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...