cycling from London to Sydney who were having a rest as they found cycling after lunch too dodgy with all the drivers setting out after a vodka based meal. Their dinner looked delicious and I was thoroughly looking forward to ours – until a couple of greasy fried eggs were rustled up by an ageing cook with the dirtiest fingernails, but a very welcoming smile. The hostel owner proudly began his welcome spiel and then entertained us with what must be the only video created by the Kyrgyz tourism department and a series of photocopied newspaper articles in a variety of languages, mentioning him and his yaks, as well as an unexplained collection of maps and info about Kazakhstan “Land of Tourism!” - and this was before Borat.
We also learnt more about the hostel owner, Valentin, a man in his 60s with some stories to tell. A stocky figure with a yak stained moustache and a twinkle in his eye, Valentin looked as though he had Russian ancestry and, with his hotchpotch of cold weather clothing, was clearly far more interested in practicalities than fashion. He was obviously a well known figure in the town we couldn’t tell whether this was due to the yaks, his international flavour (so many foreigners!) or just his ancient American jeep. But, whatever it was – he was pretty unmistakeable. As if these weren’t enough claims to fame, Valentin filled us in on his life and family too – all illustrated with newspaper articles. For a generation this man ran the Kyrgyz rally car team and his daughter spent 10 years as the national women’s weightlifting champion. I’d be prepared to bet money that they are the only family in the world with that demographic.
Having warmed up and wound down The Aussie, David and I made plans to head up into the mountains, to Ala-Arushan where there is an alpine valley, some hot springs - and where the President has his holiday yurt. That definitely beats Margaret Beckett and her caravan as a politician’s holiday destination. You frequently hear of Tony Blair taking up the offer of accommodation from a variety of world leaders and international personalities – but I don’t think he’s ventured this far so far… The camp is at about 3,500m so it is quite high up. But the highest peak here is over 7,000m!
These mountains go proudly by the most romantic name I have ever heard: the Tien Shan meaning Celestial or Heavenly mountains. Mind bogglingly beautiful and wreathed in ancient myth these they were considered by early Persians to be the roof of the world. Standing proud to the north and west of the Taklamankan Desert in the border region of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Province of western China, they link up with the High Pamir to the south. The now widely-used name Tian Shen is a Chinese translation of the original Uyghur name Tengri Tagh - Mountains of the Spirits. Incredibly, second highest peak of this celestial range, Khan Tengri (in Uyhur – meaning ‘Lord of the Skies’) marks the farthest north eastern point reached by Alexander the Great in his travels.
The highest peak in the Tian Shen is Pik Pobedy (Victory Peak) which, at 7,439 m or 24,408 ft, is also the highest point in Kyrgyzstan and is on the border with China. Mountaineers class Pik Pobedy and Khan Tengri as the two most northerly peaks over 7,000 m in the world. The Tien Shan are purported to be one of the coldest mountain ranges on earth and one of the least explored. If we had a bit more time (and money!) we'd have the opportunity to go skiing on the glacier that forms the base of one of the high peaks - but that would entail a helicopter in and sadly our budget is not that flexible – and they tend to fall out of the sky!
Lake Issyk Kul
The drive was beautiful - if rather uncomfortable – all along the north shore of Lake Issyk-Kul. The lake is in the northern Tien Shen mountains and is 182 km long and up to 60 km wide, covering an area of 6,332 km². This makes it the second largest alpine lake in the world behind Lake Titicaca in South America. Located at an altitude of 1,620 m, it reaches 702 m in depth. Unusually for a land locked country the lake is slightly saline and remains ice-free in winter – hence its name, meaning “warm lake” in Kyrgyz. It is fed by springs and snow melt-off, and it has no current outlet. Here ends the lecture.
During the Soviet era, the shore became a popular holiday destination, with numerous sanatoria, boarding houses and holiday houses along its northern shore. The lake, with its salinity making it comparable to the sea, also served as a secret testing ground for Russian torpedoes (must have been fun for those taking a dip on their holidays….) but this infrastructure is rapidly falling to pieces and there are now only a few settlements that are becoming more and more traditional with communal water pumps on street corners and groups of siblings sharing a single horse on the way to school.
The legend of how the lake was created is also typically Central Asian weird. In Islamic folk lore, the local king of the Ossounes had ass's ears. He would hide them, and order each of his barbers to be killed so as to keep his secret. One barber just had to tell someone, so he yelled the secret into a well, but foolishly forgot to cover it up. The well water then rose and flooded the kingdom which is today under the waters of Issyk-Kul. Other legends say that four drowned cities lie at the bottom of the lake; and in fact, substantial archeological finds have been made in shallow waters of the lake.
Herds of horses were grazing the low lands between the lake and the mountains (over 200 strong in parts) and people were industriously gathering in the harvest of carrots, onions and potatoes (which then reappear in gallons of broth.) Orchards lined the lake forming one of my most beautiful memories of Kyrgyzstan as their leaves turned to scarlet and gold, accented by stands of birch trees with silver bark and bright yellow autumnal leaves, all set off by the backdrop of jagged snow clad mountains and a brilliant azure sky.
During the Soviet era, the shore became a popular holiday destination, with numerous sanatoria, boarding houses and holiday houses along its northern shore. The lake, with its salinity making it comparable to the sea, also served as a secret testing ground for Russian torpedoes (must have been fun for those taking a dip on their holidays….) but this infrastructure is rapidly falling to pieces and there are now only a few settlements that are becoming more and more traditional with communal water pumps on street corners and groups of siblings sharing a single horse on the way to school.
The legend of how the lake was created is also typically Central Asian weird. In Islamic folk lore, the local king of the Ossounes had ass's ears. He would hide them, and order each of his barbers to be killed so as to keep his secret. One barber just had to tell someone, so he yelled the secret into a well, but foolishly forgot to cover it up. The well water then rose and flooded the kingdom which is today under the waters of Issyk-Kul. Other legends say that four drowned cities lie at the bottom of the lake; and in fact, substantial archeological finds have been made in shallow waters of the lake.
Herds of horses were grazing the low lands between the lake and the mountains (over 200 strong in parts) and people were industriously gathering in the harvest of carrots, onions and potatoes (which then reappear in gallons of broth.) Orchards lined the lake forming one of my most beautiful memories of Kyrgyzstan as their leaves turned to scarlet and gold, accented by stands of birch trees with silver bark and bright yellow autumnal leaves, all set off by the backdrop of jagged snow clad mountains and a brilliant azure sky.
Kyrgyz Taxi Driver Challenge
Whilst waiting for a car to take us form the bus station David began his odyssey of trying any and every local item of food and drink – some more successfully than others! He gave up for the time being after the tasty malt drink he purchased fermented in the sun and exploded stickily all over him.
Kumis was available by the bucket load too, a nice warm draught of alcoholic horses’ milk being a great way to begin a journey. But to the Kyrgyz this drink has tremendous significance – it is a gift from God from which they derive their energy and strength. Its importance is made more significant by its relation to the horse – the animal nomadic Kyrgyz life revolves around. Just fermenting cow’s or sheep’s milk is not the same. It is also an ancient practice, even mentioned by Hippocrates as a drink of “longevity, joy and mental maturity” – which has a nice advertising slogan ring about it.
The Taxi Driver Challenge was now in full swing, but by this time we were more of an even match for them! We had learnt that they will often agree a price with you and “show you” their car only to later substitute it with some clapped out banger hidden round the back. We were not having that. We were also ready and waiting with our pen and paper for price discussions involving not just sums of money, but sketches of how dodgy the local buses were and why we shouldn’t take them – enterprising! Eventually we agreed a price, and a car, and that we would share it with other travellers. However, our driver was trying to wait us out and made no attempt to find other passengers (unlike the others hawking away) wanting us to pay the price for the whole car. He merely sat on his heels and smoked. We took exception to this cavalier attitude and berated him for his laziness, eventually demanding our luggage from his boot so that we could travel in a neighbouring minibus. That’s when we discovered out remaining schoolboy error – letting him put our bags in the boot. Much ranting, raving and threatening to get the police involved later, not only were we the centre of attention for most of the other drivers, but we had just managed to save our belongings from disappearing in a cloud of smoke.
Eventually, we squeezed into a handicapped minibus along with a small village, and watched the short legged driver and his mate stretching out in comfort in the front as the rest of us went painfully numb. At least the view was sufficient to take one’s mind off the impact the journey was having on one’s arse.
For a country consisting mainly of mountains there is a tremendous variety amongst the native fauna and flora of Kyrgyzstan. From the lakeside to the high peaks we travelled past walnut, barberry, maple, apple, pear, juniper and fir trees. Fruits such as currents, pistachios, almonds and peaches are also endemic. It reminded me of a mini Switzerland – harsh terrain tempered by a surprising fertility for those who choose to brave the elements. Surprisingly, the walnut actually originated here and was taken to Greece by Alexander the Great.
Another horticultural fact that has been hushed up by Holland for decades is that Kyrgyzstan is the home of the tulip. The original plant has small yellow flowers and grows on the moss rich slopes of the mountains. The Kyrgyz even say that human happiness is hidden in these flowers, which is rather lovely.
Kumis was available by the bucket load too, a nice warm draught of alcoholic horses’ milk being a great way to begin a journey. But to the Kyrgyz this drink has tremendous significance – it is a gift from God from which they derive their energy and strength. Its importance is made more significant by its relation to the horse – the animal nomadic Kyrgyz life revolves around. Just fermenting cow’s or sheep’s milk is not the same. It is also an ancient practice, even mentioned by Hippocrates as a drink of “longevity, joy and mental maturity” – which has a nice advertising slogan ring about it.
The Taxi Driver Challenge was now in full swing, but by this time we were more of an even match for them! We had learnt that they will often agree a price with you and “show you” their car only to later substitute it with some clapped out banger hidden round the back. We were not having that. We were also ready and waiting with our pen and paper for price discussions involving not just sums of money, but sketches of how dodgy the local buses were and why we shouldn’t take them – enterprising! Eventually we agreed a price, and a car, and that we would share it with other travellers. However, our driver was trying to wait us out and made no attempt to find other passengers (unlike the others hawking away) wanting us to pay the price for the whole car. He merely sat on his heels and smoked. We took exception to this cavalier attitude and berated him for his laziness, eventually demanding our luggage from his boot so that we could travel in a neighbouring minibus. That’s when we discovered out remaining schoolboy error – letting him put our bags in the boot. Much ranting, raving and threatening to get the police involved later, not only were we the centre of attention for most of the other drivers, but we had just managed to save our belongings from disappearing in a cloud of smoke.
Eventually, we squeezed into a handicapped minibus along with a small village, and watched the short legged driver and his mate stretching out in comfort in the front as the rest of us went painfully numb. At least the view was sufficient to take one’s mind off the impact the journey was having on one’s arse.
For a country consisting mainly of mountains there is a tremendous variety amongst the native fauna and flora of Kyrgyzstan. From the lakeside to the high peaks we travelled past walnut, barberry, maple, apple, pear, juniper and fir trees. Fruits such as currents, pistachios, almonds and peaches are also endemic. It reminded me of a mini Switzerland – harsh terrain tempered by a surprising fertility for those who choose to brave the elements. Surprisingly, the walnut actually originated here and was taken to Greece by Alexander the Great.
Another horticultural fact that has been hushed up by Holland for decades is that Kyrgyzstan is the home of the tulip. The original plant has small yellow flowers and grows on the moss rich slopes of the mountains. The Kyrgyz even say that human happiness is hidden in these flowers, which is rather lovely.
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
Post Communist Bishkek
The following day we had a wander around the city and found it rather appealing. My over riding memory is of dour Russian apartment blocks propping one another up like babushkas complaining about their varicose veins. The buildings turn their backs on the might of the neighbouring mountain range, huddling to conserve scant warmth and facing the onset of a harsh winter.
Change has arrived however; amongst the skirts of these crumbling monoliths one can glimpse the flickering neon of internet cafes, air brushed women advertising mobile phones and a myriad of entrepreneurs rabidly keen on turning a quick profit. At certain key locations in the city it is even possible to come across the lesser spotted US Peace Corps volunteer, easily identified by its drawling twang, self righteous strut and bright plumage (ethnic scarves for both sexes and dangly jewellery for the females) – they are found in large groups, propagating an industry of coffee shops and home cooked comfort food wherever they land.
Kyrgyzstan is very proud of its nomadic tradition and never fully succumbed to the yoke of communism. For this reason there is a lightness in the air you don’t feel in Almaty – almost a holiday atmosphere, and the people seem much more relaxed and content. Give them a yurt, some fermented mare’s milk and a song about a man & his horse and they’re satisfied….who wouldn’t be? There is more evidence of art and music in this city too, giving the impression that the people have the luxury to indulge in more cultural activities – even if they do remain in the shadow of the opium trade.
The parks in Bishkek were a highlight of our explorations, full of random sculptures – some better than others – like an explosion of post communist creativity. You could imagine a whole city of frustrated creatives, suddenly finding themselves independent from the USSR and undergoing a form of post-Soviet group therapy; the result of this psychiatric experiment being hundreds of tons of emotional outpourings, in the form of stone and concrete. Not knowing quite what to do with this cataract of sentiment, the Great and the Good obviously decided to scatter them around the parks – and them just let the grass grow. A very pragmatic solution.
We also found a local fair in the park, full of outdoor karaoke and very rickety children’s rides and games. Near by was the Parliament building which is based on the White House and is the former HQ of the Communist Party’s Central Committee. By 11am on Saturday morning salesmen were already outside and selling beer for 10 cents a bottle, surrounded by mobile Karaoke stands. One square back is a large statue of Lenin (obviously more connected to the old HQ), arm outflung, who looks about to begin a momentous speech, staring out beyond the city. During the recent revolution the people did their revolutionary bit by moving Lenin away from his old position directly in front of the Parliament. But it must have been a relatively conservative revolution as he was only moved one square back….maybe they wanted to be sure they weren’t going to change their minds?
We had a good old wander around, at one point looking a bit lost and getting stopped by a lovely Scottish woman who happened to be the wife of the local international pastor and was very useful. We found the war memorial (in the shape of a yurt – naturally) with a few disconsolate men loitering around the eternal flame and then meandered our way to the TSUM department store. Although this is housed in a large modern building it feels as though they have taken the façade of a western department store and then moved the bazaar inside. Instead of boutiques or discrete sections are innumerable stalls – many of them competing directly with one another and cornering the market in dodgy Chinese imports. If I ever want to dress as a Russian hooker – this is where I’ll go! Not only were the clothes terrifying – but the souvenirs on the top floor were equally disturbing. The apex of these was a locally designed rug depicting not flowers and horses as usual – but the events of September the 11th in full colour embroidery - not even The Aussie was tempted by that and this is from a girl who saw nothing wrong in inflatable Yasser Arafats in the Israel!
There was a tangible feeling of breaking away from Russification in Bishkek and even a lack of evidence of Russian ancestry in the local physiognomy. The people had a more Asiatic association, but without the closed, inscrutable countenances of the stereotypical Chinese. Here their faces sport rosy cheeks and they have a ready laugh and twinkling eyes – in fact they all look incredibly healthy and as if they have a glow from a morning’s exertion. That probably comes from living at distinct altitude and drinking some of the cleanest water in the world from the glacial run offs. Mineral tests have concluded that there are very high concentrations of various base elements in the water and that seems to correlate to increased life expectancy up in the mountains.
We spent the next night propping up the bar in Navigator too, this time with David the Aussie who decided to come with us to Karakol. Were glad of our decision not to go clubbing in Bishkek when the Yank turned up with his sidekicks having tried to have a night on the town and been very intimidated by the local lads’ behaviour towards them – properly threatening. Bishkek definitely takes on a different persona at night.
The next day we began our trip out East to Karakol with the intention of getting some mountain action. Getting anywhere in Kyrgyzstan is a bit of a mission. Roads have to snake up steep valleys, cross passes of 3,000 metre (9,000 feet) altitude and more, and are subject to frequent mud slides and avalanches. Winter travel is close to impossible in many of the more remote and high-altitude regions. There are additional problems due to the fact that many roads and railway lines built during theSoviet period are today intersected by international boundaries, requiring time-consuming border formalities to cross, where they are not completely closed. The horse is still a much used transport option, especially in rural and inaccessible areas, as it does not depend on imported fuel.
Interestingly – China has been paying a lot of attention to the transport stresses of the Kyrgyz – surely only in an altruistic way? With support from the Asian Development Bank, a major road linking the north and southwest from Bishkek to Osh has recently been completed. This considerably eases communication between the two major population centres of the country - the Chui Valley in the north and the Fergana Valley in the South. An offshoot of this road branches across a 3,500 meterpass into the Talas Valley in the northwest. Plans are now being formulated to build a major road from Osh into China.
It is not uncommon to come across gloomy looking Chinese workers along the road side and to see signs announcing the work China is undertaking for the Kyrgyz benefit encroaching on the country - signs that a new Great Game is being waged between Russia and China for strategic influence in this area.
In an echo of the worries that keep many Western leaders awake at night, 18th century economist Adam Smith remarked that China had remained stagnant for a long time:
“China has been long one of the richest, that is, one of the most fertile, best cultivated, most industrious, and most populous countries in the world. It seems, however, to have been long stationary. Marco Polo, who visited it more than five hundred years ago, describes its cultivation, industry, and populousness, almost in the same terms in which they are described by travellers in the present times. It had perhaps, even long before his time, acquired that full complement of riches which the nature of its laws and institutions permits it to acquire.”
(The Wealth of Nations; 1776)
Maybe this time we really are witnessing the awakening of the Chinese dragon?
Change has arrived however; amongst the skirts of these crumbling monoliths one can glimpse the flickering neon of internet cafes, air brushed women advertising mobile phones and a myriad of entrepreneurs rabidly keen on turning a quick profit. At certain key locations in the city it is even possible to come across the lesser spotted US Peace Corps volunteer, easily identified by its drawling twang, self righteous strut and bright plumage (ethnic scarves for both sexes and dangly jewellery for the females) – they are found in large groups, propagating an industry of coffee shops and home cooked comfort food wherever they land.
Kyrgyzstan is very proud of its nomadic tradition and never fully succumbed to the yoke of communism. For this reason there is a lightness in the air you don’t feel in Almaty – almost a holiday atmosphere, and the people seem much more relaxed and content. Give them a yurt, some fermented mare’s milk and a song about a man & his horse and they’re satisfied….who wouldn’t be? There is more evidence of art and music in this city too, giving the impression that the people have the luxury to indulge in more cultural activities – even if they do remain in the shadow of the opium trade.
The parks in Bishkek were a highlight of our explorations, full of random sculptures – some better than others – like an explosion of post communist creativity. You could imagine a whole city of frustrated creatives, suddenly finding themselves independent from the USSR and undergoing a form of post-Soviet group therapy; the result of this psychiatric experiment being hundreds of tons of emotional outpourings, in the form of stone and concrete. Not knowing quite what to do with this cataract of sentiment, the Great and the Good obviously decided to scatter them around the parks – and them just let the grass grow. A very pragmatic solution.
We also found a local fair in the park, full of outdoor karaoke and very rickety children’s rides and games. Near by was the Parliament building which is based on the White House and is the former HQ of the Communist Party’s Central Committee. By 11am on Saturday morning salesmen were already outside and selling beer for 10 cents a bottle, surrounded by mobile Karaoke stands. One square back is a large statue of Lenin (obviously more connected to the old HQ), arm outflung, who looks about to begin a momentous speech, staring out beyond the city. During the recent revolution the people did their revolutionary bit by moving Lenin away from his old position directly in front of the Parliament. But it must have been a relatively conservative revolution as he was only moved one square back….maybe they wanted to be sure they weren’t going to change their minds?
We had a good old wander around, at one point looking a bit lost and getting stopped by a lovely Scottish woman who happened to be the wife of the local international pastor and was very useful. We found the war memorial (in the shape of a yurt – naturally) with a few disconsolate men loitering around the eternal flame and then meandered our way to the TSUM department store. Although this is housed in a large modern building it feels as though they have taken the façade of a western department store and then moved the bazaar inside. Instead of boutiques or discrete sections are innumerable stalls – many of them competing directly with one another and cornering the market in dodgy Chinese imports. If I ever want to dress as a Russian hooker – this is where I’ll go! Not only were the clothes terrifying – but the souvenirs on the top floor were equally disturbing. The apex of these was a locally designed rug depicting not flowers and horses as usual – but the events of September the 11th in full colour embroidery - not even The Aussie was tempted by that and this is from a girl who saw nothing wrong in inflatable Yasser Arafats in the Israel!
There was a tangible feeling of breaking away from Russification in Bishkek and even a lack of evidence of Russian ancestry in the local physiognomy. The people had a more Asiatic association, but without the closed, inscrutable countenances of the stereotypical Chinese. Here their faces sport rosy cheeks and they have a ready laugh and twinkling eyes – in fact they all look incredibly healthy and as if they have a glow from a morning’s exertion. That probably comes from living at distinct altitude and drinking some of the cleanest water in the world from the glacial run offs. Mineral tests have concluded that there are very high concentrations of various base elements in the water and that seems to correlate to increased life expectancy up in the mountains.
We spent the next night propping up the bar in Navigator too, this time with David the Aussie who decided to come with us to Karakol. Were glad of our decision not to go clubbing in Bishkek when the Yank turned up with his sidekicks having tried to have a night on the town and been very intimidated by the local lads’ behaviour towards them – properly threatening. Bishkek definitely takes on a different persona at night.
The next day we began our trip out East to Karakol with the intention of getting some mountain action. Getting anywhere in Kyrgyzstan is a bit of a mission. Roads have to snake up steep valleys, cross passes of 3,000 metre (9,000 feet) altitude and more, and are subject to frequent mud slides and avalanches. Winter travel is close to impossible in many of the more remote and high-altitude regions. There are additional problems due to the fact that many roads and railway lines built during theSoviet period are today intersected by international boundaries, requiring time-consuming border formalities to cross, where they are not completely closed. The horse is still a much used transport option, especially in rural and inaccessible areas, as it does not depend on imported fuel.
Interestingly – China has been paying a lot of attention to the transport stresses of the Kyrgyz – surely only in an altruistic way? With support from the Asian Development Bank, a major road linking the north and southwest from Bishkek to Osh has recently been completed. This considerably eases communication between the two major population centres of the country - the Chui Valley in the north and the Fergana Valley in the South. An offshoot of this road branches across a 3,500 meterpass into the Talas Valley in the northwest. Plans are now being formulated to build a major road from Osh into China.
It is not uncommon to come across gloomy looking Chinese workers along the road side and to see signs announcing the work China is undertaking for the Kyrgyz benefit encroaching on the country - signs that a new Great Game is being waged between Russia and China for strategic influence in this area.
In an echo of the worries that keep many Western leaders awake at night, 18th century economist Adam Smith remarked that China had remained stagnant for a long time:
“China has been long one of the richest, that is, one of the most fertile, best cultivated, most industrious, and most populous countries in the world. It seems, however, to have been long stationary. Marco Polo, who visited it more than five hundred years ago, describes its cultivation, industry, and populousness, almost in the same terms in which they are described by travellers in the present times. It had perhaps, even long before his time, acquired that full complement of riches which the nature of its laws and institutions permits it to acquire.”
(The Wealth of Nations; 1776)
Maybe this time we really are witnessing the awakening of the Chinese dragon?
Nicole Kidman - very good actress; very bad cat!
On arrival in Bishkek we headed into town following the instructions in The Book to find somewhere to stay. The instructions told us to look out for a large sheet metal gate next to the German Embassy. When we got there we seemed to be facing a junk yard with the carcasses of cars even more decrepit than the ones we’d been travelling in piled up in the garden – and a yurt vaguely distinguishable though the thicket of mulberry trees. A shack was putting up a mild fight against gravity by the entrance and manned by a shambolic chap attached to a wetly rolled cigarette, accompanied by a mangy German Shepherd with an inferiority complex.
However, after the gates ominously creaked open Adams Family-style, we were met by the broad, gold accented smile of our host, Mr. Sayerbek who rapidly introduced his extended family of wife, sister, daughter, son etc – and the very friendly little Burmese cat – Nicole Kidman (hence his favourite expression “Nicole Kidman – very good actress; very bad cat!”)
Mr Sayerbek bustled out of his kitchen, geniality radiating from his leathered face, shooing us in front of him on a tour of his establishment. First he showed us the cheapy dorms downstairs that have been created in the house’s original rooms by nailing up ‘sleeping platforms’ to the walls in a very haphazard fashion. It was a fantastic use of space, in a truly imaginative manner – but goodness help anyone trying to find their way to the loo in the dark – almost certain decapitation. No one was in at the time, but there was evidence of backpackers strewn around in the form of kit, walking boots and journals etc. With his chest puffed out, Mr Sayerbek resembled a proud chaffinch as he revelled in his home renovation ingenuity – his “Ninja Platforms for sleeping on!” However, he wasn’t keen on us staying there as, yet again, we were the only girls. God forbid! - think it offended his sensibilities. So he was much happier when we agreed to take the double bed in the master bedroom upstairs.
The house was decrepit, but huge, built of wood with a largely Victorian heritage and a confusedly cosmopolitan present. It had a large garden and orchard rapidly descending towards wilderness, with a variety of oddballs hanging around the junk yard bit. My Sayerbek was also obviously into art and not shy, he had a collection of large prints of himself hanging up in the dining room – which is also used as an additional bedroom. For roughly $4 US a night (dinner, bed and breakfast) who’s complaining?! There was even some hot water, although you couldn’t lock the bathroom room and had to sing loudly to dissuade others from entering.
Having made ourselves at home, we re-emerged into the friendly kitchen and were pleased to meet another eclectic collection of travellers including:
- Francois, a tousled Frenchman who runs his own NGO and is in the process of a 4 year trip cycling around the world distributing funds from some French foundation with his mate William
- An Aussie/Belorussian who turned up to weed his Grandad's grave
- David, an Aussie trustafarian who’d just spent 4 months being random (and annoying) in Mongolia
- 2 mop headed Austrians on their Uni hols climbing things
- A weird Brit called Lou who was a musical reject from the 60s and spending time in Bishkek to discover Kyrgyz bands (!) and teach them about copywrite
- And an odd American from NYC with loads of tattoos and scars across his face who insisted he was here "to write stuff". He tried to be cool and keep an air of mystique by constantly wearing a collection of woolly hats....but wasn’t quite so cool when disturbed in the morning to find him wearing nothing but boxers and his woolly hat on the way to the bathroom. Then he just looked rather silly.
The Austrians broke the ice by kindly offered us all some magnesium pills (as travellers do to start conversation) which looked popular until it was explained that they also gave you diarrhoea – something no one felt they needed any help with.
We had supper at the guesthouse (home cooked and very popular with Nicole Kidman) and headed out to the local neighbourhood bar – Bar Navigator – with the gang. This was quite a cosmopolitan place, by Kyrgyz standards, due to its position close to European Embassies. As The Aussie and I had heard nasty things about Bishkek in the dark we were happy sticking close to our guesthouse and had one or two beers in good surroundings. I talked philosophy with Francois (very French, determined to save the world and, despite The Aussie’s opinions - very attractive) and The Aussie got annoyed by the Yank (very up himself and trying hard to be “mysterious” and showing off about the waitress he’d “had” the night before – nice). But it was fun nonetheless; The Aussie got to argue and I was lulled into a contemplative daze by an lilting French accent. We came back to the guesthouse for Francois to get out his guitar (given that he is travelling around the world on a bicycle that was unexpected!) and for the Aussie/Belorussian to produce a CD player, I had batteries; quite a little party was had!
However, after the gates ominously creaked open Adams Family-style, we were met by the broad, gold accented smile of our host, Mr. Sayerbek who rapidly introduced his extended family of wife, sister, daughter, son etc – and the very friendly little Burmese cat – Nicole Kidman (hence his favourite expression “Nicole Kidman – very good actress; very bad cat!”)
Mr Sayerbek bustled out of his kitchen, geniality radiating from his leathered face, shooing us in front of him on a tour of his establishment. First he showed us the cheapy dorms downstairs that have been created in the house’s original rooms by nailing up ‘sleeping platforms’ to the walls in a very haphazard fashion. It was a fantastic use of space, in a truly imaginative manner – but goodness help anyone trying to find their way to the loo in the dark – almost certain decapitation. No one was in at the time, but there was evidence of backpackers strewn around in the form of kit, walking boots and journals etc. With his chest puffed out, Mr Sayerbek resembled a proud chaffinch as he revelled in his home renovation ingenuity – his “Ninja Platforms for sleeping on!” However, he wasn’t keen on us staying there as, yet again, we were the only girls. God forbid! - think it offended his sensibilities. So he was much happier when we agreed to take the double bed in the master bedroom upstairs.
The house was decrepit, but huge, built of wood with a largely Victorian heritage and a confusedly cosmopolitan present. It had a large garden and orchard rapidly descending towards wilderness, with a variety of oddballs hanging around the junk yard bit. My Sayerbek was also obviously into art and not shy, he had a collection of large prints of himself hanging up in the dining room – which is also used as an additional bedroom. For roughly $4 US a night (dinner, bed and breakfast) who’s complaining?! There was even some hot water, although you couldn’t lock the bathroom room and had to sing loudly to dissuade others from entering.
Having made ourselves at home, we re-emerged into the friendly kitchen and were pleased to meet another eclectic collection of travellers including:
- Francois, a tousled Frenchman who runs his own NGO and is in the process of a 4 year trip cycling around the world distributing funds from some French foundation with his mate William
- An Aussie/Belorussian who turned up to weed his Grandad's grave
- David, an Aussie trustafarian who’d just spent 4 months being random (and annoying) in Mongolia
- 2 mop headed Austrians on their Uni hols climbing things
- A weird Brit called Lou who was a musical reject from the 60s and spending time in Bishkek to discover Kyrgyz bands (!) and teach them about copywrite
- And an odd American from NYC with loads of tattoos and scars across his face who insisted he was here "to write stuff". He tried to be cool and keep an air of mystique by constantly wearing a collection of woolly hats....but wasn’t quite so cool when disturbed in the morning to find him wearing nothing but boxers and his woolly hat on the way to the bathroom. Then he just looked rather silly.
The Austrians broke the ice by kindly offered us all some magnesium pills (as travellers do to start conversation) which looked popular until it was explained that they also gave you diarrhoea – something no one felt they needed any help with.
We had supper at the guesthouse (home cooked and very popular with Nicole Kidman) and headed out to the local neighbourhood bar – Bar Navigator – with the gang. This was quite a cosmopolitan place, by Kyrgyz standards, due to its position close to European Embassies. As The Aussie and I had heard nasty things about Bishkek in the dark we were happy sticking close to our guesthouse and had one or two beers in good surroundings. I talked philosophy with Francois (very French, determined to save the world and, despite The Aussie’s opinions - very attractive) and The Aussie got annoyed by the Yank (very up himself and trying hard to be “mysterious” and showing off about the waitress he’d “had” the night before – nice). But it was fun nonetheless; The Aussie got to argue and I was lulled into a contemplative daze by an lilting French accent. We came back to the guesthouse for Francois to get out his guitar (given that he is travelling around the world on a bicycle that was unexpected!) and for the Aussie/Belorussian to produce a CD player, I had batteries; quite a little party was had!
We arrive in Kyrgyzstan!
Kyrgyzstan is an education. Some things you’ll never learn anywhere else include the following pearls:
1. The rear tail light from a Russian Lada you converts into a vodka shot glass
2. Russian Air Force staff check their aircraft’s break fluid very regularly as it is made from alcohol and the engineers tend to drink it
3. Kyrgyz men have a worrying belief in kangaroos being carnivorous.
The Kyrgyz have a long and tumultuous history – as you would only expect living in a landlocked country on the main trading route from West to East. They probably have similar hang ups to Poland. Their history dates back to around 201 BC with the ancestors of the modern inhabitants, who have Turkic origin. These original people lived in the north east part of modern Mongolia. They migrated to the region that is currently southern Siberia and settled along the Yenisei River remaining there from the 6th to 8th centuries. Becoming restless, they then spread across what is now the Tuva region of Russia, remaining there until the rise of the Mongol Empire in the 13th C, when they began migrating south. In the 12th C, Islam became the predominant local religion, leading to the situation today that most Kyrgyz are Sunni Muslims of the Hanafi school.
These ancestors reached the area currently known as Kyrgyzstan during the 15th/16th centuries with the southern part of the region coming under the control of the Khan of Kokhand in the early 19th century, before it was annexed by the Russian Empire in 1876. The Kyrgyz did not take kindly to Russian rule and rose up against Tsarist authority numerous times – with many of them choosing to move away into the Pamir mountains or over to Afghanistan. Many remaining Kyrgyz also fled to China following the ruthless suppression of the 1916 rebellion which imposed the military draft on Central Asian peoples. This is a history of constant movement, pretty alien to the British, cosseted on an island with nicely defined borders, and explains a great deal about the fiercely guarded national identify of nomadism.
The capital of Kyrgyzstan is Bishkek - which happens to be a churn used to make fermented mare's milk [kumis], the Kyrgyz national drink. Originally a caravan rest stop on one of the branches of the Silk Road, Bishkek was fortified in 1825 by the Uzbek Khan of Kokhand with a mud fort. In 1862, the fort was conquered and razed when Tsarist Russia annexed the area. The site became a Russian garrison and was redeveloped and named Pishpek from 1877 onward by the Russian government, who encouraged the settlement of Russian peasants by giving them fertile black soil farms to develop. In 1926, the city became the capital of the newly established Kirghiz ASSR and was renamed Frunze, after Mikhail Frunze, Lenin’s close associate who was born in Bishkek and played key roles during 1905 and 1917 revolutions and during the Russian civil war of the early 1920s. Following the breakup of the Soviet Union, Kyrgyzstan finally achieved independence in 1991, and the city was renamed Bishkek. I’m sure any correlation between eventual liberation (and subsequent celebration) and Bishkek being named for a form of local alcoholic beverage is purely coincidental.
Kyrgyzstan is landlocked and mountainous with a population similar in number to Scotland. It borders China, Kazakhstan, Tajikistan, and Uzbekistan giving it plenty of scope for being truly weird. Following independence it underwent a surprising revolution in March 2005. The revolution seems to have been remarkably civilized for a country so unused to democracy. According to one woman we met, there was a bit of shooting in the streets – but more people legged it to the one international 5 star hotel in the city and took refuge there – always worth considering that option in a revolution. Wait for the president to be overthrown whilst enjoying a stiffening G&T at the bar – bravo.
The uprising sought the end of rule by Askar Akayev, his family and associates, who in popular opinion had become increasingly corrupt and authoritarian. Following his overthrow, Akayev fled the country. He signed his resignation statement in the presence of a Kyrgyz parliamentary delegation in his country's embassy in Moscow, and on April 11th 2005 the Kyrgyz Parliament ratified it.
As a country that hadn’t done this before, Kyrgyzstan was a bit out of practice when it came to revolutionary PR. The media variously referred to the unrest as the "Pink," "Lemon", "Silk", "Daffodil", or "Sandpaper" Revolution. But it was the "Tulip Revolution," a term that Akayev himself used in a speech, which stuck in the end; much catchier – and a good opportunity to annoy the Dutch. (One now has to wonder what the Dutch would call any revolution of their own – “Tulip” revolution certainly has a better ring to it than “Clog” or “Edam” Revolution…..)
Akayev had been fortuitously warning that no such 'Colour' Revolution should happen in Kyrgyzstan, as such terms evoked similarities with the non-violent Rose Revolution in Georgia and the Orange Revolution in the Ukraine in 2004, whose names owe a debt to the Czech-Slovak Velvet Revolution.
But it wasn’t all an amateur attempt, in a very modern approach they brought in a consultant, Givi Targamadze, a former member of Liberty Institute and the chair of the Georgian Parliamentary Committee on Defence and Security. He consulted Ukrainian opposition leaders on the technique of nonviolent struggle, and later advised leaders of Kyrgyz opposition during the Tulip Revolution. I wonder if he did this with the aid of PowerPoint and Bubble Charts?
The Tulip Revolution did see some violence in its initial days, most notably in the southern city of Jalal-Abad, where the first major signs of violence were noted, and at least three people died during widespread looting in the capital during the 24 hours after the fall of the Kyrgyz government, but on the whole was deemed a pretty good success by the people.
Despite this liberation from the grasp of Akayev, the current Government has a degree of authority over the people that would come as a surprise to us in the west. For example, the city of Bishkek supplies heat to its people; the heating is turned on in November and off in March. And that’s that. Hot water is also turned off for March for maintenance; it must be a slightly smelly month on the buses.
1. The rear tail light from a Russian Lada you converts into a vodka shot glass
2. Russian Air Force staff check their aircraft’s break fluid very regularly as it is made from alcohol and the engineers tend to drink it
3. Kyrgyz men have a worrying belief in kangaroos being carnivorous.
The Kyrgyz have a long and tumultuous history – as you would only expect living in a landlocked country on the main trading route from West to East. They probably have similar hang ups to Poland. Their history dates back to around 201 BC with the ancestors of the modern inhabitants, who have Turkic origin. These original people lived in the north east part of modern Mongolia. They migrated to the region that is currently southern Siberia and settled along the Yenisei River remaining there from the 6th to 8th centuries. Becoming restless, they then spread across what is now the Tuva region of Russia, remaining there until the rise of the Mongol Empire in the 13th C, when they began migrating south. In the 12th C, Islam became the predominant local religion, leading to the situation today that most Kyrgyz are Sunni Muslims of the Hanafi school.
These ancestors reached the area currently known as Kyrgyzstan during the 15th/16th centuries with the southern part of the region coming under the control of the Khan of Kokhand in the early 19th century, before it was annexed by the Russian Empire in 1876. The Kyrgyz did not take kindly to Russian rule and rose up against Tsarist authority numerous times – with many of them choosing to move away into the Pamir mountains or over to Afghanistan. Many remaining Kyrgyz also fled to China following the ruthless suppression of the 1916 rebellion which imposed the military draft on Central Asian peoples. This is a history of constant movement, pretty alien to the British, cosseted on an island with nicely defined borders, and explains a great deal about the fiercely guarded national identify of nomadism.
The capital of Kyrgyzstan is Bishkek - which happens to be a churn used to make fermented mare's milk [kumis], the Kyrgyz national drink. Originally a caravan rest stop on one of the branches of the Silk Road, Bishkek was fortified in 1825 by the Uzbek Khan of Kokhand with a mud fort. In 1862, the fort was conquered and razed when Tsarist Russia annexed the area. The site became a Russian garrison and was redeveloped and named Pishpek from 1877 onward by the Russian government, who encouraged the settlement of Russian peasants by giving them fertile black soil farms to develop. In 1926, the city became the capital of the newly established Kirghiz ASSR and was renamed Frunze, after Mikhail Frunze, Lenin’s close associate who was born in Bishkek and played key roles during 1905 and 1917 revolutions and during the Russian civil war of the early 1920s. Following the breakup of the Soviet Union, Kyrgyzstan finally achieved independence in 1991, and the city was renamed Bishkek. I’m sure any correlation between eventual liberation (and subsequent celebration) and Bishkek being named for a form of local alcoholic beverage is purely coincidental.
Kyrgyzstan is landlocked and mountainous with a population similar in number to Scotland. It borders China, Kazakhstan, Tajikistan, and Uzbekistan giving it plenty of scope for being truly weird. Following independence it underwent a surprising revolution in March 2005. The revolution seems to have been remarkably civilized for a country so unused to democracy. According to one woman we met, there was a bit of shooting in the streets – but more people legged it to the one international 5 star hotel in the city and took refuge there – always worth considering that option in a revolution. Wait for the president to be overthrown whilst enjoying a stiffening G&T at the bar – bravo.
The uprising sought the end of rule by Askar Akayev, his family and associates, who in popular opinion had become increasingly corrupt and authoritarian. Following his overthrow, Akayev fled the country. He signed his resignation statement in the presence of a Kyrgyz parliamentary delegation in his country's embassy in Moscow, and on April 11th 2005 the Kyrgyz Parliament ratified it.
As a country that hadn’t done this before, Kyrgyzstan was a bit out of practice when it came to revolutionary PR. The media variously referred to the unrest as the "Pink," "Lemon", "Silk", "Daffodil", or "Sandpaper" Revolution. But it was the "Tulip Revolution," a term that Akayev himself used in a speech, which stuck in the end; much catchier – and a good opportunity to annoy the Dutch. (One now has to wonder what the Dutch would call any revolution of their own – “Tulip” revolution certainly has a better ring to it than “Clog” or “Edam” Revolution…..)
Akayev had been fortuitously warning that no such 'Colour' Revolution should happen in Kyrgyzstan, as such terms evoked similarities with the non-violent Rose Revolution in Georgia and the Orange Revolution in the Ukraine in 2004, whose names owe a debt to the Czech-Slovak Velvet Revolution.
But it wasn’t all an amateur attempt, in a very modern approach they brought in a consultant, Givi Targamadze, a former member of Liberty Institute and the chair of the Georgian Parliamentary Committee on Defence and Security. He consulted Ukrainian opposition leaders on the technique of nonviolent struggle, and later advised leaders of Kyrgyz opposition during the Tulip Revolution. I wonder if he did this with the aid of PowerPoint and Bubble Charts?
The Tulip Revolution did see some violence in its initial days, most notably in the southern city of Jalal-Abad, where the first major signs of violence were noted, and at least three people died during widespread looting in the capital during the 24 hours after the fall of the Kyrgyz government, but on the whole was deemed a pretty good success by the people.
Despite this liberation from the grasp of Akayev, the current Government has a degree of authority over the people that would come as a surprise to us in the west. For example, the city of Bishkek supplies heat to its people; the heating is turned on in November and off in March. And that’s that. Hot water is also turned off for March for maintenance; it must be a slightly smelly month on the buses.
Kazakh Steppe en route to Bishkek
Leaving Samarkand a couple of days later for a shared taxi to the Kazakh boarder we pulled in to a petrol station to fill up. We were made to get out of the car (more Central Asian weirdness) and saw a sign on the wall of the building that seemed to state “no people allowed in car!” – all in pictures of course, but that’s our interpretation, and it was borne out by the pump attendants’ comical insistence that we get out. We then saw the attendant ignoring the fuel cap on the side of the car and instead crawling under the chassis to fit a narrow pipe to some connection under the boot. They proceeded to fill it up with something that smelt a bit like the gas that had heated the last place’s bathroom, but that also dripped liquid when they took the pipe out. Definitely Central Asian weirdness!
We made it to the Kazakh border - where we very nearly got mugged by taxi drivers trying to get us to take their cars for the 200 yard trip through the border posts - we were having none of it. Eventually got across (after having to fill out umpteen tiny bits of paper for Uzbek customs and despite the fact that they wouldn’t believe my passport picture was of me) and stumbled out into Kazakhstan – a long dusty road full of money changers and taxi drivers. We’d read about the buses to Almaty in The Book – but it didn’t give any information about where to find them. Luckily we were so pissed off with the pressure from the taxi drivers that we charged through them all and continued up the road, eventually finding the bus park. We chose the newest of the buses (not saying much) and bought a ticket from a scary looking woman who seemed to be in charge, but kept our bags close to us until we were sure the bus was actually going somewhere.
Food was reduced to ‘Something in Batter’ from a local stall and a bag of yummy (?!) Russian apricot biscuits and our usual fill of water. It was at this point that we discovered that Kazakh bus stations have the worst loos in the world. That cheered us up. Eventually the bus cranked into life and we loaded up. We were then further disappointed by the fact that the loo on the bus wasn’t going to be much use to us as it was used as a luggage bay and the door locked shut for the journey. We made an executive decision not to drink anything on the journey to put off the inevitable for as long as possible.
Then began a lovely night bus across the Kazakh steppe to Almaty. Which wasn’t great as we'd been travelling from 9.30am to 8am the next day. It didn't help that the road was blocked at some places and the coach had to off road across the steppe - not what the makers intended when they proudly build their Mercedes bus for the German transit system (according to the labels inside the bus) rather than the Central Asian dirt roads!
However, the view of the wide open spaces was pretty amazing - as was watching the sun go down and seeing young Kazakh boys riding their horses across the steppe to herd the family's animals back to the corral for the night.
Our ongoing obsession with Kazakh loos was fuelled by those we discovered in service stations through the night – when all the passengers were kicked off the bus at God forsaken hours and made to huddle by road side stalls watching old men crack sunflower seeds and spit them out all over the place (and pleasantly in the bus as well). Service station loos are holes in the ground with no partitions or anything around them - just you and all the other bus passengers in a line. And when I say “ground” I do actually mean ground, not some nicely tiled bathroom. Lovely. And enough to give any self respecting Westerner total stage fright! We just couldn’t.
There were some of the in transit food options. At one small village a women got on with loaves of bread and lumps of meat. She walked up and down the bus aisle hawking her wares and making up sandwiches on the spot for anyone who wanted one. Fresh, almost tasty – and most importantly, not involving batter.
We got to Almaty the following morning after no sleep and no food for 2 days - not feeling 100%. We then had to run the taxi driver gauntlet again with all of them trying their best to rip us off. After a horrid night – at one point waking up in cold sweats convinced I was about to throw up and desperately trying to find something waterproof to vomit into – I perked up, much to The Aussie’s surprise, but in response to the taxi drivers’ aggression. Eventually we got a cab into town, with help from a lovely Kazakh girl telling us what we should pay, only to find out that all the hotels were booked up for conferences. I could have coped with that fact, but wasn’t prepared for the legacy of Russian customer service. Women called Svetlana with scary dyed hair all yelling “no room! no room!” at me as if their establishment was so exclusive I couldn’t possibly be allowed in!
We wondered around feeling increasingly hopeless and considering going straight back to the bus station and heading down to Bishkek, until we ran into the international educational exchange office where a very nice girl helped us by phoning around and eventually found us a place that was well out of our budget, but did have hot water (most of the time).
After a nap we had a bit of an explore to which my conclusion was Almaty - just don’t bother (possibly because I was still feeling ill). Maybe in the future - but for the moment it is a smelly and very Russian city - a total lack of customer service - and the sad sight of aging Babushkas on street corners selling their belongings and pot plants to make ends meet; old men drinking in parks wearing moth eaten cardigans but with rows of lopsided, tarnished medals telling untold stories pinned to their chests, whilst young people strolled by enjoying the prosperity that oil has brought the country. We took a trip to see the Russian Cathedral – in the favourite Kazakh colour combo of turquoise and gold and then ended up at a Russian restaurant, with a KGB theme (!) eating suspect lasagne – but at least it was food. Despite the grime on the streets the city still has an amazing backdrop of snow covered mountains, it feels a little surreal to glance up from the dirt on the streets and see this panorama in the distance.
So after a day we set off again to Kyrgyzstan. We got a shared taxi from Almaty to Bishkek (with just a small amount of off roading) and found a much less Russian feeling city surrounded by towering snow tipped mountains. It is a very green place with wide tree lined boulevards and lots of parks all with the trees just turning to autumn colours. We checked in at a very random homestay with a friendly Kyrgyz family and sheets that did look vaguely clean......
We made it to the Kazakh border - where we very nearly got mugged by taxi drivers trying to get us to take their cars for the 200 yard trip through the border posts - we were having none of it. Eventually got across (after having to fill out umpteen tiny bits of paper for Uzbek customs and despite the fact that they wouldn’t believe my passport picture was of me) and stumbled out into Kazakhstan – a long dusty road full of money changers and taxi drivers. We’d read about the buses to Almaty in The Book – but it didn’t give any information about where to find them. Luckily we were so pissed off with the pressure from the taxi drivers that we charged through them all and continued up the road, eventually finding the bus park. We chose the newest of the buses (not saying much) and bought a ticket from a scary looking woman who seemed to be in charge, but kept our bags close to us until we were sure the bus was actually going somewhere.
Food was reduced to ‘Something in Batter’ from a local stall and a bag of yummy (?!) Russian apricot biscuits and our usual fill of water. It was at this point that we discovered that Kazakh bus stations have the worst loos in the world. That cheered us up. Eventually the bus cranked into life and we loaded up. We were then further disappointed by the fact that the loo on the bus wasn’t going to be much use to us as it was used as a luggage bay and the door locked shut for the journey. We made an executive decision not to drink anything on the journey to put off the inevitable for as long as possible.
Then began a lovely night bus across the Kazakh steppe to Almaty. Which wasn’t great as we'd been travelling from 9.30am to 8am the next day. It didn't help that the road was blocked at some places and the coach had to off road across the steppe - not what the makers intended when they proudly build their Mercedes bus for the German transit system (according to the labels inside the bus) rather than the Central Asian dirt roads!
However, the view of the wide open spaces was pretty amazing - as was watching the sun go down and seeing young Kazakh boys riding their horses across the steppe to herd the family's animals back to the corral for the night.
Our ongoing obsession with Kazakh loos was fuelled by those we discovered in service stations through the night – when all the passengers were kicked off the bus at God forsaken hours and made to huddle by road side stalls watching old men crack sunflower seeds and spit them out all over the place (and pleasantly in the bus as well). Service station loos are holes in the ground with no partitions or anything around them - just you and all the other bus passengers in a line. And when I say “ground” I do actually mean ground, not some nicely tiled bathroom. Lovely. And enough to give any self respecting Westerner total stage fright! We just couldn’t.
There were some of the in transit food options. At one small village a women got on with loaves of bread and lumps of meat. She walked up and down the bus aisle hawking her wares and making up sandwiches on the spot for anyone who wanted one. Fresh, almost tasty – and most importantly, not involving batter.
We got to Almaty the following morning after no sleep and no food for 2 days - not feeling 100%. We then had to run the taxi driver gauntlet again with all of them trying their best to rip us off. After a horrid night – at one point waking up in cold sweats convinced I was about to throw up and desperately trying to find something waterproof to vomit into – I perked up, much to The Aussie’s surprise, but in response to the taxi drivers’ aggression. Eventually we got a cab into town, with help from a lovely Kazakh girl telling us what we should pay, only to find out that all the hotels were booked up for conferences. I could have coped with that fact, but wasn’t prepared for the legacy of Russian customer service. Women called Svetlana with scary dyed hair all yelling “no room! no room!” at me as if their establishment was so exclusive I couldn’t possibly be allowed in!
We wondered around feeling increasingly hopeless and considering going straight back to the bus station and heading down to Bishkek, until we ran into the international educational exchange office where a very nice girl helped us by phoning around and eventually found us a place that was well out of our budget, but did have hot water (most of the time).
After a nap we had a bit of an explore to which my conclusion was Almaty - just don’t bother (possibly because I was still feeling ill). Maybe in the future - but for the moment it is a smelly and very Russian city - a total lack of customer service - and the sad sight of aging Babushkas on street corners selling their belongings and pot plants to make ends meet; old men drinking in parks wearing moth eaten cardigans but with rows of lopsided, tarnished medals telling untold stories pinned to their chests, whilst young people strolled by enjoying the prosperity that oil has brought the country. We took a trip to see the Russian Cathedral – in the favourite Kazakh colour combo of turquoise and gold and then ended up at a Russian restaurant, with a KGB theme (!) eating suspect lasagne – but at least it was food. Despite the grime on the streets the city still has an amazing backdrop of snow covered mountains, it feels a little surreal to glance up from the dirt on the streets and see this panorama in the distance.
So after a day we set off again to Kyrgyzstan. We got a shared taxi from Almaty to Bishkek (with just a small amount of off roading) and found a much less Russian feeling city surrounded by towering snow tipped mountains. It is a very green place with wide tree lined boulevards and lots of parks all with the trees just turning to autumn colours. We checked in at a very random homestay with a friendly Kyrgyz family and sheets that did look vaguely clean......
Exploring Shakhrisabz
On entering the city today the first thing you notice is the remains of the massive portal of Timur’s Ak-Saray Palace, which took 20 years to build and was destroyed by Abdulla Khan of Bukhara in the 17th century. It was Timur’s Summer Palace and was planned to be the most grandiose of all his constructions - the lancet arch of this building had a span of over 22 meters. It was started in 1380 by artisans deported by Timur from the recently-conquered Khwarezm. Unfortunately, only traces of its gigantic 65 metre gate-towers survive, adorned with blue, white and gold mosaics. Originally the entire palace would have been glazed with blue tiles and majolica ringed with an intricate ligature of inscriptions. The high doors would have led to a courtyard, the centre of which held a large reservoir surrounded by brilliant chambers, reception halls, intimate rooms and convivial partying. With this description it sounds almost like the Playboy Mansion – and I dare say Hugh Hefner would have felt at home there too.
Above the entry of the Ak-Saray are big letters saying: "If you challenge our power - look at our buildings!" – which sounds like something the Americans would say about New York today. Like the famous lines written for ‘Ozymandius, King of King’s’ his work is also in disrepair – but looses little of its impact for the ravages of centuries. We made it up the rickety steps to the top of the arch and looked out over a city of radiating green avenues and a rusty fairgound with a ferris wheel creaking and turning in the breeze, carrying the odd Uzbek courting couple up into the air.
In front of the arch is a massive statue of Timur and a national flag still flies proudly from the crown of the arch signifying the dignity and haughty grandeur that is still maintained in this ancient backwater. Given the scale of the ruins it is hard to grasp just how massive this structure must have been in it’s hey day - especially compared to the buildings of the time. It must truly have seemed testament to a world leader.
It was wedding season in Shahkrisabz with wedding parties a go-go sticking to Uzbek tradition of touring the city after the ceremony to get their pictures taken with all the huge statues of Timur. Not exactly intimate portraits, these photo sessions included the whole family in sparkly dresses being loudly serenaded by drummers and a small boy with a very large trumpet. September is the fortuitous month for Uzbek weddings and were are so many of them going on that the wedding parties had to queue up for their go in front of the statues.
Weddings are hugely important rites to the Uzbeks – and not cheap either. It is considered obligatory for the wedding party to consist of 2 - 300 guests, the groom’s parents are expected to provide the young couple with a house to live in whilst the bride’s parents furnish it with everything they might need. Although now strictly Muslim in nature, the Uzbek traditions of Zoroastrianism are in evidence with the ritual of purification when the couple walk around a fire 3 times before the groom brings the bride into his house.
Shahkrisabz would be rather ambitious to describe itself as a modern tourist destination, but that should not discount the reasons for visiting the area. Local entrepreneurs have also latched on to the idea that foreign money is to be had. After fortifying ourselves with gallons of tea and somsa savouries in a local tea house (delicious as long as you averted your eyes from the clouds of black flies!) we set out through the dirt lanes of the bazaar to the Dorussiadat Burial Complex, with the French bank managers strutting their stuff in time with the Russian techno issuing fro the bazaar.
The earliest building in the complex is the Shamseddin Kulyol mausoleum (1370). Next to this is a mausoleum of one of Ulug Beg’s descendents – Gumbazi. The complex also includes a mausoleum for two of Timur’s sons, Jahangir and Umar Sheikh, which is an outstanding example of Khorazmian architecture, tiled with slabs of limestone and built by Khorazmian slaves in the second half of the 14th century. Janangir was considered Timur’s favourite son and when he died in 1376 Timur’s grief was such that is was described as: “the heart of the Lord was closed for compassion for 30 years”. And if the great Timur wasn’t very happy, you could almost guarantee that he’d be making other people’s lives a misery as well.
Also here is a mausoleum built for Timur himself several years before his death, (although he was eventually buried in Samarkand). Arranged in the shape of a tent reflecting the nomadic conquering lifestyle he led, the crypt of the mausoleum (the only part that has survived) has a single marble grave with its cover left open, waiting for Timur. The walls of the crypt are very simply decorated with a design in the shape of a teardrop, and an inscription in Arabic reading: "A wise and powerful man shall seek the advantage in every situation and act on his own, where as a fool waits upon the action of others". This struck me as just as thought provoking today as it must have been then.
The local entrepreneurs in evidence in the rose studded courtyard were mainly women. Although coy and giggling they were ruthless salesmen! Luckily the Uzbek culture worked in my favour as they left me alone and to hassle Steven assuming he was my husband and confused as to why he wasn’t buying me anything, although they weren’t fooling us with their “ancient coins” that were marked “UAE 1990”. Not so ancient. They were selling the usual variety of Uzbek curios: finely embroidered cushion covers, hats and stockings, colourful felt cloaks, hand painted bowls and cheap beads.
I bought a traditional hat for Rob – a tyubeteika – the national skull cap. These caps are square and squat on the head and invariably black with a white embroidered pattern. Handily they fold down flat for transportation – very cunning! According to ancient belief the four flowers on the top protect the health of a wearer and sixteen flowers (sixteen children) along the edge guarantee a large and harmonious family. Another version interprets the flowers, embroidered with white silk on a black background, as a symbol of the pure soul and heart: "White and black. Two poles - two beginnings. The black square - cosmos and darkness. Four white segments - rotation and solar symbol. The look is frozen, vanishing in the whirl. In a moment, you will disappear in the vortex - calmness" - wrote Sergey Alibekov about Uzbek tyubeteika.
The simple design of the men’s cap is augmented with richer embellishment for those of women and children and is closely associated with the spiritual life, customs and poetic turn of mind of the Uzbek people. This sense is illustrated by the position the cap holds in Uzbek tradition. If an Uzbek wants to emphasise that some matter will be done immediately, he says "Duppingni bir ailantirguncha" ("While you are turning your tyubeteika around your head").
On the way back in the wheezing Lada we stopped to take some photos of the view and met a couple of lovely girls selling what looked like crab-apples by the side of the road. Initially they were very shy, but got very excited at being able to see themselves in the digital camera display and insisted on me taking photos of a young man asleep and then waking him up to embarrass him. I was eventually rescued by the driver of our car before I was made to photograph absolutely everything….
Back in Samarkand we had some very relaxed evenings in the guesthouse, settled round a low table on a raised dais just right for reclining on piles of cushions and chatting about Stuff. It was starting to get a little chilly in the evenings – a great excuse for socks and sandals and a snuggley fleece. We ended several evenings in fits of giggles, having only been drinking tea.
The first was sitting out late one night talking to Steven with our backs to the open window of a dorm. During a power cut (torch to hand of course!) we started hearing tremendous farts from whoever was sleeping in the dorm trumpeting across the silent courtyard. We quickly reverted to being about 9 years old – very silly. The second time was when a Swedish couple arrived and decided to make use of the communal bathroom. This consisted of a squat loo, sinks and a shower room built in mud under the kitchens and heated with some sort of smelly natural gas. Not very romantic you’d have thought until we spotted Mr. Swede heading over with a towel, followed by Mrs. Swede – in a short nightie and high heeled mules. This was followed by a lot of giggling from the bathroom and noises we didn’t want to hear. Not usual youth hostel etiquette!
Above the entry of the Ak-Saray are big letters saying: "If you challenge our power - look at our buildings!" – which sounds like something the Americans would say about New York today. Like the famous lines written for ‘Ozymandius, King of King’s’ his work is also in disrepair – but looses little of its impact for the ravages of centuries. We made it up the rickety steps to the top of the arch and looked out over a city of radiating green avenues and a rusty fairgound with a ferris wheel creaking and turning in the breeze, carrying the odd Uzbek courting couple up into the air.
In front of the arch is a massive statue of Timur and a national flag still flies proudly from the crown of the arch signifying the dignity and haughty grandeur that is still maintained in this ancient backwater. Given the scale of the ruins it is hard to grasp just how massive this structure must have been in it’s hey day - especially compared to the buildings of the time. It must truly have seemed testament to a world leader.
It was wedding season in Shahkrisabz with wedding parties a go-go sticking to Uzbek tradition of touring the city after the ceremony to get their pictures taken with all the huge statues of Timur. Not exactly intimate portraits, these photo sessions included the whole family in sparkly dresses being loudly serenaded by drummers and a small boy with a very large trumpet. September is the fortuitous month for Uzbek weddings and were are so many of them going on that the wedding parties had to queue up for their go in front of the statues.
Weddings are hugely important rites to the Uzbeks – and not cheap either. It is considered obligatory for the wedding party to consist of 2 - 300 guests, the groom’s parents are expected to provide the young couple with a house to live in whilst the bride’s parents furnish it with everything they might need. Although now strictly Muslim in nature, the Uzbek traditions of Zoroastrianism are in evidence with the ritual of purification when the couple walk around a fire 3 times before the groom brings the bride into his house.
Shahkrisabz would be rather ambitious to describe itself as a modern tourist destination, but that should not discount the reasons for visiting the area. Local entrepreneurs have also latched on to the idea that foreign money is to be had. After fortifying ourselves with gallons of tea and somsa savouries in a local tea house (delicious as long as you averted your eyes from the clouds of black flies!) we set out through the dirt lanes of the bazaar to the Dorussiadat Burial Complex, with the French bank managers strutting their stuff in time with the Russian techno issuing fro the bazaar.
The earliest building in the complex is the Shamseddin Kulyol mausoleum (1370). Next to this is a mausoleum of one of Ulug Beg’s descendents – Gumbazi. The complex also includes a mausoleum for two of Timur’s sons, Jahangir and Umar Sheikh, which is an outstanding example of Khorazmian architecture, tiled with slabs of limestone and built by Khorazmian slaves in the second half of the 14th century. Janangir was considered Timur’s favourite son and when he died in 1376 Timur’s grief was such that is was described as: “the heart of the Lord was closed for compassion for 30 years”. And if the great Timur wasn’t very happy, you could almost guarantee that he’d be making other people’s lives a misery as well.
Also here is a mausoleum built for Timur himself several years before his death, (although he was eventually buried in Samarkand). Arranged in the shape of a tent reflecting the nomadic conquering lifestyle he led, the crypt of the mausoleum (the only part that has survived) has a single marble grave with its cover left open, waiting for Timur. The walls of the crypt are very simply decorated with a design in the shape of a teardrop, and an inscription in Arabic reading: "A wise and powerful man shall seek the advantage in every situation and act on his own, where as a fool waits upon the action of others". This struck me as just as thought provoking today as it must have been then.
The local entrepreneurs in evidence in the rose studded courtyard were mainly women. Although coy and giggling they were ruthless salesmen! Luckily the Uzbek culture worked in my favour as they left me alone and to hassle Steven assuming he was my husband and confused as to why he wasn’t buying me anything, although they weren’t fooling us with their “ancient coins” that were marked “UAE 1990”. Not so ancient. They were selling the usual variety of Uzbek curios: finely embroidered cushion covers, hats and stockings, colourful felt cloaks, hand painted bowls and cheap beads.
I bought a traditional hat for Rob – a tyubeteika – the national skull cap. These caps are square and squat on the head and invariably black with a white embroidered pattern. Handily they fold down flat for transportation – very cunning! According to ancient belief the four flowers on the top protect the health of a wearer and sixteen flowers (sixteen children) along the edge guarantee a large and harmonious family. Another version interprets the flowers, embroidered with white silk on a black background, as a symbol of the pure soul and heart: "White and black. Two poles - two beginnings. The black square - cosmos and darkness. Four white segments - rotation and solar symbol. The look is frozen, vanishing in the whirl. In a moment, you will disappear in the vortex - calmness" - wrote Sergey Alibekov about Uzbek tyubeteika.
The simple design of the men’s cap is augmented with richer embellishment for those of women and children and is closely associated with the spiritual life, customs and poetic turn of mind of the Uzbek people. This sense is illustrated by the position the cap holds in Uzbek tradition. If an Uzbek wants to emphasise that some matter will be done immediately, he says "Duppingni bir ailantirguncha" ("While you are turning your tyubeteika around your head").
On the way back in the wheezing Lada we stopped to take some photos of the view and met a couple of lovely girls selling what looked like crab-apples by the side of the road. Initially they were very shy, but got very excited at being able to see themselves in the digital camera display and insisted on me taking photos of a young man asleep and then waking him up to embarrass him. I was eventually rescued by the driver of our car before I was made to photograph absolutely everything….
Back in Samarkand we had some very relaxed evenings in the guesthouse, settled round a low table on a raised dais just right for reclining on piles of cushions and chatting about Stuff. It was starting to get a little chilly in the evenings – a great excuse for socks and sandals and a snuggley fleece. We ended several evenings in fits of giggles, having only been drinking tea.
The first was sitting out late one night talking to Steven with our backs to the open window of a dorm. During a power cut (torch to hand of course!) we started hearing tremendous farts from whoever was sleeping in the dorm trumpeting across the silent courtyard. We quickly reverted to being about 9 years old – very silly. The second time was when a Swedish couple arrived and decided to make use of the communal bathroom. This consisted of a squat loo, sinks and a shower room built in mud under the kitchens and heated with some sort of smelly natural gas. Not very romantic you’d have thought until we spotted Mr. Swede heading over with a towel, followed by Mrs. Swede – in a short nightie and high heeled mules. This was followed by a lot of giggling from the bathroom and noises we didn’t want to hear. Not usual youth hostel etiquette!
Shakhrisabz - birthplace of Timur
Following a day exploring Samarkand I took a day trip with Steven and the gay bank managers to Timur’s birthplace – Shakhrisabz – which means “Green City” in Persian. It was a great journey over the mountains in an elderly Lada with the driver crouched over the steering wheel and refusing to leave 3rd gear. We made it (eventually) and found fantastic views over the mountains that form the border with Afghanistan - all snow capped and very majestic....it was very tempting to have a go at crossing them (as apparently the boarder to Termiz is OK at the moment)....but I managed to resist. The Aussie would just be too jealous.
Formerly known as Kesh (meaning "heart-pleasing"), and tentatively identified with the ancient Nautaca, Shakhrisabz is amongst Central Asia’s most ancient cities. UNESCO are happy with the city being considered 2,700 years old – making it as old as Rome. Alexander the Great's troops wintered here in 4BC enabling Alexander to meet his wife Roxanna. His general Ptolemy captured the satrap of Bactria here (who’d murdered Daruis III of Persia and was the pretender to the Persian throne) Bessus, at Nautaca thus ending the once great Achmaemenid Empire. The medieval author Mahkmud ibn Vali later wrote: “Kesh – of all the cities of Movarounnahr is considered as one of the most beautiful places of all the world!” He’d obviously not stopped by Samarkand at that point.
On April 9th 1346 Shahkrisabz witnessed the birth of a momentous leader – Timur, to the family of a minor local chief. During his early warring years the city enjoyed considerable patronage. At the age of 25 Timur was already Governor of Kesh and ambitious with it: in a tale akin to Robert the Bruce and his spider, it is said that as a young boy Timur watched an ant climbing up the stem of a blade of grass – creeping up and sliding down over and over again, until it reached the top. Timur took from this experience the bon mot that if one tries and tries again, even the smallest can achieve great things.
He certainly made a good job of applying himself and did not let coming from the middle of nowhere get in his way. During his time he defeated and captured the Turkish Sultan Bayazed and beat the Golden Hoard, making triumphant campaigns to Iran, the Caucasus, India and Asia Minor. Having created the vast state of Movarounnahr and made himself the Emir, Timur chose Samarkand to be his capital. However, he always remembered his home town, as Bobur, descendent of Tiumr and the founder of the Mogul dynasty put it: “Since Kesh was Timur’s birthplace, he made a fantastic job to make the city ‘pedestal of throne’”. Never one for shows of modesty, he did this by employing premier architects, builders and craftsmen to construct majestic buildings embodying his magnificence and power.
Shahkrisabz did however fall from favour. The Emir of Bukhara, Abdullah Khan II, mostly destroyed the city in the 16th century during his attempt to seize the Shaybanid throne. According to legend, he had the city destroyed in a fit of rage over the death of his favorite horse from exhaustion on a steep approach to the city, but was later overcome with remorse for the damage he had done. The city struggled for autonomy under Bukharan rule and the Russians conquered it in 1870, allegedly in revenge for the murder of a Tsarist tax collector.
Formerly known as Kesh (meaning "heart-pleasing"), and tentatively identified with the ancient Nautaca, Shakhrisabz is amongst Central Asia’s most ancient cities. UNESCO are happy with the city being considered 2,700 years old – making it as old as Rome. Alexander the Great's troops wintered here in 4BC enabling Alexander to meet his wife Roxanna. His general Ptolemy captured the satrap of Bactria here (who’d murdered Daruis III of Persia and was the pretender to the Persian throne) Bessus, at Nautaca thus ending the once great Achmaemenid Empire. The medieval author Mahkmud ibn Vali later wrote: “Kesh – of all the cities of Movarounnahr is considered as one of the most beautiful places of all the world!” He’d obviously not stopped by Samarkand at that point.
On April 9th 1346 Shahkrisabz witnessed the birth of a momentous leader – Timur, to the family of a minor local chief. During his early warring years the city enjoyed considerable patronage. At the age of 25 Timur was already Governor of Kesh and ambitious with it: in a tale akin to Robert the Bruce and his spider, it is said that as a young boy Timur watched an ant climbing up the stem of a blade of grass – creeping up and sliding down over and over again, until it reached the top. Timur took from this experience the bon mot that if one tries and tries again, even the smallest can achieve great things.
He certainly made a good job of applying himself and did not let coming from the middle of nowhere get in his way. During his time he defeated and captured the Turkish Sultan Bayazed and beat the Golden Hoard, making triumphant campaigns to Iran, the Caucasus, India and Asia Minor. Having created the vast state of Movarounnahr and made himself the Emir, Timur chose Samarkand to be his capital. However, he always remembered his home town, as Bobur, descendent of Tiumr and the founder of the Mogul dynasty put it: “Since Kesh was Timur’s birthplace, he made a fantastic job to make the city ‘pedestal of throne’”. Never one for shows of modesty, he did this by employing premier architects, builders and craftsmen to construct majestic buildings embodying his magnificence and power.
Shahkrisabz did however fall from favour. The Emir of Bukhara, Abdullah Khan II, mostly destroyed the city in the 16th century during his attempt to seize the Shaybanid throne. According to legend, he had the city destroyed in a fit of rage over the death of his favorite horse from exhaustion on a steep approach to the city, but was later overcome with remorse for the damage he had done. The city struggled for autonomy under Bukharan rule and the Russians conquered it in 1870, allegedly in revenge for the murder of a Tsarist tax collector.
A place to stay in Samarkand
In Samarkand we managed to find a decent backpacker type place to stay at – a house set around a central courtyard – where the family had obviously heard about the concept of a backpacking hostel – and had very nearly got it right. They was slightly mystified by us most of the time and seemed to have settled on the proactive tactic of feeding us tea and melon at every opportunity.
At night communal dinners were served at a long outdoor table. Conversations were held in variously accented English and stories shared. Following dinner came further stories and a variety of card games conducted on the raised dais covered in cushions. Dinner was invariably Broth Surprise - which meant the fun of a tombola to find out what was in it - usually a couple of potatoes and a carrot. Yum.
Having gathered Sergei in Khiva, enjoyed run ins with morose Mubinjon and eccentric Andrei in Bukhara, not to mention having been so, so close to meeting “Tall & Stately” Tom it was obviously now time for us to collect some more randoms.
Neil – a British chap taking 4 years to motorbike around the world (he told his company he'll only be a couple of months). His live-in girlfriend didn't believe him until he sold their house....she's not talking to him anymore.
Steven - studying Middle Eastern studies at Cambridge and full of stories of playing international rugby for Syria in his year out (apparently the only team they were able to beat was Cyprus - and only because the Cypriots were very hung-over.) He doesn’t believe the Arabs have the temperament for rugby.
Duncan & Tom: 2 ex-McKinsey Brits from the Asia practice doing Sydney - London overland playing cards at any opportunity.
and Herve and Jean-Francoise: a pair of gay French bank managers who go running in very short shorts, have a worrying interest in Tin Tin and a predilection for dancing through Bazaars when they hear dodgy Russian pop music....
Definitely a motley crew!
At night communal dinners were served at a long outdoor table. Conversations were held in variously accented English and stories shared. Following dinner came further stories and a variety of card games conducted on the raised dais covered in cushions. Dinner was invariably Broth Surprise - which meant the fun of a tombola to find out what was in it - usually a couple of potatoes and a carrot. Yum.
Having gathered Sergei in Khiva, enjoyed run ins with morose Mubinjon and eccentric Andrei in Bukhara, not to mention having been so, so close to meeting “Tall & Stately” Tom it was obviously now time for us to collect some more randoms.
Neil – a British chap taking 4 years to motorbike around the world (he told his company he'll only be a couple of months). His live-in girlfriend didn't believe him until he sold their house....she's not talking to him anymore.
Steven - studying Middle Eastern studies at Cambridge and full of stories of playing international rugby for Syria in his year out (apparently the only team they were able to beat was Cyprus - and only because the Cypriots were very hung-over.) He doesn’t believe the Arabs have the temperament for rugby.
Duncan & Tom: 2 ex-McKinsey Brits from the Asia practice doing Sydney - London overland playing cards at any opportunity.
and Herve and Jean-Francoise: a pair of gay French bank managers who go running in very short shorts, have a worrying interest in Tin Tin and a predilection for dancing through Bazaars when they hear dodgy Russian pop music....
Definitely a motley crew!
Legend of Timur's Grave
Samarkand also houses the remains of the great Timur in the Gur Emir building. From a distance this looks like a giant fluted tulip, its dome delicately resembling the tightly folded petals decked out in lapis blue. The dome is studded with fine gold and blue tiles and rises out of an octagonal base. No expense was spared on this mausoleum to a legend, with walls of jasper and of alabaster. Inside lie the remains of the great Timur, as well as those of his three sons; Omar Shaik, Miranshah and Shakh Rukh and his grandson Mohammed Sultan. His gravestone is beautiful in the simplicity of its design – a single piece of dark green jade. According to folklore, the tomb is inscribed with the caution that anyone opening it will bring upon their country an invader worst than Timur himself.
And did that act let slip the dogs of war? It’s said that in 1941 a Russian archaeologist set out to determine whether the remains in the Gur Emir really were those of the great Timur. Whilst enjoying a glass of chai prior to beginning work on the tomb the archaeologists ran into 3 old men in a chaikana nearby – they warned the Russians that ancient manuscripts foretold the scourge of war being unleashed should anyone destroy the remains. In typical cocky fashion the expedition pooh-poohed this mumbo jumbo and got stuck in. The date was 21 June, 1941. Hours later they received the news that Hitler had invaded the Soviet Union. Chilling stuff.
The other well known sight in Samarkand is the Shah-i-Zinda on the slope of the ancient Afrosiab. This is the graveyard of the rulers of the city and is spread out like a necklace on the hillside. This road of the dead wends its way across the dusty land to the central sacred place of the complex – the mazar (grave) of Kussam-ibn-Abbas a cousin of the Prophet Mohammed who came to Samarkand during the Arab invasion in the 7th Century and stuck around to convert the local Nestorian Christians. He was later was killed for his beliefs. Legend states that he is immortal and continues to live here, lending his story to the original name “Shah-i-Zinda” meaning “the Living King”. Indeed, in the Middle Ages a pilgrimage to Shah-i-Zinda was equivalent to the Hajj to Mecca.
The graveyard itself is a cluster of necropolises piled on top of the crown of a hill. It contains buildings from the 11th to the 19th century and is renown for the exquisite quality of the early tilework. Unfortunately this fame is proving its undoing. In an attempt to ‘restore’ Shah-i-Zinda the Uzbek government are callously hacking off the original tiles and replacing them with a gaudy new variety. We saw this devastation at work – heaps of cracked, ancient tiles being thrown into the rubble by builders – with no care or though of the artistry and skill taken to create them. Never mind the loss of hundreds of years of art. This was painful to witness and, although in years to come the Shah-i-Zinda will no doubt sparkle and welcome visitors from far and wide – is will be a shallow shell of its former, historic self.
And did that act let slip the dogs of war? It’s said that in 1941 a Russian archaeologist set out to determine whether the remains in the Gur Emir really were those of the great Timur. Whilst enjoying a glass of chai prior to beginning work on the tomb the archaeologists ran into 3 old men in a chaikana nearby – they warned the Russians that ancient manuscripts foretold the scourge of war being unleashed should anyone destroy the remains. In typical cocky fashion the expedition pooh-poohed this mumbo jumbo and got stuck in. The date was 21 June, 1941. Hours later they received the news that Hitler had invaded the Soviet Union. Chilling stuff.
The other well known sight in Samarkand is the Shah-i-Zinda on the slope of the ancient Afrosiab. This is the graveyard of the rulers of the city and is spread out like a necklace on the hillside. This road of the dead wends its way across the dusty land to the central sacred place of the complex – the mazar (grave) of Kussam-ibn-Abbas a cousin of the Prophet Mohammed who came to Samarkand during the Arab invasion in the 7th Century and stuck around to convert the local Nestorian Christians. He was later was killed for his beliefs. Legend states that he is immortal and continues to live here, lending his story to the original name “Shah-i-Zinda” meaning “the Living King”. Indeed, in the Middle Ages a pilgrimage to Shah-i-Zinda was equivalent to the Hajj to Mecca.
The graveyard itself is a cluster of necropolises piled on top of the crown of a hill. It contains buildings from the 11th to the 19th century and is renown for the exquisite quality of the early tilework. Unfortunately this fame is proving its undoing. In an attempt to ‘restore’ Shah-i-Zinda the Uzbek government are callously hacking off the original tiles and replacing them with a gaudy new variety. We saw this devastation at work – heaps of cracked, ancient tiles being thrown into the rubble by builders – with no care or though of the artistry and skill taken to create them. Never mind the loss of hundreds of years of art. This was painful to witness and, although in years to come the Shah-i-Zinda will no doubt sparkle and welcome visitors from far and wide – is will be a shallow shell of its former, historic self.
The Legend of the Bibi Khanum Mosque
Near by is the Bibi Khanum Mosque which towers over the low rise city; the silhouette of the huge cupola reflecting the vault of heaven. This mosque was begun in 1399 after Timur had returned from a victorious Indian campaign. Obviously in ebullient mood, Timur declared that the mosque must outshine everything he had seen in those distant lands – quite a challenge. Two hundred craftsmen duly arrived from all over the East and a further five hundred worked nearby quarries in Pendjekent to deliver the necessary stone. The construction work lasted over five years. Having itchy conquering feet, Timur couldn’t hang about in Samarkand for that long and left on another campaign. When he returned he inspected the new building with its 130m x 102m courtyard, vast inner yard of marble, closed gallery for prayer, 50m high minarets and walls embellished with glazed bricks of different colours which formed original geometric ornamental patterns and religious sayings. The luxurious internal decorations included majolica mosaic, carved marble, papier-mâché stamping and gilded ornaments.
But he didn’t like it.
In despotic temper he ordered the arrest of the foremen – Khodja Mukhmud David and Mukhammed Djeld and summarily sentenced them to death. After all that work they were hanged at the foot of the Chupanata mountains.
Legend tells a similarly colourful story regarding the construction of the Bibi Khanum mosque:
Bibi Khanum was Timur’s favourite of his eight wives. She was a Chinese or Mongolian princess and famed for her great beauty and grace. Concerned that the building would not be ready in time to welcome her husband home from his adventures, Bibi Khanum hurried the Persian chief architect to complete the construction. However, he was charmed with the beauty of the princess and did not press the builders, fancying sticking around for a while longer. But while he was contemplating how attractive this particular housewife was, news arrived announcing the forthcoming return of Timur to Samarkand.
Bibi-Khanum confronted the architect in a rage; he attempted to broker a deal: "The mosque will be completed in time, but you must present me a kiss". She was indignant: "I will present you anyone of my slaves you wish. Why are you gazing only at me? Look on these painted eggs, they are of different colours and do not look like each other, but break them and you will see that they do not differ. We women are like that".But the architect insisted: "I'll answer you. Here are two identical glasses. I'll pour water in one and the white wine in another. They are still identical. But when I taste them, one will burn me with the molten fire, while another will do nothing. Love is like that."
Timur was closing in; Bibi Khanum was upset – but not that upset. The architect was young and handsome and she relented. He bent forward to kiss her. At the last moment she tried to shield her face by her palm, but the kiss was so passionate that the ardour broke through her hand and left a red spot on her cheek. Several days later Timur entered into the city. He was surprised by the beauty and magnificence of cupolas and minarets. But his joy was darkened when he saw the trace of the kiss on his wife's face. Timur was angered and Bibi Khanum revealed the truth.The architect was ordered to show himself. I fear of his life he desisted and ascended the minaret with his assistant, but Timur’s men were following closely behind. When the soldiers entered the room at the top, the assistant was alone. "Where is the architect?" asked the soldiers. "The teacher made the wings and flew to Meshed" was the romantic answer.
But he didn’t like it.
In despotic temper he ordered the arrest of the foremen – Khodja Mukhmud David and Mukhammed Djeld and summarily sentenced them to death. After all that work they were hanged at the foot of the Chupanata mountains.
Legend tells a similarly colourful story regarding the construction of the Bibi Khanum mosque:
Bibi Khanum was Timur’s favourite of his eight wives. She was a Chinese or Mongolian princess and famed for her great beauty and grace. Concerned that the building would not be ready in time to welcome her husband home from his adventures, Bibi Khanum hurried the Persian chief architect to complete the construction. However, he was charmed with the beauty of the princess and did not press the builders, fancying sticking around for a while longer. But while he was contemplating how attractive this particular housewife was, news arrived announcing the forthcoming return of Timur to Samarkand.
Bibi-Khanum confronted the architect in a rage; he attempted to broker a deal: "The mosque will be completed in time, but you must present me a kiss". She was indignant: "I will present you anyone of my slaves you wish. Why are you gazing only at me? Look on these painted eggs, they are of different colours and do not look like each other, but break them and you will see that they do not differ. We women are like that".But the architect insisted: "I'll answer you. Here are two identical glasses. I'll pour water in one and the white wine in another. They are still identical. But when I taste them, one will burn me with the molten fire, while another will do nothing. Love is like that."
Timur was closing in; Bibi Khanum was upset – but not that upset. The architect was young and handsome and she relented. He bent forward to kiss her. At the last moment she tried to shield her face by her palm, but the kiss was so passionate that the ardour broke through her hand and left a red spot on her cheek. Several days later Timur entered into the city. He was surprised by the beauty and magnificence of cupolas and minarets. But his joy was darkened when he saw the trace of the kiss on his wife's face. Timur was angered and Bibi Khanum revealed the truth.The architect was ordered to show himself. I fear of his life he desisted and ascended the minaret with his assistant, but Timur’s men were following closely behind. When the soldiers entered the room at the top, the assistant was alone. "Where is the architect?" asked the soldiers. "The teacher made the wings and flew to Meshed" was the romantic answer.
Golden Samarkand - Arrival in the Registan
“Death has no repose Warmer and deeper than that orient sand Which hides the beauty and bright faith of those Who made the Golden Journey to Samarkand.” (James Elroy Flecker)
In truth, Samarkand is a name to invoke more poetry than either Khiva or Bukhara – and yet I was surprised to discover how much of a modern city it is; in Uzbek terms of course. As Khiva is a memorial to times past, Bukhara a crumbling backwater filled with delights – Samarkand is a vibrant city, where daily life goes on around structures from the past, much as life in Rome or Athens seems to disregard the extraordinary sights around every corner. Although it is debateable as to whether this is by arrogance or nonchalance.
Samarkand is the second largest city in Uzbekistan and is of the same generation as Rome, Athens and Babylon. Following Silk Road prosperity ancient Arab manuscripts referred to it as the “Gem of the East” and it has been under Persian rule for much of its history. It was also at the forefront of intellectual scholarship, being dubbed “The Land of Scientists” by Europeans and when Alexander the Great first saw Samarkand, he exclaimed “I heard that the city was beautiful but never thought that it could be so beautiful and majestic”. And that’s from a man who got around a fair bit.
Founded c. 700 BC it was already the capital of the Sogdian satrapy under the Archaemenid dynasty of Persia when Alexander tipped up to conquer it in 329 BC. From the 6th to 13th centuries it grew larger and was populous than modern Samarkand. During this time control of the city fluctuated between the Western Turks, Arabs, Persian Samanids, Karakhan Turks, Seljuk Turks, Karakitav, and Khorezmshah before it was sacked by the Mongols in 1220. They probably needed a breather after that. A small part of the population survived, but Samarkand suffered at least another Mongol sack by Khan Baraq as he needed a swift buck to pay his army. The town took many decades to recover from these disasters and it is astounding that it still exists at all!
In 1370, Timur made Samarkand the capital of his projected world empire Movarounnahr, extending from India to Turkey. For the next 35 years, he indulged in a light spot of urban regeneration, rebuilding the city, populating it with artisans and craftsmen from all the places he had captured and surrounding it with a green belt of gardens. Even elephants were employed in the building works! These gardens were extensive and magnificent, with fruit tree orchards, flower gardens, ornamental pools and a sophisticated irrigation system. They caused Spanish envoy Ruy Gonzales de Clavijo to remark in 1404: "A traveller who approaches the city sees only a mountainous height of trees and the houses embowered among them remain invisible" – sounds rather nice. Samarkand today remains one of the greenest cities in the country, but then again, it is a country of deserts and mountains, so there isn’t that much competition for the title of “Uzbekistan in Bloom”.
Somewhat surprisingly, given his blood thirsty reputation west of the Caucasus, Timur gained a local reputation for wisdom and generosity and Samarkand grew to become the center of the region of Transoxiana. His grandson, Ulugh Beg then ruled the country for 40 years. This extended period of stability enabled Ulugh Beg to create a scientific school that united outstanding astronomers and mathematicians. He also ordered the construction of an observatory; containing a gigantic but precision-made marble sextant with an arc length of 63 meters – amazingly this is still in situ and is able to produce readings with an error margin of only a fraction of a second.
In the 16th century, the Uzbek Shaybanids moved their capital to Bukhara, and Samarkand went into decline. After an assault by the aptly named Persian warlord Nadir Shah, the city was abandoned in the 18th century; but was forcibly resettled at the end of the 18th century by the Emir of Bukhara.
In 1868, the city came under Russian rule when the citadel was stormed by a force under Colonel Abramov (1836-1886). Shortly after, the small Russian garrison of 500 men were themselves besieged. The assault was led by the Bek of Shakrisabz, and the attack was beaten off with heavy losses.
Nowadays things appear slightly calmer. The Registan (main square) remains and is spectacular, very impressive, but unnaturally clean! It was once the main trade and public centre of the city, and is now sited next to a main road full of Uzbek commuter traffic – hardly the aspect the builders imagined. In Uzbek, Registan means ‘sandy place’ which takes one’s mind back to how this would once have seemed – an oasis of power and beauty set into an arid wasteland. No wonder Lord Curzon, Viceroy of India called it “the noblest public square in the world.” Interestingly, the perfect beauty and grandeur of the Registan is achieved not through symmetry – as with the Taj Mahal – but by balance. The Registan is enclosed on three sides by perfectly proportioned structures, with the fourth left open to add to the feeling of space and to lure the visitor in.
Once the visitor has got their breath back from the initial impression they are able to mentally take a step back and observe the sparkling turquoise - a colour known as ‘kok’ in Samarkand - tiled buildings that line 3 sides of the square:
Ulug Beg Medrassa (west) - was finished in 1417 under Ulug Beg himself, and contains mosaics with astronomical themes. About 100 students were taught the sciences, astronomy, and philosophy in addition to theology there. The building is fronted by a majestic portal, flanked by fine minarets. Over the gateway are sumptuous tiles worked into complex geometric patterns.
Sherdor Madrassa (east) – the ‘Lion Bearer’ medrassa was completed in 1636 by the Shaybanid Emir Yalangtush as a mirror image of Ulugh Beg Madrassa, except with the unusual decoration of tiled roaring lions, in blatant violation of Islamic rules
Tilla Qori Madrassa (north) – also known as the Golden Mosque madrassa, was completed in 1660, with a golden dome and a pleasant courtyard. It was here that the pilgrims stayed on reaching their goal of Golden Samarkand.
In Arabic Medrassa means “medieval university” and the interior and exterior facades of these biuldings are decorated with ornamentation of glazed brick, mosaic and carved marble. The square is considered an architectural gem representing the finest in Islamic art.
My first impressions of the Registan are those of awe. It is the sort of place you want to stand in the middle of, gaze up, and spin around like a child. Just drinking in the splendour and revelling in the balance and harmony. Your presence is counter point to the vastness of the monuments and your eyes are blinded by the intricacy of the detail on the tile work. But it is not gaudy. It is beautiful in the same way that a garden is, oozing sublime calm and reflection from every aspect.
In the midst of all this history and amazement, you are brought down to earth by having to put up with the dodgy police sidling up with a “psst – you want climb minaret?!”, snotty-nosed beggar children who grab hold of your sleeves (quite depressing) and the local cafes selling luminous green drinks. We did try some of this noxious liquid, but even though The Aussie was very impressed by the colour – neither of us could finish it. Even the wasps seem repelled by its vile hue.
Despite all the distractions you can’t argue with the impression the Registan makes on you. Unusually (for Islamic art) the tile work includes representations of various animals cavorting across the front of the medrassas – and even human faces. It is a work of great beauty and a thought provoking reflection on these people’s faith. Building such incredibly perfect domes and producing such intricate patterns on tiles would be a feat of design and architecture today and must really have been the pinnacle of engineering and faithful rapture in the past. I can hardly imagine the effect it would have had on travellers arriving dusty in the city at dusk and seeing not just a thriving metropolis, but a square that silently embodied so much power.
In truth, Samarkand is a name to invoke more poetry than either Khiva or Bukhara – and yet I was surprised to discover how much of a modern city it is; in Uzbek terms of course. As Khiva is a memorial to times past, Bukhara a crumbling backwater filled with delights – Samarkand is a vibrant city, where daily life goes on around structures from the past, much as life in Rome or Athens seems to disregard the extraordinary sights around every corner. Although it is debateable as to whether this is by arrogance or nonchalance.
Samarkand is the second largest city in Uzbekistan and is of the same generation as Rome, Athens and Babylon. Following Silk Road prosperity ancient Arab manuscripts referred to it as the “Gem of the East” and it has been under Persian rule for much of its history. It was also at the forefront of intellectual scholarship, being dubbed “The Land of Scientists” by Europeans and when Alexander the Great first saw Samarkand, he exclaimed “I heard that the city was beautiful but never thought that it could be so beautiful and majestic”. And that’s from a man who got around a fair bit.
Founded c. 700 BC it was already the capital of the Sogdian satrapy under the Archaemenid dynasty of Persia when Alexander tipped up to conquer it in 329 BC. From the 6th to 13th centuries it grew larger and was populous than modern Samarkand. During this time control of the city fluctuated between the Western Turks, Arabs, Persian Samanids, Karakhan Turks, Seljuk Turks, Karakitav, and Khorezmshah before it was sacked by the Mongols in 1220. They probably needed a breather after that. A small part of the population survived, but Samarkand suffered at least another Mongol sack by Khan Baraq as he needed a swift buck to pay his army. The town took many decades to recover from these disasters and it is astounding that it still exists at all!
In 1370, Timur made Samarkand the capital of his projected world empire Movarounnahr, extending from India to Turkey. For the next 35 years, he indulged in a light spot of urban regeneration, rebuilding the city, populating it with artisans and craftsmen from all the places he had captured and surrounding it with a green belt of gardens. Even elephants were employed in the building works! These gardens were extensive and magnificent, with fruit tree orchards, flower gardens, ornamental pools and a sophisticated irrigation system. They caused Spanish envoy Ruy Gonzales de Clavijo to remark in 1404: "A traveller who approaches the city sees only a mountainous height of trees and the houses embowered among them remain invisible" – sounds rather nice. Samarkand today remains one of the greenest cities in the country, but then again, it is a country of deserts and mountains, so there isn’t that much competition for the title of “Uzbekistan in Bloom”.
Somewhat surprisingly, given his blood thirsty reputation west of the Caucasus, Timur gained a local reputation for wisdom and generosity and Samarkand grew to become the center of the region of Transoxiana. His grandson, Ulugh Beg then ruled the country for 40 years. This extended period of stability enabled Ulugh Beg to create a scientific school that united outstanding astronomers and mathematicians. He also ordered the construction of an observatory; containing a gigantic but precision-made marble sextant with an arc length of 63 meters – amazingly this is still in situ and is able to produce readings with an error margin of only a fraction of a second.
In the 16th century, the Uzbek Shaybanids moved their capital to Bukhara, and Samarkand went into decline. After an assault by the aptly named Persian warlord Nadir Shah, the city was abandoned in the 18th century; but was forcibly resettled at the end of the 18th century by the Emir of Bukhara.
In 1868, the city came under Russian rule when the citadel was stormed by a force under Colonel Abramov (1836-1886). Shortly after, the small Russian garrison of 500 men were themselves besieged. The assault was led by the Bek of Shakrisabz, and the attack was beaten off with heavy losses.
Nowadays things appear slightly calmer. The Registan (main square) remains and is spectacular, very impressive, but unnaturally clean! It was once the main trade and public centre of the city, and is now sited next to a main road full of Uzbek commuter traffic – hardly the aspect the builders imagined. In Uzbek, Registan means ‘sandy place’ which takes one’s mind back to how this would once have seemed – an oasis of power and beauty set into an arid wasteland. No wonder Lord Curzon, Viceroy of India called it “the noblest public square in the world.” Interestingly, the perfect beauty and grandeur of the Registan is achieved not through symmetry – as with the Taj Mahal – but by balance. The Registan is enclosed on three sides by perfectly proportioned structures, with the fourth left open to add to the feeling of space and to lure the visitor in.
Once the visitor has got their breath back from the initial impression they are able to mentally take a step back and observe the sparkling turquoise - a colour known as ‘kok’ in Samarkand - tiled buildings that line 3 sides of the square:
Ulug Beg Medrassa (west) - was finished in 1417 under Ulug Beg himself, and contains mosaics with astronomical themes. About 100 students were taught the sciences, astronomy, and philosophy in addition to theology there. The building is fronted by a majestic portal, flanked by fine minarets. Over the gateway are sumptuous tiles worked into complex geometric patterns.
Sherdor Madrassa (east) – the ‘Lion Bearer’ medrassa was completed in 1636 by the Shaybanid Emir Yalangtush as a mirror image of Ulugh Beg Madrassa, except with the unusual decoration of tiled roaring lions, in blatant violation of Islamic rules
Tilla Qori Madrassa (north) – also known as the Golden Mosque madrassa, was completed in 1660, with a golden dome and a pleasant courtyard. It was here that the pilgrims stayed on reaching their goal of Golden Samarkand.
In Arabic Medrassa means “medieval university” and the interior and exterior facades of these biuldings are decorated with ornamentation of glazed brick, mosaic and carved marble. The square is considered an architectural gem representing the finest in Islamic art.
My first impressions of the Registan are those of awe. It is the sort of place you want to stand in the middle of, gaze up, and spin around like a child. Just drinking in the splendour and revelling in the balance and harmony. Your presence is counter point to the vastness of the monuments and your eyes are blinded by the intricacy of the detail on the tile work. But it is not gaudy. It is beautiful in the same way that a garden is, oozing sublime calm and reflection from every aspect.
In the midst of all this history and amazement, you are brought down to earth by having to put up with the dodgy police sidling up with a “psst – you want climb minaret?!”, snotty-nosed beggar children who grab hold of your sleeves (quite depressing) and the local cafes selling luminous green drinks. We did try some of this noxious liquid, but even though The Aussie was very impressed by the colour – neither of us could finish it. Even the wasps seem repelled by its vile hue.
Despite all the distractions you can’t argue with the impression the Registan makes on you. Unusually (for Islamic art) the tile work includes representations of various animals cavorting across the front of the medrassas – and even human faces. It is a work of great beauty and a thought provoking reflection on these people’s faith. Building such incredibly perfect domes and producing such intricate patterns on tiles would be a feat of design and architecture today and must really have been the pinnacle of engineering and faithful rapture in the past. I can hardly imagine the effect it would have had on travellers arriving dusty in the city at dusk and seeing not just a thriving metropolis, but a square that silently embodied so much power.
Tall & Stately in Bukhara
Strangely, most Bukharans are Persian-speaking Tajiks; Bukhara and Samarkand being two of the major centers of the Tajiki-Persian culture and history. During Soviet times these two Tajiki centers were annexed to the Uzbekistan SSR, much to the disgust of the Tajiks of Central Asia. Due to this cultural anomaly, Bukhara has been one of the main centres of Iranian civilization during its history. Its architecture and archaeological sites form one of the pillars of the Persian history and art.
The region of Bukhara was for a long period a part of the Persian Empire. Its inhabitants’ origins go back to the period of Aryan immigration into the region. Iranian Soghdians inhabited the area and some centuries later the Persian language became dominant among them. The last Emir of Bukhara was Muhammad Alim Khan (1880-1944).
We were staying in old Bukhara - in the Jewish quarter - although very few Jews are left. The ancestors of Bukhara’s modern Jews settled in the city during Roman times with the term “Bukharan Jew” frequently used to describe all Jews who come from Central Asia. There were a couple of Jewish schools on our rutted track and it felt funny to walk around mosques all day and then stumble across small blond children wearing the Jewish kippur and chanting in Hebrew. There used to be a large Jewish population here but many left to go to Israel and the remainder are dying out.
Just at the end of our rutted track was the Lyabi Hauz, one of the original water pools that were used for the city’s drinking and washing water – until they worked out that these stagnant pools of water might have something to do with the diseases ravaging the local population. Now, just slightly cleaner, it is surrounded by mulberry trees and chaikhanas (tea houses) with raised platforms for sitting on. At either end are crumbling medrassas from the 16th and 17th century lending the place a peaceful air, as it is filled with old men smoking pipes and drinking tea and young children playing with the fetid water.
We went for a wander round the town following The Book’s dubious directions, and discovered that in Bukhara they only sell playing cards suit by suit, which must make it tough to find people to play with! There are also a lot of old vending machines for soft drinks and coffee sitting outside people’s houses – interesting types of small business venture possibly? The roads in the old town are all dirt tracks and the houses made of mud bricks. They look very plain from the road as many of them have few, if any windows or ornamentation – but look closely and you can see that they still have the traditional carved doors and surround courtyards full of plants from which the family’s rooms radiate out. Lots of toddlers and school children were shyly waving at us and giggling, old women were gossiping and staring. We got lost several times but found a crumbling mausoleum built over the grave of a Muslim prophet that we were able (even as women) to go and pay our respects to. Good to see the effort the local community were going to, to keep the place going.
We took in the ancient medrassas, caravanserais and mosques - amazing - although very few are still in used post Red Army in the 1920s followed by Soviet rule. What was once the tallest building in Central Asia is there too, the Kalon Minaret - a 45m high tower from 1127 with early earthquake protection measures of reeds buried under the foundations 10m deep that was so awe inspiring that it was the only building spared destruction by Jengiz Khan in the 1200s. It is a cylindrical brick structure with a broad base, tapering towards the top and is decorated with bands of mouldings as it predates the invention of the tiles that decorate all later buildings. It is believed to have originally been built as a beacon to guide caravans, but took on a cruel mantle in later years during which successive rulers amused themselves by throwing anyone who displeased them from the top of the tower.
As our B&B had no hot water we went to a local women's bathhouse for a decent clean - it was VERY local! We got directions from a shy but friendly mother and daughter wandering through the back streets. Oddly they looked at the 2 of us carrying washbags and towels in the middle of Bukhara and knew where we wanted to go. The hammam was an ancient place partly underground with rooms of differing temperatures and pools of water on the floor with stepping stones set into them. It was great to feel clean again and to have been well and truly scrubbed by a large naked Uzbek woman – hard to know where to look when you’re being told to bend over and stand by a wall (in German?!). The local women were all very friendly and the children enjoyed seeing random Westerners and had to be told not to stare by their mothers. They were very keen to offer us the Full Service (including eyebrow plucking, make up and hair) – but we decided not to go that local….
We then went to a local café overlooking the main square to have a beer and watch the sun go down. Stunning. Sitting with a large ceramic flagon of local beer watching the tiles change colour as the sun set behind the square. Whilst relaxing there we met a US Aid worker briefly who invited us to a party at his place in Almaty (Kazakhstan) on Saturday night! Our social life was looking up…. Strangely, and this was later repeated, whenever (very rarely) we met a western man whilst we were with Sergei, he closed down and became totally monosyllabic. He was so open and friendly with us (we’ve had the full family history and his longing for a wife discussions etc…) but changed utterly in other men’s presence. Odd – we were definitely ‘his girls’.
Mubinjon our host was also very social. He was once an Olympic athlete – hence the grubby tracksuit top and the Olympic rings painted on the metal doors of the guesthouse which were the only thing marking it. He was an old romantic (and a bit of a perv) who seemed determined to set us up with proper boyfriends – but only of the same nationality. All this is undertaken with the help of Sergei’s translation (with melodramatic Russian embellishments) – he has set me up with “Tall & Stately” Tom who stayed here a few nights ago and who he insists “looks rich” and is on his way to Samarkand. I was offered his passport number – not sure how useful that’d be in tracking him down, but it would certainly freak him out if we found him!
We then enjoyed a huge dinner of plov cooked by Mubinjon one night which was interesting….if greasy. It’s the national dish and a bit like paella – heaps of fried rice with shredded carrots, raisons, baked garlic and bits of unidentified meat on top. The Aussie got dragged to the market to “help him” – in reality to pay for the ingredients…fair enough. I wasn’t feeling 100% but had a go at tucking into the plov – which is considerably more tempting when fresh and hot in the evening than cold the next morning for breakfast.
The next morning also saw the arrival of another guest, and this cheered Mubinjon up no end as he’d been looking quite down in the mouth about us leaving. Andrei had ridden into town on his motorbike from Samarkand and was quite a sight. About 6’ 7’’ and rather dusty with a shock of hair that stood right up on end, he was an Aussie having a mid life crisis (he explained) and very over excited to find out that not only did we speak English, but that Sergei had instant coffee with him! This slightly negated the taste of Mubinjon’s homemade sour yoghurt that he insisted we eat every morning to keep us healthy…. Sergei started off typically getting his hackles up at the sight of a western man talking to his girls, but actually chilled out when he discovered that Andrei was married (proudly showing us pictures of his wife and 2 young children) and was fascinated by Russia. Bizarrely, Andrei was a partner at Accenture Melbourne and, having been there since a graduate, had taken a sabbatical to fulfil his wish of riding a motorbike from Eastern Russia to Istanbul. He hadn’t actually passed his motorbike driving test either….but had rocked up in Eastern Siberia and set off. His first day hadn’t gone too well – falling off in the mud and gaining a fractured ankle that wasn’t diagnosed for a further 6 weeks…. But he’d had some adventures. He regaled us with stories of the highs of companionship from people with very little who invited him into their homes and dachas and (in one instance) had him stay for a week whilst waiting for bits of his bike to be fixed, he then joined the family working in the fields and on fishing expeditions. These experiences of simple kindness were echoed by everyone we met who’d travelled a similar route.
It was fascinating to hear of such a trip first hand, Andrei being a formidable figure of a man telling us how some days across the tundra were so difficult due to the depth of the mud he was having to carry his bike through that some times he sat down and wept. But on the other hand he’d had a guided tour around the national museum of permafrost (!), had the bizarre experience of having to call his wife (satellite phone) to get a part for his bike and have the mechanic in the bike shop in Melbourne on the other end telling him how to fit a vital part of the suspension – “just tighten it up, and then give it another tweak” – “but what if I do it wrong?” – “then the bike will break, but don’t worry, you’ll be right!” True Aussie spirit! It had also bought home to him the benefits of simplicity. His bike was top of the range and highly specialised, but when something broke outside a small village and he managed to find the village blacksmith he was impressed to find him dismantling a nearby fence for some wire and then crafting an identical part from scraps that works perfectly.
The night before, Andrei had gone off to an Uzbek wedding (as the guest of a random Uzbek he’d met in Tashkent) where he’d felt slightly underdressed (5 day old T shirt not being his outfit of choice) and was asked to give a spontaneous speech (they’d even laid on an interpreter!) as it’s good luck to have a foreigner at such an occasion… He loved being able to speak to us in English (he spoke minimal Russian) and kept apologising for talking so much!
It was a shame we had to leave that day as I think a few days with Andrei would have led to more adventures, but it was time for us to head to Samarkand. All that good work and cleanliness of our bathhouse experience was then undone by our next journey in a taxi smelling in equal amounts of urine, smoke and petrol.
The region of Bukhara was for a long period a part of the Persian Empire. Its inhabitants’ origins go back to the period of Aryan immigration into the region. Iranian Soghdians inhabited the area and some centuries later the Persian language became dominant among them. The last Emir of Bukhara was Muhammad Alim Khan (1880-1944).
We were staying in old Bukhara - in the Jewish quarter - although very few Jews are left. The ancestors of Bukhara’s modern Jews settled in the city during Roman times with the term “Bukharan Jew” frequently used to describe all Jews who come from Central Asia. There were a couple of Jewish schools on our rutted track and it felt funny to walk around mosques all day and then stumble across small blond children wearing the Jewish kippur and chanting in Hebrew. There used to be a large Jewish population here but many left to go to Israel and the remainder are dying out.
Just at the end of our rutted track was the Lyabi Hauz, one of the original water pools that were used for the city’s drinking and washing water – until they worked out that these stagnant pools of water might have something to do with the diseases ravaging the local population. Now, just slightly cleaner, it is surrounded by mulberry trees and chaikhanas (tea houses) with raised platforms for sitting on. At either end are crumbling medrassas from the 16th and 17th century lending the place a peaceful air, as it is filled with old men smoking pipes and drinking tea and young children playing with the fetid water.
We went for a wander round the town following The Book’s dubious directions, and discovered that in Bukhara they only sell playing cards suit by suit, which must make it tough to find people to play with! There are also a lot of old vending machines for soft drinks and coffee sitting outside people’s houses – interesting types of small business venture possibly? The roads in the old town are all dirt tracks and the houses made of mud bricks. They look very plain from the road as many of them have few, if any windows or ornamentation – but look closely and you can see that they still have the traditional carved doors and surround courtyards full of plants from which the family’s rooms radiate out. Lots of toddlers and school children were shyly waving at us and giggling, old women were gossiping and staring. We got lost several times but found a crumbling mausoleum built over the grave of a Muslim prophet that we were able (even as women) to go and pay our respects to. Good to see the effort the local community were going to, to keep the place going.
We took in the ancient medrassas, caravanserais and mosques - amazing - although very few are still in used post Red Army in the 1920s followed by Soviet rule. What was once the tallest building in Central Asia is there too, the Kalon Minaret - a 45m high tower from 1127 with early earthquake protection measures of reeds buried under the foundations 10m deep that was so awe inspiring that it was the only building spared destruction by Jengiz Khan in the 1200s. It is a cylindrical brick structure with a broad base, tapering towards the top and is decorated with bands of mouldings as it predates the invention of the tiles that decorate all later buildings. It is believed to have originally been built as a beacon to guide caravans, but took on a cruel mantle in later years during which successive rulers amused themselves by throwing anyone who displeased them from the top of the tower.
As our B&B had no hot water we went to a local women's bathhouse for a decent clean - it was VERY local! We got directions from a shy but friendly mother and daughter wandering through the back streets. Oddly they looked at the 2 of us carrying washbags and towels in the middle of Bukhara and knew where we wanted to go. The hammam was an ancient place partly underground with rooms of differing temperatures and pools of water on the floor with stepping stones set into them. It was great to feel clean again and to have been well and truly scrubbed by a large naked Uzbek woman – hard to know where to look when you’re being told to bend over and stand by a wall (in German?!). The local women were all very friendly and the children enjoyed seeing random Westerners and had to be told not to stare by their mothers. They were very keen to offer us the Full Service (including eyebrow plucking, make up and hair) – but we decided not to go that local….
We then went to a local café overlooking the main square to have a beer and watch the sun go down. Stunning. Sitting with a large ceramic flagon of local beer watching the tiles change colour as the sun set behind the square. Whilst relaxing there we met a US Aid worker briefly who invited us to a party at his place in Almaty (Kazakhstan) on Saturday night! Our social life was looking up…. Strangely, and this was later repeated, whenever (very rarely) we met a western man whilst we were with Sergei, he closed down and became totally monosyllabic. He was so open and friendly with us (we’ve had the full family history and his longing for a wife discussions etc…) but changed utterly in other men’s presence. Odd – we were definitely ‘his girls’.
Mubinjon our host was also very social. He was once an Olympic athlete – hence the grubby tracksuit top and the Olympic rings painted on the metal doors of the guesthouse which were the only thing marking it. He was an old romantic (and a bit of a perv) who seemed determined to set us up with proper boyfriends – but only of the same nationality. All this is undertaken with the help of Sergei’s translation (with melodramatic Russian embellishments) – he has set me up with “Tall & Stately” Tom who stayed here a few nights ago and who he insists “looks rich” and is on his way to Samarkand. I was offered his passport number – not sure how useful that’d be in tracking him down, but it would certainly freak him out if we found him!
We then enjoyed a huge dinner of plov cooked by Mubinjon one night which was interesting….if greasy. It’s the national dish and a bit like paella – heaps of fried rice with shredded carrots, raisons, baked garlic and bits of unidentified meat on top. The Aussie got dragged to the market to “help him” – in reality to pay for the ingredients…fair enough. I wasn’t feeling 100% but had a go at tucking into the plov – which is considerably more tempting when fresh and hot in the evening than cold the next morning for breakfast.
The next morning also saw the arrival of another guest, and this cheered Mubinjon up no end as he’d been looking quite down in the mouth about us leaving. Andrei had ridden into town on his motorbike from Samarkand and was quite a sight. About 6’ 7’’ and rather dusty with a shock of hair that stood right up on end, he was an Aussie having a mid life crisis (he explained) and very over excited to find out that not only did we speak English, but that Sergei had instant coffee with him! This slightly negated the taste of Mubinjon’s homemade sour yoghurt that he insisted we eat every morning to keep us healthy…. Sergei started off typically getting his hackles up at the sight of a western man talking to his girls, but actually chilled out when he discovered that Andrei was married (proudly showing us pictures of his wife and 2 young children) and was fascinated by Russia. Bizarrely, Andrei was a partner at Accenture Melbourne and, having been there since a graduate, had taken a sabbatical to fulfil his wish of riding a motorbike from Eastern Russia to Istanbul. He hadn’t actually passed his motorbike driving test either….but had rocked up in Eastern Siberia and set off. His first day hadn’t gone too well – falling off in the mud and gaining a fractured ankle that wasn’t diagnosed for a further 6 weeks…. But he’d had some adventures. He regaled us with stories of the highs of companionship from people with very little who invited him into their homes and dachas and (in one instance) had him stay for a week whilst waiting for bits of his bike to be fixed, he then joined the family working in the fields and on fishing expeditions. These experiences of simple kindness were echoed by everyone we met who’d travelled a similar route.
It was fascinating to hear of such a trip first hand, Andrei being a formidable figure of a man telling us how some days across the tundra were so difficult due to the depth of the mud he was having to carry his bike through that some times he sat down and wept. But on the other hand he’d had a guided tour around the national museum of permafrost (!), had the bizarre experience of having to call his wife (satellite phone) to get a part for his bike and have the mechanic in the bike shop in Melbourne on the other end telling him how to fit a vital part of the suspension – “just tighten it up, and then give it another tweak” – “but what if I do it wrong?” – “then the bike will break, but don’t worry, you’ll be right!” True Aussie spirit! It had also bought home to him the benefits of simplicity. His bike was top of the range and highly specialised, but when something broke outside a small village and he managed to find the village blacksmith he was impressed to find him dismantling a nearby fence for some wire and then crafting an identical part from scraps that works perfectly.
The night before, Andrei had gone off to an Uzbek wedding (as the guest of a random Uzbek he’d met in Tashkent) where he’d felt slightly underdressed (5 day old T shirt not being his outfit of choice) and was asked to give a spontaneous speech (they’d even laid on an interpreter!) as it’s good luck to have a foreigner at such an occasion… He loved being able to speak to us in English (he spoke minimal Russian) and kept apologising for talking so much!
It was a shame we had to leave that day as I think a few days with Andrei would have led to more adventures, but it was time for us to head to Samarkand. All that good work and cleanliness of our bathhouse experience was then undone by our next journey in a taxi smelling in equal amounts of urine, smoke and petrol.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
