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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