Video Footage of Tear Gas Incident

Live and direct on, where else? YouTube. This footage was filmed at the November 7th demonstrations in front of the Jogorku Kenesh (Parliament), right across the street from my office at the American University. I was on the western side of the square, away from the action at the time, but as I said earlier, the flash grenades were no less shocking. Some of this footage was seen on the NTS channel's "Bez Kommentaree" or "Without Commentary" segments during the demonstrations. NTS is an independent russian language channel, essentially a re-translation of a popular Moscow channel, only available to cable subscribers in the north of the country. People in the rest of the country had little idea of what was really going on because they only have access to the government channel, which of course showed very different footage during the demonstrations, only favorable stuff of the Bakiev administration. NTS was shut down at various points during the demonstration, due to 'mysterious' circumstances. Independent stations here have a habit of suffering from mysterious break-ins and vandalism from hooded men. Anyway, on to the show....

"I'll tip my hat to the new constitution....

....Take a bow for the new revolution,
Smile and grin at the change all around,
Pick up my guitar and play,
Just like yesterday,
Then I'll get on my knees and pray,
We don't get fooled again."
- The Who


At 8.30 AM, Wednesday morning, an earthquake probably measuring between 4 and 5 on the richter scale shook this already nervous capitol city of Bishkek just a day after a week of street protests boiled over into a brutally brief confrontation with riot police. Unfortunately a few were hurt in the crackdown, one quite seriously, but considering that threats of violent outbursts by the opposition had been swirling around the city for the past six months, it's a miracle that this short spasm of rock-throwing and tear-gassing was all that materialized.

Moreover, perhaps this earthquake foreshadowed the event that would send tremors in the authoritarian halls of power throughout capitol cities of Central Asia. The government of Kyrgyzstan adopted one of the most progressive constitutions in the former Soviet Union, and for the first time the powers of the president of one of the post-Soviet countries were significantly weakend, while the power of the parliament was strengthened. The day President Bakiev approved the new constitution, President Islam Karimov, the ruthless dictator of Uzbekistan, offered his own amendments to the Uzbek constitution to supposedly give his 'rubber stamp' parliament more say in policy decisions. Few reasonable people take this gesture seriously, but it shows that undemocratic neighbors of Kyrgyzstan are watching events here closely. (Read Economist article on Central Asian reactions to events in Bishkek)

Much to the relief of residents of Bishkek, and perhaps the entire nation, threats of further violence and looting in the capitol abated as a compromise was reached on November 8th between Opposition and Pro-Bakiev/Government parliament members on the new constitution, which President Bakiev himself signed on November 9th. Fireworks and sparklers marked the celebration of the Opposition after confirmation of the compromise on the evening of the eighth. It seemed that all of their persistance, determination, organization and discipline to choose negotiation over violent confrontation paid off. As they dismantled their tents and yurts on Ala Too square, there was a general sense that democracy still had a chance in this country, that reform did not have to occur at the cost of further destabilization and even bloodshed.

And of course, the pro-Bakiev, pro-government camp also claimed victory since the tandem of President Bakiev and Prime Minister Kulov were able to retain their positions (Bakiev to serve out his term until 2010), albeit with diminished power. President Bakiev diplomatically framed it as a win-win situation for all parties: "The present document is a new step in the development of the Kyrgyz Republic's democracy and the perfecting of the constitutional foundations of our state, where there is a strong president, a strong parliament, a strong government, and a mature and responsible civil society."

On the evening of November 7th, October Revolution Day, after they 'defended the government' with the help of several hundred riot police and special forces officers, the hastily organized pro-Bakiev camp quickly took over the 'old square' between the parliament building and the massive Lenin statue (right across the street from our campus), establishing their own yurt village and sound system (which was far better than the opposition's, hmmmm...). They remained there even after the crisis subsided and celebrated for the next two days by blaring horrendous Kyrgyz pop music and sending up speaker after obnoxious speaker to decry the underhanded efforts of the scoundrel opposition and praise the patience and vision of their "Dear Leader," all within annoying proximity of my office window. The pro-Bakiev faithful were mostly made up of government employees who were forced to attend the rallies during the day, while the evening rallies were populated with drunken students from the Kyrgyz National University, who were forced to attend by their government-salaried teachers. Supposedly hundreds of Bakiev supporters from the southern city of Jalalabad, the president's hometown, flooded into the city to show their support as well, but mostly they milled about the downtown area in a drunken stupor looking to harrass young women and red bandana-wearing opposition supporters.

So will the Kyrgyz nation get fooled again? Will these constitutional changes make a difference in improving the widespread dysfunction of the government and finally set the country on the path of stability and prosperity enjoyed by most of its neighbors. Were the leaders of the opposition truly fighting for real democratic change in this country, or were they conveniently banding together to simply usurp their slice of the power pie that was denied to them following the 2005 Tulip Revolution. While not everyone in the opposition movement has clean hands or intentions, several honest brokers seemed to shine through over the past week, including the leader of the Coalition for Democracy and Civil Society, Edil Baisalov. He's been so outspoken about seeking transparency and reform in government that someone hired a hooded thug to drive a knife into his skull last April. Fortunately, the thug failed to kill Edil, and he lived on serve an instrumental role for the opposition, working tirelessly to keep everyone on message and non-violent.

But, the opposition refuses to stop pestering the government, even after the momentous adoption of the new constitution. Just yesterday they called for the resignation of Prime Minister Kulov, claiming that "his voluntary departure" would decrease the risk of a new political crisis arising. Though Kulov hails from the north of the country, where most of the opposition movement comes from, he has since fallen out of favor with them because of his tight alliance with the president. Of course, Kulov politely decline their offer to step down. In any event, I think it was remarkable that all this change occurred without a revolution, without real violence, without street justice. This all happened really because though freedom of expression exists here in theory, there is precious little space for public debate of these vital issues. So they took it to the streets. And compromise won. Perhaps we owe it to the relatively mellow nature of the Kyrgyz people (gross generalizaton), or perhaps democracy has a real chance here. I just hope they don't bring start blaring that god-awful music outside my office again; otherwise I'm going to pick up my guitar and play, as loud as I can.

A ray of hope?

Reform of the Kyrgyz constitution is at the heart of the current political crisis, and the recent agreement by the opposition and pro-Bakiev parliament members on a draft constitution is a potential breakthrough. With the first real outbreak of violence and subsequent security crackdown today, and reports of more supporters on both sides flooding into the city tonight, conditions were ripe for a bigger confrontation. This agreement to go over the new draft consitution, which significantly reduces the power of the presidency, just may keep tempers down for now. Read here for more information on this development

This character wins my demonstrator of the week award. Of course these big demonstrations can brink out the kooks, but this guy raised the bar for both sides. On the first day of demonstrations, he stood among the crowd outside the Parliament shouting to anyone who would listen: "I love Kyrgyzstan! I love Kyrgyz people! I love Kyrgyz girls! But I don't like Bakiev!" Some enterprising soul needs to put this slogan on t-shirts and sell it at the protests.

There's nothing like the smell of tear gas in the afternoon...

and there is nothing like standing 50 yards away from exploding concussion grenades to get your blood flowing.

See more photos here

Well, I was amazed it took this long for the tear gas and concussion grenades to come out. Five days of endless speeches, marches, taunts, threats, political maneuvering, defections, late night parliamentary sessions, and lots and lots of vodka. Demonstrations in front of the White House, where President Bakiev's administration works, in front of the parliament, up and down Chui Prospekt, in front of the state-run television station. For five days the city center has been in a kind of limbo. Normal life goes on uninterrupted just 3 blocks from Ala Too Square, but tensions remain high as the local citizens beseiged by these demonstrations hear rumor after rumor about 'real trouble' and another possible revolution. The big supermarkets and department stores close early, shops and restaurants board up their windows. Everyone fears the return of the gratuitous rioting that not only crippled the economy and decimated businesses in the city, many of which were owned by ousted President Askar Akayev's family, but also shocked many locals who couldn't believe that so many of their own neighbors would join the orgy of stealing.



Of course many feel it was just payback for Akayev's own decade long orgy of stealing the country's resources, including money paid by the Pentagon for the use of the Ganci air base during the war in Afghanistan. And now Bakiev has continued the post-soviet tradition of taking power and stuffing your pockets and those of your family/clan. His son took over the same businesses Akayev's son used to run, and when the public cried foul on Maxim Bakiev, his father just sent him to Latvia, where he supposedly sits on $25 million. That's a big allowance for his son. The cost of living in Riga must astronomical. In addition to his own corrupt ways, Bakiev has failed to really crack down on corruption in general, which has really spiraled out of control since he took power. Some regions of the country are run by a kind of private government, where a rich clan leader might run it like his own fiefdom. Some say that Bakiev really has little control over much of the country because its really just made up of regional fiefdoms, with heroin trafficking from Afghanistan providing a nice boost to the fiefdoms of the south. He has also failed to undertake any real governmental reforms he promised, and little has been done to tackle persistent poverty and unemployment throughout much of the country. Independent media has been harrassed and even shut down at times. After the 2005 Revolution, hopes were high that Kyrgyzstan would finally take serious steps to become a true democracy. The disappointment of people here is so thick it oozes, and it has frozen many people back into a pessimistic, fatalistic mindframe. But maybe these demonstrations have woken enough people up.



Certainly the teargas and concussion grenades were a wake up call. All along Bakiev said he was prepared to restore order with force. He was even quoted as saying he'd take up a sub machine gun himself if he had to. And as long as the Ministry of the Interior was on his side, showing their muscle by mobilizing riot police and special forces every day next to Ala Too square, the opposition movement had to make damn sure their tactics didn't provoke any violent reactions. To their credit, security forces have stood down most of the time, biding their time in the shade of the park, playing cards, smoking cigarettes, and apparently making a bit of a mess. A colleague of mine had to walk through to park to get to the university on Monday, and she said the stench was unbearable. It wasn't just horse shit either. And many of these military guys are just young recruits in mismatching uniforms and some in tennis shoes, they were not the rabid, steroid-pumped riot police used in the U.S. These Kyrgyz cadets didn't want trouble. On the first day of the demonstrations outside the parliament building, two little delinquents tossed a couple black cat firecrackers at some of the riot policemen, who happened to look like just teenagers themselves. The loud cracks shook everyone elses nerves at the time, but the policemen just remained calm and tried to ignore it. I couldn't believe how stoic these guys were. What would it take to provoke these guys?



Today we found out. I joined a large procession of several thousand opposition demonstrators walking from the White House down to the Parliament building, where a few hundred Bakiev supporters were waiting on the front steps, waving flags and shouting pro-Bakiev slogans behind the safety of the security services. After five days of relative peace, it was easy to tell that this show-down would significantly raise the stakes. As I entered the fray of people in front of the Parliament, the scene took on the feel of a warped kind of football pep rally between two rival high schools, seeing who could shout their cheers with the most spirit. "Ba-ki-ev! Ba-ki-ev!" "Bakiev Ketsin! (Bakiev get out!)" Spirit is an understatement in this case. It was just a matter of time before the hyped-up hooligans in each crowd stopped throwing middle fingers at each other and began to throw bottles, rocks and sticks. Without waiting for a full-scale melee, security services launched their grenades toward the direction of the opposition rock-throwers. BOOOM! BOOOM! BOOOM! Hundreds of riot police then gave chase with batons and shields toward the retreating opposition crowd as gas spewing cannisters arced into the air, right in front of the American University. My office! I think it's the first time I've watched a riot in front of my workplace. Well, at least its some kind of publicity for the university. "Come to the American University of Central Asia. On the front lines of democracy. Bring your gas mask." Fortunately, the sweep was short-lived and only a dozen or so were hurt as it unfolded. Prevailing winds also blew the tear gas the other way, and a tense order was restored.

(Photo courtesy of kyrgyzreport.com)

Eyes were opened by this maneuver, and as a new human wall of security services began pushing toward the opposition side, opposition operatives quickly warned us to turn back to the square and avoid more confrontation. Slowly, methodically, the tide of police pushed the opposition all the way back to Ala-Too Square as Bakiev supporters back at the parliament congratulated themselves for standing down the enemy. Of course the opposition wasted no time taking their own stage at the south end of the square, where hundreds have been camping out since last Thursday nearly 100 red tents and a dozen yurts. The opposition rally began anew with greater urgency as the full security force sat on the edge of the square, awaiting their orders to clear Ala Too square once and for all. For a moment it felt like there would be a reprieve as the security forces stood down and began to relax on the north end of the square.



Just then a Kyrgyz man approached me and asked if I would interview him. I guess he assumed I was a journalist. He probably assumed that any westerner dumb enough to troll around there must be a journalist. His name was Almaz, and he was visibly shaken by the whole confrontation half an hour earlier. He said he's a lawyer, but could only find work as a translator. He was extremely disappointed with Bakiev and said he was ready to "shed my own blood" to help bring real democracy to Kyrgyzstan. He said his friends in Naryn, Issyk Kul, and Chui Oblasts were all ready to do the same. And if the rest of the country knew what was going on in Bishkek, he's sure they would all come to help get rid of Bakiev. Unfortunately, most of the country only has access to the state television channel, which constantly airs pro-Bakiev programming and news. Even the independent Russian channel NTS, which only can be watched around Bishkek, was taken off the air after a mysterious fire. Almaz didn't want it to come to bloodshed, but he was certain that if Bakiev was allowed to protect the vast powers of the presidency, the next president to come along would surely be a worse kind of dictator, along the lines of Karimov in Uzbekistan. He really felt like this was the time for change. It would not come fast, but it would take time and sacrifice. He drew upon the example of Martin Luther King and the civil rights movement in the fifties and sixties. That struggle took years, with many hardships endured, but they prevailed because they never lost sight of the prize. Almaz then spoke of his own struggle as a converted Christian in a Muslim country. In his home province of Naryn, some militant muslims began harrassing him and fellow parishoners in the church he founded there. The harrassment and threats, from neighbors and even some family members, became too much and he had to move to Bishkek.



His religion clearly kept him grounded, especially when thinking about the struggle of creating democracy in Kyrgyzstan. He admitted that neither side were ideal, scoundrels and good people existed in both camps. One dubious factor in the opposition demonstrations has been the widely known practice of paying villagers to come into the city and join the protests. I've heard several times that families were given 500 soms ($12.50), and young men who normally work in the fields were offered a daily wage up to a dollar more than their usual wages to come camp out in the square. Almaz also said a friend of his was asked by a Bakiev supporter earlier in the day to join the pro-Bakiev rally in front of the parliament building and make a ten minute speech extoling the virtues of the president. And if he agreed, he would get 200 soms ($5.00). Almaz shook his head and said, "look, I have steady work translating, I make decent money. I can feed myself and I can afford to come out here on my own. A lot of people simply need to find a way to eat. 200 soms is a lot for these guys. I'd do it if I was in his shoes." I asked if his friend took the offer, and he said yes. But despite all these pay-offs and shady resumes of politicians on both sides, he believes there are enough people on the opposition side who truly want democracy for this country that he's willing to risk it all to join the fight. "I saw on the news this year a pro-democracy activist from one of the Caucausus countries saying that he wants his country to have a revolution like the Kyrgyz," Almaz remarked. "It made me feel really proud to hear that. You know, we can be one of the only real democracies in the former Soviet Union." As darkness began to fall I felt it was time to leave. It was going to be a long, possibly violent night, and it was their fight. It was reported that a thousand Bakiev supporters were coming up to Bishkek from Bakiev's home oblast of Jalalabad, which would certainly add to the threat of violence, especially as the empty vodka bottles piled up. I promised to call Almaz the next day to see if he was ok.

The November Opposition Demonstrations in Bishkek: November Revolution on October Revolution Day?

The November 6th rally outside the 'White House,' the executive office building that was stormed during the revolution of '05.

Well, all is relatively safe and sane here in Bishkek, though it looks like things may come to a head on the 80th anniversary of the October Revolution. President Bakiev and Prime Minister are losing support fast, but you can bet they won't go easy with their corrupt fingers in so many pies here. Rumors are rampant in this country, but one has it that Bakiev siphons off $15 million a month from the country to feed his bulging bank accounts. That's a hard gig to give up, even if that's somewhat overstated. Anyway, my efforts to frantically write up the recent events of the past week were mistakenly erased. So as I rewrite everything, you can get up to speed on the demonstrations by checking out these sites:

a great blog on central asian affairs by an american in Almaty:
http://www.roberts-report.com/

my photo site:
http://public.fotki.com/barentg/november-2nd-opposi/

radio free europe's newsline:
http://www.rferl.org/newsline/2-tca.asp?po=y

akipress in english, the local 'reuters'
http://www.akipress.com/

a frequently updated blog by some local guys:
http://www.kyrgyzreport.com/

more great photos:
here

Raftin' the Chui

Here's a great shot of us rockin' down the Chui River about 90 minutes east of Bishkek back in early September. Tuya and I went with several colleagues of mine from the American University. We set off in our 'marschrutka,' a rickety and over-stuffed Volkswagon Vanagon owned by the Silk Road Water Center, a Bishkek-based expedition company. We bounced down the road toward Issyk Kul and veered off to the left across the Chui River to follow the Chong Kemin tributary. This gets us into gorgeous country after sputtering for ninety minutes through an unsettling stretch of road. While it's one of the best stretches of what could pass for highway in Kyrgyzstan,it is still an obstacle course of suspension crushing potholes and bumps, nevermind the family-packed Ladas swerving from lane to lane at 30mph as you try to pass. Thank god I was facing backwards in the van; i could just look at the concerned look on my friends in the back seat instead. All the while we passed by former collective farms and strange, isolated casino resorts with names like 'Gavaii' (Russian translation of Hawaii), complete with giant fake palm trees in the parking lot and Ethiopian waiters (another story sometime...). The journey was soothed by the views of the always stunning spine of the Ala-Too Range running parallel to us on the south side. But as we chugged on up through the windy canyons carved out by the Chui and Chong Kemin rivers, I'm taken back to southern Idaho, eastern Oregon, eastern Washington. Dry scrubby foothills shrink the sky as we drive deeper into the canyon. The merciless churning white of the rapids beside the road gave us a glimpse of our near future, and it gave my pulse a little boost; it had been a while since I'd surrendered to the whims of a river like that. The comfortable dry heat certainly made me feel at home, and certainly made things toasty as we tried on our stinky wet suits on the side of the road. Wet suits? We don't need no stinkin' wet suits, it's summer! Such was the sentiment of a few in our crew, but apparently the glacier-fed Chong Kemin river doesn't care what season it is, it will stop your heart in five minutes any time of year. My confidence in our guide crew's professionalism grew when they insisted we all wear the wetsuits AND the helmets (thought they were still optional in this part of the world), but that quickly faded when our guide forgot to bring the neoprine booties. After five minutes of spewing red-blooded curses in Russian at his crew, the lead man jumped back in the van and screamed back to the supply pick-up point 20 minutes toward Bishkek. Oh, and that sure looked like a lot of duct tape on the bottom of that raft.... maybe we should have gone for a nice safe hike instead... Well, soon enough we found ourselves firmly straddling the sides of the raft and sliding toward a frothy oblivion. Though it was Tuya's first time white-water rafting, she gamely took the plunge, and a few sets of rapids later she was paddling like a pro. While we rarely confronted anything topping a class 3.5 rapid, and had only one mass bailout in a hole involving one of the guides and the UW professors George and his wife Diane (how they both kept their glasses on astounded us), I was really impressed with the consistent action we faced for the entire two plus hour ride. The river drops elevation very fast, which must make it a brute in the late spring and early summer. Still glowing in the wake of the high thrills per hour ratio of the whole experience, I promised myself to return in the late spring to see how the Chui can really rage. Though we saw no kayakers, it's apparently one of the nicest runs in the former Soviet Union and a training ground for some of the top paddlers in the region. Several other rivers in Kyrgyzstan are supposed to dwarf the Chui in freakiness as well, so come on out all you whitewater addicts, paddle-heaven in Central Asia awaits... though we may need our own car next time. Just 10 minutes from Bishkek on the return drive, our poor, overworked van died.

The Happy Kyrygyz and other news...

Kyrgyzstan: Happy Place

Well, in case you haven't seen the 2006 survey of the Happy Planet Index (HPI) scores, published by the New Economics Foundation (NEF), Kyrgyzstan ranks 20th out of 178 nations on the list. The HPI tries to present an alternative comparative measure of human progress in each country, other than GDP, by looking at three factors: average life satisfaction, average life expectancy and environmental footprint (EF - how much damage is done to the environment to sustain the national standard of living). Kyrgyzstan, which also ranks first among the former communist states, earned a score of 59.1, with mid-range life satisfaction and life expectancy scores, and a very good EF score. The U.S.? They placed a paltry 150th on the list with a disastrous EF score outweighing good life satisfaction and expectancy scores. Interestingly, though not surprisingly, many island nations, and poor ones at that, ranked near the top, with the sleepy little Pacific ocean nation of Vanuatu scoring the best marks of all. Colombia and Costa Rica came in at the second and third slots, speaking volumes about the importance of the high level of social interconnectedness and "la pura vida" worldview of many latin american countries. In the meantime, I'm glad to be living in the 20th happiest place on earth for now. I just wish my grumpy neighbors in our apartment block would be too.

Bye bye Miss American Pie...

On July 12th, the government of Kyrgyzstan kindly offered the government of the US and A a nice post-Independence Day present by sending two American diplomats home early to see their families. Actually, in another sign that President Bakiev is driving Kyrgyzstan ever closer into Russia's orbit of influence, the Kyrgyz government kicked out the two diplomats for illegal activities with local Non-Governmental Orgranizations (NGOs). The U.S. government vehemently denies the charge, but it is not unlikely that Embassy staff maintains contacts and supports pro-democracy NGOs here since civil society and democracy, such that is nowadays, is in such a precarious state. However, the fact that Bakiev and his corrupt cronies view this as a national threat attests to their insecurity about the opposition movement, their firm desire to slowly strangle it into submission, and their willingness to use Putinesque tactics to model Kyrgyzstan on Russia's Putinocracy. It may also have been a hardball negotiating tactic since the final agreement on the U.S. Military's use of the Ganci Air Base at Manas International Airport was inked only days after the expulsion of the diplomats. As the only rear airbase the U.S. Military now has in Central Asia to resupply forward bases in Afghanistan, the Kyrgyz Government had the U.S. by the, well, cajones. The U.S. was kicked out of Uzbekistan, ostensibly because the U.S. government criticized the Uzbek government's brutal crackdown on the uprising in Andijan last year, but it was also likely that Putin applied tremendous pressure on them to kick out the U.S. as well, as part of Russia's aggressive march to regain influence and supremacy throughout Central Asia. Little Kyrgyzstan is next, and you can well bet Putin wants the U.S. out of his sphere of influence. But the Kyrgyz, wisely, have decided to play the sides against each other and profit as best they can from both. So, the U.S. went from paying an annual lease of $2 million for the use of Ganci, a deal brokered under the ousted Akayev regime, to an estimated $150 million a year under the new lease. Not a bad mark-up for the Kyrgyz. Now the question is, where will the dough go? Akayev supposedly funnelled off all of the money paid out by the U.S. while he was in power, will Bakiev do the same? It's a bit harder to siphon off 150 mil, but you can bet he'll try get his paws in some of the American pie.

Reform This!

And finally, the strange gets stranger in this strange land. On July 5th, the Kyrgyz Ministry of Education revoked the license of the much-lauded Law Program at the American University - Central Asia to confer licenses to practice law in Kyrgyzstan. I must confess bias here since I work at AUCA, but the hypocrisy of this move transcends my bias. In their efforts to show some efforts to reform the higher education system in Kyrgyzstan, which is certainly overpopulated with corrupt, poorly run universities, (with more the 30 degree granting institutions in Bishkek alone, a city of only 1.5 million, and Kyrgyzstan has one of the highest ratios of universities per capita in the world), the Ministry has gone after one most exemplary programs in Central Asia. The only rationale the Ministry gave to our university was that it did not conform to state curriculum standards, which is patently false. In fact, the Ministry has refused to provide any documentation or reports justifying their decision, so the administration, faculty and students are left to wonder what went wrong and what do next?
The university is the only one in Central Asia to employ the American liberal arts model, grounded in critical inquiry and academic integrity. As well AUCA's law program seeks to train the next generation of leaders to help in the establishment of the rule of law and democratic civil society in Central Asia. Finally, AUCA is the most expensive university in Kyrgyzstan. All of these factors make it a prime target for extortion by the Ministry of Education. A few schools on the de-licensing list have already been taken off, reportedly because they made payments to the Ministry. And while the AUCA law department has vowed to take the fight all the way to the highest court, the Minister of Education allegedly told them point blank: "You will not win in court, my best friend is the judge." Stay tuned for more high drama...

Chinggis Khan, Superstar!

(More Mongolia photos here....)

Somewhere over the north Gobi desert I snapped out of my upright slumber. Looking down I saw a vast waste of golden brown scablands, tattooed by dry riverbeds and criss-crossed by the occasional dirt road. But like the harsh lands of western China, there was scant evidence of civilization. Soon the brown turned to lush, rolling green hills, and sprouting here and there like puffball mushrooms were clusters of gers (Mongolian yurts). That's when it hit me: the mythical homeland of Chinggis Khan was just beneath my feet. And it was beneath the feet of 250 other passengers, some returning home to visit families for the Naadam holiday, most venturing there for the first time as part of the largest wave of tourists to crash on Mongolian shores.

By the time I entered the roiling chaos of the immigration processing room at the tiny Chinggis Khan International Airport outside the capitol, Ulaan Baatar (UB), I realized just how "discovered" Mongolia had become. This year, Naadam was especially momentous because 2006 is the 800th anniversary of the foundation of the Mongolian state, shrewdly trumpeted by the Mongolian tourism authorities. But, in addition to the usual collection of scraggly-looking european and american backpackers weighed down by facial hair, hiking boots and Lonely Planet books, an army of yellow-capped, sleepy-eyed, slightly dazed elderly American tourists with the famous 'Elder Hostel' tourism company came shuffling in behind me.

Then I heard a woman with a New York accent plead, "Oh Henry, please calm down, everything is going to be fine."

I spun around to see what was going on only to see the woman nearly plow Henry and his Air MIAT wheelchair right into my legs. Neither noticed the near collision with me. Henry seemed to be stewing in a fog of rage and indignity, maybe because his stupid yellow baseball cap sat askew on his head.

"No, I will not calm down!" Henry snorted in an even deeper New York accent. "No one knows where the passports are, everything is screwed up! Nobody knows what's going on!"

A brief wave of nostalgia rolled over me as I was immediately transported to Penn Station or anywhere in New York City where the ranting of crabby old men blend in with the ranting of other crabby New Yorkers, creating one big, beautiful symphony of human drama, passion and angst on every corner. Then the loathing started when I remembered I was in Mongolia and this obnoxious little slice of home on wheels was the last thing I wanted to hear right then. God bless 'em for stomping across the world at their age, but I was not ready for home. Henry's wheelchair pusher took a deep breath and rolled her eyes with a look of resignation, like it was going to be another long week with Henry. (Interesting side note on Henry. I noticed him several days later walking outside the opening ceremonies of the Naadam festival. Yes, Henry was walking! Alas, he still bore a frown, as if someone just dumped his ice cream into his lap. If even a glorious spectacle of song, dance and horsemanship like that of the Naadam opening ceremonies could not bring Henry joy, I'm not sure what can anymore...)

I parted ways from the Elder group to join the line at the visa office, only to find out that Americans don't need visas for Mongolia. I guess I owe Rummy and Bush for that one, a nice perk of bribing Mongolia into the 'Coalition of the Willing.' After an interminable wait in the immigration line, I finally passed through to claim my baggage and reunite with Tuya outside. Along with her eldest half-sister, we jumped into their SUV imported from Japan, complete with right-side steering wheel, and sped toward UB. I soon came to realize that gers were not just a form of housing for the countryside, but it seemed to serve as housing for thousands of urban dwellers as well. It was explained that as throngs of families move from the pastures and valleys of rural Mongolia to find work in UB, the ger was the only affordable housing they could find. Now UB is comprised of a central core of mainly soviet era apartment and commercial buildings, surrounded by an outer ring of dusty ger districts. While some older ger districts had more permanent houses, buildings and public services, many of the outer districts lacked access to water, electricity and sanitation.

But in the center of this ring of gers, UB seems to be several years into a long-awaited economic boom, echoing much of what is going on throughout East Asia. Crumbling streets are clogged with new SUVs from Japan, Korea and Germany, even a few Hummers mixed in, though after seeing the condition of roads outside the city, it's understandable why SUVs are so numerous here. Traffic was horrendous while I was there, but that was partly due in part to the mass movement of people to their country cottages to visit family for the holidays. Otherwise, it’s usually pretty bad. New buildings were going up everywhere. High rise condos and even smart European and American style townhouse blocks seemed to pop up here and there. And there even was a new golf driving range on the edge of town for all the new money types getting into old money sports. The city center certainly seemed to be on the up and up. The massive Grand Khaan Irish pub, complete with Dublin prices, was jammed every night with locals and foreigners alike. The main square, Sukhbaatar Square was spruced up and featured a recently unveiled statue of Chinggis Khan on the steps of the Parliament Building. Signs posted around the square alerted the public to the presence of new Wi-Fi internet hot spots, thanks to a rather progressive government sponsored technology initiative. Though corruption is still a bit of a problem here, it felt like things were moving along in the right direction, another stark contrast to the stasis of Kyrgyzstan.

After crashing at Tuya's family flat and catching up on much needed rest, we caught a ride the next day with Tuya's older brother out to their summer cottage about 40 minutes by car east of town. It soon became apparent that the ever-expanding ger district was quickly subsuming the older summer cottage districts closest to the city. But the further out we drove, the more the cottages spread out. Eventually we came upon the turnoff to their place, nestled in a broad river valley between two densely forested sets of hills. In the waning hours of the day, the sunlight cast a magical glow through the valley and across the hills. Though we were by no means in the wild and lonely outback of Mongolia, the wildflower fields with free-roaming cows and sheep added to the ambience, a most welcome respite from the chaos of UB.

Inside the cottage I was welcomed as an honored guest as Tuya's mother bequeathed me with a blue khadag, or prayer shawl, and a bowl of fresh cow's milk, per mongolian tradition. We then sat down to a fabulous meal, courtesy of Tuya's mom, featuring delicious homemade ‘buuz,’ or steamed, meat-filled dumplings. I personally love buuz, or mante as they are called in Kyrgyzstan, but Tuya's adorable grandmother pushed me to my limits when she insisted that I keep eating buuz until I started to ooze buuz out of my ears! Then, with the help of some liquid courage in the form of of whisky offered byTuya's father Altangerel, I drew forth my mandolin and rattled out a loose version of 'Whiskey in the Jar.' And thus, the family songfest began, led by Tuya's father, who was loosened up enough to sing a string of traditional mongolian hits. Singing is a proud tradition in Mongolia, and everyone seemed to get into the act, including Tuya's grandmother, Dulmaa, who in the 1930s was a fine actress in regional theatre in Hovd, a province in western Mongolia. We spent the next few hours ogling Tuya's adorable, Buddha-like nephew, Munkhtsog, who is bursting with so much baby fat you could probably drop him in the Bering Sea and he would splash around for hours, oblivious to the cold. We also took grandma down to the river for her daily walk, shooed a stray bull out of the yard and played a rousing match of badminton with energetic nephew Chimka in the twilight. But soon we had to run back into town to participate in the ultimate cultural experience: watching the World Cup Finals.

We arrived at the Grand Khaan Irish pub in the middle of the city around 10.30pm to meet her childhood friend, Orkhon, and the place was already packed. By midnight we had finagled a table, but the competition for any open seat was vicious, and by 2.30am we had to leave our table because it had been reserved for the game. Soon joined by Tuya's younger brother and his buddy, we moved to the back of the pub and hauled in some outdoor benches to accommodate our crew. By the time the game began at 3am, just about every fire safety code on the Ulaan Baatar building codebook had been violated in the pub. But as long as the servers could walk over peoples' laps to deliver an endless flow of Chinggis Beer, no one seemed to mind. All of this fervor for football here in the land of wrestling (both Sumo and Mongolian) and horse racing really amazed me. It was especially striking for a country whose football team ranks near the bottom of FIFA rankings, above Laos, which uses bamboo soccer balls, and below Somalia, which doesn't even have a government! Granted, there were a good number of Europeans filling the ranks of besotted bar patrons, but the vast majority were locals, and as tensions and blood alcohol levels peaked by penalty shootout time, these locals, split evenly between supporting Italy or France, were ready to Zidane (headbutt) each other. Though Tuya had a few moments to celebrate Italy's win with delirious glee, we got our exhausted heads and butts out of there fast, only to be greeted by the merciless rising sun.

After trying to catch up on sleep, we ventured back into town with plenty of daylight to spare (in early July darkness did not come until 10.30pm). Our first stop was the Gandan Monastery in the middle of the city, the main Buddhist monastery in town. Inside the main temple stood a massive golden statue of a standing buddha. The original gold-plated statue was kindly 'lent' to the Soviets, who swiftly melted it down for the people. Mongolia has a long rich Buddhist history with a close relationship to Tibetan Buddhism. When Mongolia fell under Soviet influence, all religions were brutally suppressed. Since the revolution in the early 90s, Buddhism has seen a resurgence here as Mongolians once again embrace the religion and the freedom to worship. Sometimes this clashes with the other religion sweeping the country: tourism. One American friend I’ve met here in Kyrgyzstan recently worked on a project funded by an American Buddhist organization to rebuild a dilapidated monastery in eastern Mongolia with the goal of restoring it as a functioning house of worship and learning. The local mayor stopped the project and declared it would only serve as a tourist site and museum citing economic necessity.
Well, despite the watchful eyes of the temple caretakers, Tuya risked damnation to eternal Samsara by illegally snapping photos within the temple so that the rest of the world can view it's beauty. What a good Buddhist she is! We then toured around peaceful grounds of the monastery, taking in the bluebird skies, then getting dive-bombed by a battalion of Buddhist pigeons, and finally ending up at the holiest section of the monastery, the gift shop. It was here I bought my first religious souvenir after it completely mesmerized me and begged me to buy it: a tasteful multi-colored kaleidoscopic Buddha nightlight. Plug it in and instant nirvana! Great for meditation, disco parties, and inducing epilepsy.
We soon marched on and our wanderings took us through the downtown shopping district, past the prison-like fortress of the Russian embassy, to Sukhbaatar Square, where throngs of locals and tourists gawked at the recently unveiled statue of none other than Chinggis Khan, sitting in Lincoln-esque repose on the veranda of the Parliament building. Our attention was soon drawn to two jokers riding bizarre mutant bicycles into the square. They dismounted and immediately a crowd of people, mostly locals, encircled the two men who prepared their mediocre juggling act, a summertime sight as ubiquitous in every public square in Europe as those annoying Andean pan flute bands. Though we never confirmed it, our theory was that they were Spaniards, or some sort of cheeky European bohemians, who had ridden across Europe and Asia to entertain the masses, where no masses had been so entertained before. The problem is, the masses out here are poor. Maybe a 50 tögrög (5 cents) donation here or there, but how could they expect to sustain themselves on such an endeavor? Yes, they had chutzpah, but after the third dropped plastic bowling pin, we decided not to stick around for their flaming swords routine.

We shuffled across the vast square to the Central Cultural Palace to buy tickets for the Way-Off-Broadway smash of the year, “Chinggis Khan: The Rock Opera.” Our anticipation was high, because not only did we expect to be titillated by a high level of camp, several reviews of the show in major western media outlets like the BBC and NPR were very positive. Though it was the last week of show's run, the place was barely a quarter full. We felt bad, but we figured people were either escaping the city to visit family on the eve of Naadam, or still recovering from their world cup hangovers. Anyway, the musical was fantastic, chock full of eye-popping costumes, impressive vocals including traditional Mongolian throat singing, and amazing choreographed dance and battle scenes, all set to a musical score that shook the foundations of the communist-era theatre. Dojpalem Ganzorig, lead guitarist of the Mongolian rock band the Black Wolves, not only wrote the score and lyrics for the show, but also provided excellent guitar work backed up by a drummer, electric bassist, and orchestra. It was quite a sight to see the shaggy-haired guitarist reeling off progressive metal solos while the conductor kept the rest of the orchestra in line as fifty dancers in heavy leather armor parried across the stage. The musical score was quite infectious, and at several moments I was barely able to contain myself from a little head banging and fist-pumping. The story itself covered the life of Chinggis from his troubled boyhood to the climactic final scene when he triumphantly united all the tribes of the region to create the Mongolian state, 800 years ago. But I really wanted the climax to feature the triumphant father of the Mongolians rise up on the dais through a bank of fog, strumming victorious windmill power chords on a leather-armored Fender "Flying V" guitar as his minions obediently moshed in a pit beneath him. I'll suggest it for the Broadway run.

Then next day was the first day of the three day Naadam celebration, and we were lucky enough to score tickets to the spectacular opening ceremonies in the national stadium. The problem was, so did everybody else in Mongolia, or so it seemed. After surviving a near death experience in the taxi cab of the Mongolian Mario Andretti, we soon found ourselves ensconced in an angry mob of ticketholders, shut out from entering the stadium because 'somebody' had oversold the event. It was 20 minutes before show time and the place was already bursting at the seams. At gate 11 it was becoming a scene right out of Saigon, circa 1975, as men, women and children jostled in line and pleaded with the police as if the last boat to leave the country was on the other side of the gate. While old ladies were being crushed in the mob, one father actually passed his young daughter over the top of the crowd, where she then climbed through a hole in the gate. Hopefully mom was on the other side!

Depressed and ready to give up on ever seeing the awe-inspiring spectacle of song, dance, parades and displays of horsemanship, we were mercifully rescued by Tuya's brother in law, Batka, a policeman on-duty that day at the stadium. He urgently led us through the disappointed crowds milling outside and let us slip through the VIP entrance, right onto the field! We couldn't believe our luck. Right as we nudged our way up to the edge of the track, the ceremonies began. Of course the field level view did not allow us to see the coordinated dances and horse tricks in the center of the field, but we were up close with the parading horsemen dressed in ancient warrior garb, and with the parading nobility, dressed in the specific formal costume of their clans. We even watched the fictional 'Chinggis' in his glorious white fur robe stride by on his steed, right in front of our noses. As the opening ceremonies wound down, we relaxed in the stands and watched as the massive wrestling tournament began to unfold on the pitch. With thousands of wrestlers from all over the country gathered for this mother of all wrestling tournaments, their countrymen would sit glued to their TV sets for the next 3 days until the next hero of country is proclaimed the victor. The wrestlemania that ensued on the field mesmerized us, like my new spinning Buddha light, with hundreds of simultaneously moving parts, head to head matches of all size and age categories. One guy thrown down there, three other pairs over there locked in unwavering grips, one wrestler doing the obligatory "flying eagle" victory dance over there.

The only thing that snapped us out of our spell was the occasional raindrop that foreshadowed the downpour on the horizon. We swiftly ran for the gates, managed to find some airag, the Mongolian national drink made of fermented horse milk, then made a run for the Irish pub for soup and ale, getting pleasantly soaked along the way. It’s a good thing we got to the Irish pub in time, airag has a way of, well, cleansing out the system so to speak, in record time. Our hope was to meet Tuya’s eldest sister at there and travel together to the Naadam horse races outside of town. Unfortunately, the heavy afternoon rains caused the cancellation of the races. The horse races are a major event here, and traditionally children are used as jockeys, presumably because there is a shortage of really small adults in Mongolia. Every child learns to ride horses here, and the fastest become jockeys, like Tuya’s grandmother when she was a child. Instead of the races, Tuya's eldest sister and husband (our hero, the cop) treated us to a nice tour of the WWII memorial, with sweeping views of the city, and then to see a new giant golden Buddha statue nearby. After a bit of shopping and a bit of sushi at UB's best japanese restaurant (hey, we're sushi deprived in Bishkek, we're allowed to splurge!) we continued our Naadam celebrations back at the main square by joining an old friend of Tuya's, her youngest brother, and 25,000 fellow Mongolians to watch the Mongolian version of the Scorpions rock the house as fireworks displays blossomed in the distance. Then a bit of clubbing at a nearby disco to cap off the night, and we scampered home thoroughly Naadam'd out.

My last full day in Mongolia was especially nice, though I was sad to leave such an enchanting land so quickly after having only touched the surface. We voyaged back out to the family cottage where Tuya's family lives essentially all summer long. We enjoyed another fine homemade meal, and then began my mission to photograph a yak, per the request of my uncle in Hawaii. No problem we thought, this area must be crawling with yaks. After taking the advice of a neighbor, we wandered the cottage district in search of this mythical yak, yet none were to be found. We pushed on, asking anyone we could where the yaks were. Some said they roamed the forest on the hill, others said they lived on a farm at the end of the road. Thinking we would need a car to get there, Tuya's sister went to fetch the family car, only to get stuck in the mud. Mud is a ubiquitous aspect of the hill country in Mongolia. As soon as the ground thaws in the late spring, it buckles and turns unpaved roads into constant mud baths. A neighbor helped extricate the car, but we decided to leave it and push on by foot; after all the weather was perfect, with the clouds retreating for the day letting the big Mongolian sky take the stage. Finally, after hours of traipsing about, we heard the moos and bleating of livestock up ahead. Lo and behold, there stood not one, but two yaks among dozens of cows and goats. Yaktastic! We found one! The yaks weren't so happy to see us though and they rebuffed our gentle efforts to pet them by snorting, moving away, then urinating in our direction, a sign of displeasure no matter what country you're in (pardon the pun). So we played with the friendlier goats and chatted up the owner, a bull of a man who worked as a park ranger in western Mongolia before moving here. He was purported by neighbors to be a shaman as well. He certainly conjured up a great business deal when he sold a small resort next to his land for $100K, not bad for a shaman. Though the adjacent forest looked tempting to hike through, the sun was sinking low and we had to get back to the family. We had one last meal and I was presented with a thoughtful gift of, what else? A bottle of Chinggis Khan vodka (very fine vodka actually)! Soon we bade our bittersweet goodbyes to Tuya's lovely family as they escorted us out to the main road to catch the mashrutka (minibus which doubles as a human sardine can) back to town. As the evening light faded, casting a warm pink glow over the horse and ger dotted grassland that stretches up the valley, I yearned to jump out of the jam-packed mashrutka, catch one of the horses and ride over the horizon and explore the country further, as if the ghost of Chinggis taunted me for only seeing a small fraction of his land. Another day Chinggis, another time.

At the Chinggis Khan airport the next day, I stood amongst a group of fellow tourists watching the final match of the Naadam wrestling championship. The great and mighty reigning champion, who for the past three years has defended the title as the greatest wrestler in the Mongolia, reluctantly threw in the towel and gave up after failing to drop his challenger in a long, grueling match. The winner turned out to be Batka’s best friend! Some locals watching with us, threw their hands up in disgust, betrayed by their hero. I think Chinggis' ghost would understand this fallen hero, he'd given his best to uphold the ancient traditions of this country. While the country is changing at a rapid pace, many of the traditions practiced 800 years ago still persist, despite the influx of tourism, satellite tv and the internet. But I daresay he'd be a little cheesed by the cult of Chinggis Khan that has swept the country since the break-up of the Soviet empire. Although having a rock opera dedicated to your life, now that's cool. Only Tommy and Jesus can make that claim. As the call to board the plane snapped me out of my reverie, I polished off my Chinggis beer and bag of Chinggis chips and got in line to go home.

[Photo of Chinggis Khan, drawn with painted rocks on the side of a hill overlooking Ulaan Baatar]

Off to Mongolia, but first, the Barry Bonds of Asia

Despite the tragedy of losing my wallet and camera 5 days before my impending departure for Mongolia, a thin ray of hope kept the dream of visiting Tuya's homeland alive: my passport was at the Chinese Embassy. Though the Chinese government wanted to squeeze $180 out of me for the privelage of changing airplanes on their soil while on my way to and from Mongolia, I was grateful that my passport stayed safe in their possession while they processed the visa, instead of unsafe in my pick-prone pocket. Finally, on the morning of July 7th, Xinjiang Airlines (aka China Southern) took me up, up and away (in a Boeing 757 hooray!) toward the land of Chinggis Khan (though Genghis is commonly used spelling in the West, Chinggis is a more accurate transliteration of his name from Mongolian script).

Though my route to Ulaan Baatar would be circuitous and time-consuming, with stops in Urumchi and Beijing, I was looking forward to setting foot on Chinese soil for the first time and to see what this seething economic beast of the east was really like, or at least what their airports were 'really' like. Actually, I was treated to a fantastic aerial tour of the magnificent Tien Shan mountains, which crumples the entire landscape of Kyrgyzstan from west to east with jagged peaks and ridges and massive glaciers, culminating in the 7000+m peaks of Khan Tengri and Peak Pobeda on the easternmost border with China. As the Chinese Tien Shan range (which means Heavenly Mountains, for good reason) progressed toward the northeast, directly below I watched as the northern reaches of the Tarim Basin revealed itself in all its geological glory. The Tarim Basin, according to the infinite wisdom of questionable accuracy found in Wikipedia, is one of the largest endorheic drainage basins in the world. That means water flows in, and doesn't flow out. The basin dominates the southern half of the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, which itself is the largest sub-national administrative region in China, taking up as much as a sixth of it's total landmass. Needless to say, the scenery from above was entrancing enough to make me leave drool marks on my window. In one section of the basin it looked like God had taken a giant comb and brushed in an arching motion across black molten rock, only to let it set in a giant rainbow pattern 100 km wide for God (and China Southern passengers) to enjoy from the heavens. Little else disturbed the landscape, nary a road or village or oil rig that I could see.

Finally, we turned north for our descent into Ürümchi, the bustling industrial administrative center of Xinjiang. This ancient stop along the old Silk Road has exploded since the Chinese government declared it a Free Trade Economic Development Zone. Because of this, and because of oil and mineral deposits discovered nearby, Urumchi has boomed and now boasts a population of over 2 million. Not bad for a city in the middle of nowhere. Well, the bad does come along with it too. Owing to it's status the largest regional trade and transport hub, and to it's position as the main transshipment point for Burmese heroin going into Russia, Urumchi hosts the fastest growing HIV infection rate in China. In a sense, Urumchi is a microcosm of China itself, and all the growing pains that come with rapid growth.

The influx of foreign merchants has also led to the establishment of ethnic quarters in the city. A Russian zone here, a Kazakh enclave there, a Pakistani 'hood next to that. This cosmopolitan mix and booming economy belies a festering tension in Urumchi, which began brewing ever since the dominant Han Chinese began populating Xinjiang after the communist revolution and repressing the indigenous Uighur population. Uighurs are muslim and are descended from eastern Turkic tribes. In fact, the Uighur separatist movement calls for the creation of Greater Turkestan, including a wide swath of Central Asia. Of course the Chinese brook none of these romantic views of self-determination and have systematically crushed these movements and much of the culture in the same brutal way they have with Tibet. Though there were some flare-ups in the 90s, including a bombing of a public bus, things seemed to have been pacified for now, smoothed over by the rising economic tide for many people in this frontier town.

Alas, all of this information I learned from reading, for my time in Urumchi was too short to explore much. Only on the way back to Kyrgyzstan could I leave the airport, and only then was I crammed, courtesy of China Southern, onto a mini-bus and shipped out to a crumbling business hotel to crash overnight until my morning flight to Bishkek. My stay at the airport was anything but extraordinary from any airport in the West. The same modern, cavernous, exposed-bracing architecture, the same McImitation Chicken Burgers at the Fast food court, the same $5 juice and beer, the latest Chinese imitation of Destiny's Child prancing about in a music video on the flat panel screen in the cafe. Chinese passengers dressed in the latest sportswear and Paris Hilton wannabe rockstar styles were pulling their new trolley suitcases and shopping bags from one souvenir stand of cigarettes, silks, jade jewelry, and counterfeit cds to the next. Outside, a handful of freshly minted gleaming steel and glass office buildings popped up willy-nilly out of the dusty landscape just like Las Vegas, several more were under construction. Brand new Toyotas, Nissans, Hondas, Mercedes Benzes, Volkswagons and Qingqi cars sparkled in the airport parking lot, far outnumbering the once ubiquitous bicycle in China. Roads were pothole-free, landscaping was maintained, trash was removed, people were working. 21st Century Urumchi bore striking resemblance to Anywhere, USA, and a stark contrast to my new home, frozen-in-amber, Bishkek. I felt the same feelings of confusion and disorientation at the Beijing airport. Only there I could blow my Yuan at the Starbucks right outside the baggage claim. Not one Starbucks at the Beijing airport, but two! I just want some good ol' dim sum, please? How about a delicate steamed humbow? No? Where am I? Oooh, sushi! Ok, I'll take that....

Of course I could never claim to get a read on the pulse of 'real' China staying confined to the 'airport zones.' But I came away feeling like the place is preternaturally firing on all cylinders, like someone dumped nitrous octane booster into the gas tank of this juggernaut, like Barry Bonds-grade steroids are coursing through China's veins. A young woman touting her cheap and convenient hotel, just 5 minutes from the Beijing airport, convinced me to rest my bones there during my overnight layover. As we walked toward the van pick-up point outside, she told me she came from a village near Harbin 3 years ago to find work in Beijing. She wanted to learn English, so she enjoyed working at the airport and meeting foreign travelers. Her English had yet to match her grand ambitions, and our conversation stalled after a few minutes of blushing and eye-rolling as she strained to find the words. But I felt like her story could represent that of hundreds of millions like her, young, wide-eyed and determined, and scrambling like hell to get into the action. I was confidant she'll be well prepared once China's official coming out party rocks the world in the summer of '08. Stepping out into the sticky hot midnight summer air of Beijing, I absorbed the scene as I waited for my courtesy van from the hotel: the gridlock traffic everywhere, inching, honking, agitating, jockeying; the countless construction cranes dominating the hazy, shimmering horizon; the ceaseless sounds of jackhammers; the unfiltered burnt bitter taste of pollution in the air; the feeling of an insatiable hunger of a giant waking from a 500 year nap; the sound of bulging hulk muscles flexing and bursting the seams of a baseball jersey; the sense that world records and world orders are about to come crashing down. I kept turning around and looking for Barry Bonds in a torn Chinese baseball jersey trying to wave down a limo. Stepping off the curb to walk to my courtesy van in the far lane, the hotel girl yanked me back as another mini-van came hurtling toward me at top speed, only to skid to a halt, inches from splat. Too tired to be traumatized, all I could think was: "Don't get in the way of a waking giant you fool."

Doh!!!!

There are days, and then there are days. In the grand scheme of things, I have my health and so do all the people I care about. But at that moment, when I realized what had happened, I felt dumber than the slime oozing from your tv set, dumber than algae, dumber than a single-cell organism. How could I lose my wallet, which was chock full of all my money, bank cards, and i.d. cards, and lose my beloved Nikon digital camera at two diferrent moments in the same night? Not only that, my eagerly anticipated journey to Mongolia was now in jeopardy.
It all started innocently enough at the Kyrgyz Republic's first ever outdoor rock festival. Ok, there's not much innocence at rock festivals in general. But, this was the first ever, or so the obnoxious MC's proclaimed in Russian from the stage between every act. This was another great moment of modernization for a country with one leg buried in an agrarian/nomadic/tradition-bound past; one leg buried in post-soviet malaise of crippling apathy, crumbling infrastructure, broken social compacts, and deep-rooted corruption from the president to the postal clerk; and one leg trying to run toward a brighter future of prosperity and the rule of law as the lonely beacon of democracy in a most undemocratic neighborhood. Wait, that's three legs. Well, yes, of course, you see Kyrgyzstan is like a three-legged horse, and despite the odds ... never mind.
Ah yes, the rock festival. It was an impressive set-up in the parking lot of Promzona, the trendy, clean and modern rock club rising from the ashes of the old industrial zone on the outskirts of town. Certainly the whole scene could have been transplanted from some middling mid-summer music fest anywhere in Europe or North America: beer garden with attentive wait-staff; professional level soundboard, monitor and P.A. system; a covered, elevated stage with dramatic view of the Ala-Too range in the background; and corporate sponsor ads on nearly every surface. The bands were all local heroes who thrashed out set after set of russified hard rock and pop, ending with a rockin set by the much-loved local Rammstein cover band I discussed earlier, "Steinmar". It was during their energetic set that I finally broke out the ol' Nikon and started snapping pics of the mosh-happy crowd and the stoic antics of the band. I believe it was sometime during this set, when a very drunk and shirtless russian kid gently pushed me aside to make room for his drunken hesher dance that my pockets were picked. Gone were my wide angle lens in one pocket and my wallet in my back pocket. But I wouldn't notice that until later.
Shortly thereafter I caught a taxi with an American acquaintance back into the city. We thought we were smart leaving early and beating the crowds to the taxi line. I thought I was smart. After arguing with the driver about prices, I told him we'd both get out on Isanova, to hell with his ridiculous fares. In my haste to leave his presence, I think I left my camera on the back seat. One block later, I noticed. I noticed, I had no camera, no wallet, no lens. Taxi gone. I am the slime. To make matters worse, I was supposed to purchase my ticket to Mongolia Monday morning so I could join Tuya for a week visiting her family. Now I had nothing. Dread, self-loathing, a desire to punch something or someone or myself, all coursed through my veins.
Mercifully, help came in time and my journey to Mongolia is secured, though my dreams of snapping gigabytes of epic of photos of that mystical land just will not happen this time. Perhaps, it was a sign to narrow my focus a bit. So rest assured, a written account of my time in the land of Genghis will paint a thousand pictures! In the meantime, have a great Fourth of July, and let's all drown our fleeting sorrows in the drama of the World Cup. I'll be up at 1am to watch Deutschland re-conquer Italy...

Ala-Archa Getaway

Ala Archa National Park provides a gateway into to the stunning beauty and towering majesty of the Ala-Too mountains which dominate the horizon south of Bishkek. The entrance to the park sits just 30 minutes by car, or in our case, 60 minutes by creaking, rattling, fume-spewing soviet-era death-bus, from downtown Bishkek. I made the trek on a flawless friday afternoon with dozens of my new colleagues from the American University of Central Asia for their annual staff party. Though it was a stifling 85 degrees in town, the temps at our picnic site hovered below 70 and the air couldn't have been cleaner. Here's a brief glimpse of the inner artistry of the Ala-Too mountains, stay tuned for more as I return for deeper explorations...



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Death Metal, Kyrgyz Style...

April 28th, 2006. Just when I was beginning to think Bishkek was devoid of any worthwhile culture, like a good rock venue, I discovered Promzona. Tonight Tuya and I joined a few of her colleagues from the UN and made the drive out to the old industrial zone, or promzona, east of the city center. Somewhere amidst the skeletal remains and rubble of abandoned Soviet-era factories and blackened, lifeless smokestacks lies a gleaming new conference center and underground rock club called, "Promzona." Stepping across the into the club you immediately forget you're in post-Soviet Central Asia. The staff walks around in shiny new construction uniforms covered with yellow reflective patches while sporting red hardhats, also with reflective tape. All around amidst the euro neo-industrial brushed metal decor sit flat-screen plasma panels showing concert footage of Linkin Park. A smoke machine envelopes the noise-makers on stage, further mystified by a modern concert lighting rig. Grinding death metal chords induce the writhing mass of mostly young ethnic russians in front of the stage to flail and mosh into one another. Where the hell am I? Berlin? London? New York City? And the music? Spot-on renditions of the German industrial metal heros, Rammstein, all the way down to the hair-cuts, the make-up, the uniforms, the sprockets-esque mechanical antics of the musicians, even pre-recorded crowd noise from a prior Rammstein concert. Soon enough I found myself on the edge of the mosh pit bopping my head furiously and realizing that culture, at least absurdist industrial euro-thrash rock, was alive and well in this bizarre eurasian backwater. "Du hasst! Du hasst mich! Du hast mich gefragt!!!"
More Promzona pics here

Mountain bike Mania!

On the lift at Toguz Bulak
Yours truly in the Vcherny Bishkek (Bishkek Evening News)
Yes, believe it or not, tiny, impoverished Kyrgyzstan has it's share of hard-core mountain bike fanatics. And who can blame them, the terrain here is quite close to ideal. The landscape of the entire country is folded and lifted and contoured by one majestic mountain range after another, and here in the north, the foothills of the Ala-Too Range are essentially, tree-less and covered by a gorgeous green blanket of pasture grass, with hardly a rock in sight. So from the top of any hill, the downhill track line possibilities are endless. Literally you can ride just about anywhere! Ok, having a nice dual suspension mountain bike with plenty of travel up front helps quite a bit, but even if you're still in the stone-age riding a hard-tail cross-country bike like me, it's quite a joy. And yes, the locals are well aware of the bounty of mountain biking potential all over the place. One of the main proponents of the local scene, Anton, is a kind, strapping young ethnic russian lad here in Bishkek who acts as the national sales rep for Giant Bikes, a global brand based in Taiwan. It seems he has sold a Giant bike to nearly every expat with two legs in the Bishkek area. But he also is a rabid downhill freak who helps organize downhill and cross-country races here in Kyrgyzstan. Together with his organizing partners in Alma-Ata, Kazakhstan, they have formed quite a competitive mountain bike federation here in Central Asia. So when I went with Tuya and her friend Aidai to Anton's bike shop/house to buy them new bikes, I was overjoyed to hear from Anton the news about the upcoming Mountain Bike Festival at the Toguz Bulak ski resort about 60 km east of Bishkek. The festival would feature a day of cross-country races, a day of dowhhill races, a 'mountain-boarding' competition, shashlik barbecue, late night disco with live DJ's and plenty of mountain-side camping under the stars. Though I was hardly in any shape to be proud of, Anton got me siked up to enter the cross-country race for the hell of it.
Saturday May 13th arrived bathed in glorious sunshine promising warm spring temps, which would certainly be tempered by our higher altitude at the ski base. But things heated up quickly as we stepped aboard our Soviet-era military transport truck in front of the Dordoi Plaza in downtown Bishkek, with our bikes strapped aboard the giant flatbed supply truck behind us. Since ventilation was not a consideration in the design of this goliath of a truck, we soon began to feel the heat as we rumbled out of town toward the ski base. We arrived at the ski base and I immediately realized this was quite the international event. Riders from as far away as Kazakhstan were tuning up their bikes next to their mini-vans and SUVs in the parking lot. Above the parking lot a DJ spun hip/hop and russian techno tunes over the PA, as local herdsmen looked on at the scene from their perches on the hill above. We arrived just in time to register for the Elite class cross-country race, two loops around a 6km course along the lower hills of the ski area. No problem, I thought, 12km should be no sweat. As I climbed up the final stretch of dirt road toward the finish line during my practice run, I began to realize this would be a sweat. My lack of fitness, combined with the altitude and blazing sun was going to really poach my stamina, I thought. But as I rode up and down over the roller-coaster sheep-grazed grassy knolls, through placid herds of grazing horses, through crystalline mountain streams in the shadow of mammoth 13,000 foot peaks, I knew it would all be worth it. I joined my Austrian biking buddies Markus and Wali at the start line. Markus I knew would tear it up with his fantastic conditioning, and his girlfriend Wali would be no slouch either. Ever the competitor, she gamely chose to enter the men's heat to really challenge herself. After taking several long rides with these guys before, I was hoping to merely keep up with Wali to the end. Well, as it turned out, they both kicked my butt on the course, along with nearly everyone else. By the time I came to the final stretch of the second lap, it was a personal mission to push myself as hard as I could... and not get lapped by the first-place rider in the subsequent heat. I crossed the finish, fists pumped in the air, dying of thirst, yet happy that I wasn't dead last. And this is when a photographer with the local paper, The Nightly Bishkek News, snapped a shot of me in post-race agony. And thus was I immortalized in Bishkek history when this photo, as seen above, was published in the paper two days later. Thankfully, no mention of my standing in the race was mentioned.
After cooling down and rehydrating I met some of the organizers of the race. One of the organizers, Samuel, is a Swiss guy in his 20s who came out here 6 years ago to spend the winter snowboarding in the 'Switzerland of Asia.' And he still hasn't gone home. To keep himself busy he began an adventure tourism company, married a Kyrgyz girl, and just had a baby. Somewhere in between he convinced a small Swiss ski area to donate one of their 60's era chairlifts (they were going to replace it anyway) and allow Samuel to ship it to Kyrgyzstan. After wangling a deal to rent the hill space from local herdsmen in pristine alpine valley near a well-known hot springs, Samuel installed the first and only chairlift at Toguz Bulak. With their one snow plow and drier snow, Toguz Bulak is favored by many because the better snow conditions and easier access to off-piste skiing. And on this picture perfect day in mid-spring, it seemed to be a favorite of local para-gliders as well, who circuited up the chairlift and soared down in happy circles all day long.
After taking some hard rest and hard-boiled eggs, i decided to give the downhill course a go. Talk about white knucklin! I'm sure it was a fantastic track if you had a dual-suspension downhill bike with 8" of travel, but for good ol' Scotty cross-country ride with it's mid-90s frame and only front fork suspension, it was a brake-burning, hold on for life kind of deal. A second ride on Tuya's new Giant dual suspension was much more pleasant.
As I screamed down toward the base I could hear the hoots and hollers as the award ceremony began. I made it into the crowd, now well-lubricated with beer and vodka, just in time to see our friend Wali step to the podium to receive a special award for being the only woman gutsy enough to race in the men's elite division. Sehr gut gemacht Wali! Du bist Meisterin!

Inspired by the stellar combination of well-organized competition, enthusiastic local riders (kazakh too), laid back atmosphere and gorgeous setting, I decided to get in shape and improve upon my poor performance. So where's the next race I asked Anton. He said they're working on a 36 km chinese downhill from the top of a mountain to the shores of Lake Issyk Kul. Phewwww. Ok, these Kyrgyz guys are more hardcore than I imagined. Maybe next year for me, thanks!

Persian music and Propaganda...

A few weeks ago Tuya grabbed free tickets to an evening of traditional Persian music at surprisingly beautiful soviet-era State Philharmonika, the Kyrgyz national theatre that hosts ballet, opera and assorted musicals. Since the concert was sponsored by the Iranian Embassy, we were obligated to sit in separate sections for men and women so that we don't tittilate our innocent minds with thoughts of the opposite sex sitting next to us during the performance. This kind of fundamentalism almost never rears it's ugly head in Bishkek. While roughly 60% of people in Kyrgyzstan claim to be Muslim, Bishkek remains a very secular city. You could probably find more mosques and head scarves in Washington, D.C. than Bishkek. Here more people worship the ancient gods called Mercedes, Audi, Vodka, Cognac, Dolce and Gabbana, a syncretic blend of pastoral shamanism and modern sybaritism. So I was a bit shocked to encounter our babushka-usher in the lobby of the Philharmonika, demanding we enter the theatre through opposite doors. I wanted to mess with her mind a bit, but i couldn't think of the russian word for "pre-op transgenderal." Nevertheless, Tuya and I took our parts in the Iranian morality play, and took our seats on opposite sides of the hall, connected only by the swapping of indignant text messages. But the Iranian Embassy had one more treat in store for us, a 20 minute epic "propagandumentary" film on the glory of the modern Islamic Republic of Iran, extoling their booming economy and scientific achievements. It soon dawned on me that we were now just pawns in the new "Great Game" of Central Asia, where all the regional and global powers are fighting for influence just as the Brits and Russkies did 150 years ago. While the U.S., Russia, China, the EU and Turkey seek political and economic dominance in this contested region of oil, gas, and despots by building airbases, schools and shopping malls, Iran is likewise seeking to win allegiances by luring people into free concerts, then brainwashing them with a Grand Infomercial. The pinnacle, or punchline, of the film was a quote from the Grand Ayatollah himself, describing how Iran takes great pride in their excellent human rights record and efforts to promote human rights for all it's citizens. I soon found myself searching the seatback pocket in front of me for an air-sickness bag. Ahhh, finally the lights come, the musicians step forth to the stage, and my nausea abates. God bless music! It transcends all politics, religions, conflicts, stereotypes, well, ok, except for Toby Keith. Anyway, the music we heard that night was truly majestic. The vocalists filled the hall with melancholic wails and washed away all the cynical energy in my spine spawned by the rigamarole we were forced to endure earlier. I won't waste more words on a description of the music, a frivolous exercise famously summed up by the quote: "writiting about music is like dancing about architecture. (- Elvis Costello?)" Rather, I urge you to search high and low for traditional Persian music. Then send it to the White House (or more importantly, the Naval Observatory, home of Darth Cheney). Maybe then it will be harder for them to drop bombs on a civilization that can create such beauty. Enjoy the photos at least...
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