Skerik and the Beta Popes Create Satan's Soundtrack

Knitting Factory -- Seattle-native Skerik, enfant terrible of the saxophone world, invaded New York with his noise-rock trio, the Beta Popes, featuring New York's downtown jazz-scene legend Bobby Previte on drums and a hirsute (or in his case, hair-suited) Jimmy Saft on guitar. A sparse crowd was on hand to drown in a tsunami of sound during their hour-long set, during which they played two long sonic collages of death metal. Skerik spent much of the time adding to the clamor with his unique style of synthesized vocals. It was not for the faint of heart, maybe not for anyone with a heart. Satan would have been dancing for joy amid the sturm and drang, and perhaps he was in this subterranean venue. But it was good to see Skerik and his mates frolic with total freedom and see how far and deep they could go in pushing the boundaries of noise art, though according to the Beta Popes myspace page, they urge all to "say no to art." More photos of the carnage here.

Chris Thile and Michael Daves Rock the Rockwood, Again

Chris Thile and Michael Daves tore it up at the Rockwood once again. This time, the presence of a professional video camera and Phish bassist Mike Gordon (his gray-haired mop in the foreground) standing amongst the over-capacity crowd at this cozy club in Manhattan's Lower East Side seems to have spurred the duo to new heights. Or perhaps it was the result of continued collaboration and a growing symbiosis between the two shred-meisters, carrying on the tradition of the close-harmony brother acts of yore, as they honor and redefine classic bluegrass, honky tonk, and fiddle tunes such as: "Blue Night," "Rabbit in a Log," "The First One to Love You, "Loneliness and Desperation," "Little Girl in Tennessee," "Darlin' Corey," "Sweet Little Miss Blue Eyes," "Cold Rain and Snow," "Molly and Tenbrooks," and fiddle tunes like "Fisher's Hornpipe," "June Apple," "Arkansas Traveler," Uvpick's Waltz, Billy in the Lowground, and Back Up and Push. For more photos check em here. Chris and Michael's unannounced gigs around Manhattan may take a break while Chris goes on tour with his new bluegrass supergroup, The Punch Brothers, but you can always catch Michael every Tuesday night at the Rockwood. I've seen him play numerous times now, in addition to taking lessons from him every other week, and his music never gets old, even though it's plumbed from the depths of a country music landscape long gone.

Mandingo Ambassadors: Best West African Band in NYC?

Tonight we managed to catch the Mandingo Ambassadors for the second time at Barbes, the cozy, world-music venue in Brooklyn's Park Slope neighborhood. Legendary might be a stretch, but everyone here seems to know it as one of the best places to catch great African music and a wide range acts. I first caught the Mandingo Ambassadors at Jalopy Theater in Red Hook, and I was thoroughly blown away by their tight, energetic performance, charismatic vocalist, the cheery tones of their balafon, and the liquid-lightning sound of their guitarist, Mamady Kouyate, a musical god from Guinea who certainly should be legendary here as well. Here is a blurb about the band from the website of Barbes, where the Ambassadors usually have a residency every Wednesday night:

This legendary band was originally formed in Guinea, West Africa, in the late 1960’s by Guitarist Mamady “Djelike” Kouyate and singer Emile Soumah. Their music became some of the most beloved and influential of their generation and their songs were widely imitated. Mamady later went on to perform for many years with Guinea’s most popular group, Bembeya Jazz National. Now based in New York, Mamady Kouyate has decided to revive The Ambassadors. His electrifying guitar-work is supported by the new Mandingo Ambassadors, a crew of Guinean and American musicians who have steeped their glorious sound in classic 60's Guinean mandingo music.

Here is a clip of Mamady and the band at Barbes in 2007:

Chris Thile and Michael Daves at the Living Room

Thile and Daves once again wove their magic as a duo, this time at the Living Room in the Lower East Side. On a Monday night they drew an over-capacity crowd to witness their evolving 'brother harmony' act. I got stuck in the back, where good camera angles were hard as hard to come by as the drinks from the deluged waitress. Nevertheless it was good to see a larger crowd (100+) flocking to see these maestros. And their sound filled the room nicely–I wasn't sure how it would compare to the much more intimate space at the Rockwood.

After the show Michael urged me to stick around for Jim Campilongo's late night set. Campilongo, a virtuoso instrumentalist, even left Michael and Chris shaking their heads in awe as he made tasty musical sparks fly off his gorgeous-sounding '59 Fender Tele. He has a residency at the Living Room every Monday night. Like Thile and Daves, he must be seen to be believed. More pics of Thile and Daves here.

Earth Day - Central Park 2008

A fabulous spring day at Central Park, where Earth Day celebrations included a great free concert by none other than Ricky Skaggs and The Kentucky Thunder. Can't beat free bluegrass in Central Park!

Elsewhere in the park, members of the Central Park Dance Skater Association put on a fine display to the uplifting sounds of disco pumped out through a sound system. No stopping these guys from skating to ecstasy.



More photos here.

Banjo Festival at Banjo Jim's Showcases the Many Voices of this Uniquely American Instrument

An all-star lineup featuring Tony Trischka, Noam Pikelny, Chris Eldridge, and Norris Bennett from the Ebony Hillbillies, among many other talented banjoistas, charmed the enthusiastic yet jam crowd at Banjo Jim's on Avenue C with old time, string band, bluegrass, folk rock, and newgrass music. Trischka, the top draw, was his usual virtuosic self as he unfurled a number of new and bluegrass tunes. Mercifully, the crowd thinned out as Trischka departed, and we were treated to the acoustic fireworks of the young guns Pikelny and Eldridge (guitar), who both play in Chris Thile's new superduper bluegrass brotherhood, the Punch Brothers. Dayna Kurtz sang a sweet set of mournful Gillian-esque old timey folk numbers. Seems she's big in Europe, should be big here too soon. More on the festival here.
Click here for the rest of the photos.

© Murakami Exhibition at Brooklyn Art Museum

On a brisk spring Sunday we experienced Murakami, Inc. Actually, the title of the exhibition was "© Murakami," which properly reflected his philosophy on the seamless convergence of art and commerce. It was one of the most appalling yet fascinating, engaging yet enraging art exhibitions I've ever lived through. The "Superflat" movement founded by Murakami is exemplified by his playfully psychedelic, yet dense and richly-colored paintings. Many of the larger works were painted by a team of artists under his direction at his studio in Queens (we know one of his former apprentices personally; she left due to the sweatshop-like conditions). Some rooms in the exhibition were even decorated from floor to ceiling with his "superflat" motifs of happy flowers and other saccharine/evil images. But Murakami, not one to limit his choices of media, employed sculpture, video and even Louis Vuitton handbags to express his ideas on mass culture and society.


In fact, in the middle of the exhibition you are forced to walk through what seems to be a functioning Louis Vuitton handbag store, complete with sales agents and cash register. It's a shockingly effective piece of performance art perpetuating Murakami's obsession with commerce. I found myself so enraged by such a commercial assault on the sanctity of art, I almost made a scene–I really wanted to castigate the 'sales people' for molesting our right to enjoy art free of commercial intrusion. But then I calmed down and realized it was really a clever provocation on Murakami's part, even if he was making mega-bucks on the side.

Murakami's ability to shock and awe greeted us at the very beginning, when we were exposed to a fiberglass statue of a "Hiropon," a buxom, half-naked woman skipping a rope of milk streaming from her massive breasts. Then we were introduced to "My Lonesome Cowboy" (1998), a fiberglass sculpture of a young man with windswept, blue hair grasping his manhood while spewing a stream of "man milk", or a semen lasso as wikipedia puts it, over his head. Shock, glee, confusion, outrage, sadness, understanding–Murakami's exhibit brings out all of these emotions and more. That's art doing what it's supposed to do. Speaking of shocking, in May 2008, My Lonesome Cowboy sold for $15.2 million.

Murakami links:
On art, otaku and Japanese society: http://www.jca-online.com/murakami.html
WikiMurakami: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Takashi_Murakami

More photos from the day...

Cory Seznec and Parrish Ellis at Jalopy Theater

My good friend Cory Seznec, an innovative country blues and old time guitar and banjo player, teamed up with the WIYO's own Parrish Ellis at the downhome Jalopy Theatre in the Red Hook neighborhood in Brooklyn for their first, and hopefully not their last, performance together. Tonight they presented their takes on old field recordings of Tidewater and Virginia blues for fingerstyle guitar, and they rocked. Parrish even made his 'hambone' debut with a southern prison song. Both are leaving the fertile musical bastion of Brooklyn - Cory is embarking on another UK tour with the Groanbox Boys, and Parrish is relocating to Asheville, NC. No doubt these young, like-minded folk and blues wizards will cross paths again. Adding to the magic on stage was a cameo appearance by Seattle-based boogie-woogie blues veteran Del Rey. She's as real as they get.

Click here to see the rest of the pics from the show.

Front pages and back pages...

Not many further developments in the Saipov murder investigation, word has it the Osh chief of police knew his father very well, and he promised a thorough investigation. But I was pleased to see an article written by a student I know posted on the Ferghana.ru website, an independent news site for Central Asia. Using a pseudonym for fear of getting harrassed or worse by the Kyrgyz authorities, he shares his perspective as a volunteer election observer of the recent referendum vote. Quite well-written, and quite sad to feel his cynicism about the future of democracy in his country. Hopefully by the time his generation is running the show these old Soviet bozos cannibalizing the country will have died off in vast numbers. anyway, read on:
read it here.

Speaking of journalism... Last weekend I played in a charity soccer match in the crowning jewel of Kyrgyzstan's sports venues, Spartak Stadium (capacity 8-10,000 maybe...). I played for the expat team, or ROW (rest of the world) as it was named in the papers (I had no idea we had a name) and we took on a team of local guys, mostly current or former students from the American University. For a full month we scrimmaged against them and generally kicked their asses. All in good fun of course, after all, the ticket and baked good revenues from game day were to be donated to an orphanage in the impoverished Batken province. But our sure-footed Italian, Serbian, Spanish, German and British contingent brought us a serious European style of control and attack, while the local guys, though much faster than us old farts, were a bit too undisciplined. Well maybe the Kyrgyz national soccer team's thumping of Jordan the week before inspired the home side, because on that gorgeous late October day they gave the sparse crowd at Spartak much to cheer for once again when they absolutely annihilated us, 4-1. I mean they really made us look like we had concrete in our shoes, heck one of our guys even had to be hauled off in an ambulance due to a dislocated kneecap. Rather emblematic of our side, our collective minds were dislocated from our bodies... Anyhoo, it was for a good cause, and it was damn nice to slide around on real grass, which is exactly what I was doing when a photog for the local English language weekly Times of Central Asia caught me slide tackling an opponent. Yes it was a clean slide, a breakaway stopper, and it felt great. That used to be my favorite move way back in my footie hey day. So, here I am on the cover of the weekend edition... my third newspaper appearance in Bishkek!

Depends Who You Believe...

The Ministry of Internal Affairs today announced that slain journalist Alisher Saipov was supported by the "U.S. National Center for Democracy." It's not clear exactly which organization this is, because directly translated from Russian this name does not exist, but it could mean the National Democratic Institute (NDI). It's highly probably Saipov attended some kind of NGO training sponsored by NDI, though hundreds of civil society types around the country can make that claim too.

The Ministry also announced Saipov had close links to "extremist" islamic groups, as well as Uzbek opposition groups. The two are often associated with each other by the Uzbek government. Ministry officials further announced they know who the killer is based on ballistic evidence found at the scene of the crime, but they did not reveal any names and did not claim to know where this suspect is.

All of this information comes out after Ministry agents scoured Saipov's hard drive and apartment for information. Journalists and activists fear the Ministry will use this murder investigation as an excuse to trump up unrelated charges against them and opposition groups. Undoubtedly Saipov had links to these groups, especially when his raison d'etre was to expose the repressive activities of both the Uzbek and Kyrgyz governments. How far they supported him materially and used him as a propaganda tool we may never know, for it's hard to truly believe the Kyrgyz government, not to mention Uzbek authorities. Are Kyrgyz authorities now trying to lambast Saipov through accusations of treasonous associations in order to please the Uzbek government? Surely the Uzbek's are pushing for this, but whether the Kyrgyz are caving in to this pressure only time will tell.

Meanwhile, Journalists Public Union of Kyrgyzstan is calling for all journalists in the country to unite and boycott coverage of the Kyrgyz police in light of their failure to solve any of the dozen or so cases of violence against journalists tallied so far this year. Certainly the Saipov case prompted this call, and a seemingly random case of a local tv reporter getting bitten on the face at the Osh Bazaar by an angered (and apparently hungry) drug dealer only adds to the siege mentality they all must be feeling. Is it now open season on journos in the KR? Well, they shouldn't feel intentionally neglected by police, since local police seem to neglect investigating all but a few high profile crimes. Unless you can pay the right price, and then the police will turn into heroic private investigators for you.

Another voice silenced; Respected Uzbek Journalist Killed in Osh

Uzbekistan President Islam Karimov; probably not a fan of Saipov's work...


The paranoia level in Kyrgyzstan was high enough in the wake of Bakiev’s rigged referendum. Journalists, and fans of the truth in general, have been especially wracked by fear and loathing as the government flexes its increasingly heavy hand. Besides the fact that Kyrgyz media outlets generally feel intimidated to openly discuss the widespread allegations of election violations from Sunday’s referendum on the constitution, the print run of an opposition party’s newspaper was also seized recently by Kyrgyz internal security forces due to the paper’s “extremist” opinions.

And now this; ethnic Uzbek journalist, Alisher Saipov, a Kyrgyz citizen living a few kilometers away from the border of Uzbekistan in the southern Kyrgyz city of Osh, was murdered. For a 26 year-old journalist, he was remarkably well known and respected around Central Asia. He founded a newspaper that openly questioned the policies and human rights violations of the Uzbek government, both in Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan. Seipov also broke the story about Uzbek agents kidnapping Uzbek refugees, who had fled to Kyrgyzstan from the brutal Andijan crackdown in 2005. These same agents may have played a role in silencing Saipov’s critical voice.

According to a BBC TV report, just days before his death Seipov told friends he was being followed. He knew his life was in danger because of his reporting, even though he lived in a country with a relatively high degree of press freedom. And though President Kurmanbek Bakiev has publicly hinted that the journalist’s murder may have been the result of “foreign interference,” a pretty brazen hint to air publicly in light of Kyryzstan’s usual reticence about any actions of the Uzbek government, his promise of a full investigation has been met with skepticism.

While President Bakiev’s promise has been met with skepticism, the fact that he mentioned the possibility of “foreign interference (meaning Uzbekistan)” as the cause of a Kyrgyz citizen’s death is significant. The Kyrgyz government almost never rocks the boat when it comes to its far more populous and powerful neighbor to the west.

So will Bakiev push through this investigation, either as a move to strengthen domestic support at a time of rapidly rising food prices and discontent, or as a way to poke a rare stick at Uzbek President Islam Karimov? Karimov’s power is thought to be on the wane as he reputedly seeks a successor before he steps down due to his current battle with leukemia (not that it matters, but Karimov’s term ended at the beginning of this year). Bakiev surely knows he’s politically and physically weak. And Karimov reputedly slighted Bakiev at the Shanghai Cooperation Organization summit last August in Bishkek when he badgered Bakiev about the region’s water problems in a disrespectful way. Don’t expect a Central Asian man to ignore an insult.

One thing is certain; Bakiev’s action or inaction will foreshadow the long-term direction of the Kyrgyz government when it comes to the precarious state of press freedom in the country. Let’s hope Saipov’s life, and death, are not soon forgotten, for the sake of truth and its survival in Central Asia.

More articles:
Human Rights Watch
BBC

Kleptocracy in Action: Kyrgyzstan Officially Drops All Pretenses of Democracy

When I first moved here I was under the impression that Kyrgyzstan was a democracy. A very flawed democracy, but a struggling democracy nonetheless, with a relatively active civil society and relatively free press (relative to the world-class dictatorships flanking the country on all sides: Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, China, Turkmenistan and Russia) I have been disabused of this notion after this weekend. Now it's official: the stunningly corrupt and self-serving leadership of this country, led by "Big Bucks" Bakiev, is determined to come out of the closet of feigned democracy and openly declare its identity as an unashamed autocratic regime like all its neighbors.

On October 21, according to the Kyrgyz government, the citizens of Kyrgyzstan flooded polling stations across the country to vote on a referendum deciding the fate of the national constitution. Over 80% of the electorate, well past the 50% threshhold needed to validate the vote, went to the polls that soggy autumn day to decide whether to accept a new constitution, drafted in secret by a Presidential committee, which is widely considered to give the president even greater control over judiciary, parliament, and other key positions in the ministries. And the masses of civic-minded voters, frothing at the chance to exercise their democratic right to choose the fate of their resource-poor, inflation-battered country, overwhelmingly (76%) chose to adopt President Bakiev's constitution. The people have spoken, and the last flicker of democracy shines on in Central Asia!

Or, not really. For starters, the referendum was announced just one month before the voting day (international standards call for a four month warning), so international election monitoring organizations had no time to prepare the voting public and set up election observation teams. The National Democratic Institute team in Bishkek, funded by USAID, did manage to send out observer teams to polling stations, as well as make a last minute public service announcement to inform voters about their rights and responsibilities and about the referendum itself. The powers that be made sure this did not get aired. NDI's observer teams did get to the polls, along with local civil society groups and the ever-impartial observation teams from the Commonwealth of Independent States (former Soviet Union states) and the Shanghai Cooperation Organization (made up of most of the autocracies of Asia). Of course the CIS and SCO teams declared the whole affair 'free and fair' and slapped Bakiev on the back for a sham election well-run.

A friend of mine on the NDI observer team could barely talk about the gross violations he observed, he was so incensed. In-your-face ballot stuffing by election officials was commonplace. When questioned about it by the observers, the polling agents matter-of-factly stated that they had orders from their authorities to make sure a certain number of votes were placed in the boxes, whether they were real or not. Quotas had to be filled! Stories like these have been flying all over town and over the online discussion boards. Men were seen voting once, leaving, changing clothes, and voting again, and again. Independent estimates put the voter the real voter turnout at around 30%.

The strangest aspect of this is that they didn't even try to hide their massive-scale deception. Why waste brain-power trying to outfox the public when no one cares anymore? Most stories echo the first one, where polling agents just brought in hundreds of pre-marked ballots and shamelessly stuffed them in the ballot boxes as if the election monitors didn't even matter. And essentially that's the attitude most people have about the whole political process anyway; it doesn't matter. It's all pre-ordained. Democracy is a fable. It's a fantasy clung to by people on other continents, not this one. Just stop the runaway inflation on food prices and let the economy grow so we can keep feeding our families. Just leave us out of these dirty politics and let us work.

To it's credit, even the typically spineless U.S. Embassy in Kyrgyzstan issued a damning statement on the referendum urging the Kyrgyz Government to get it's act together for the upcoming Parliamentary elections in December, which were called for the day after the referendum. Bakiev dismissed Parliament on October 22 using a clause in the old constitution that remained in force at the time. Parliament members were given three days to pack up their stuff, fill up their flash drives and get out of their offices in the Jogorku Kenesh before the secret service locks it down completely.

Anyway, the U.S. Government always has to walk a tightrope here because of the presence of the airbase, the only rear-supply base in the region that supports operations in Afghanistan. Besides Kyrgyzstan, there is nowhere else to put the base, and the Kyrgyz use that to their fullest advantage, jacking the annual 'rent' for the base up from $2 million to $150 million dollars last summer. Now that's inflation for ya. Word has it the Kyrgyz suddenly want to renegotiate again before the ink on the last deal has even dried. Welcome to Central Asia.

So is there hope that the new party list system called for in the constitution will bring about a more balanced and effective Parliament? Not likely. It copies the Kazakhstan model very closely, which is exactly what Bakiev wants. He is Kazakh President Nazarbaev's 'mini-me,' and he would love nothing more than to turn Kyrgyzstan into a tightly controlled fiefdom like Uncle Nazzy has with Kazakhstan. Essentially that's what Bakiev has done already with alarming efficiency, much faster and smarter than ousted President Akayev ever did in his 15 years in power.

So the pincher grip on politics tightens, and soon the already endangered press freedoms in this country will be crushed, as well as any real dissent or opposition movement. Maybe it's good for Kyrgyzstan. Maybe the people are right, stability takes primacy over everything else. Look at the Russians (who many Kyrgyz would like to re-confederate with), look at the Kazakhs (who are practically buying up the whole country anyway), look at the Chinese. Their 'unique' paths to development have nothing to do with democracy, and they're doin' just dandy. Does freedom matter, when your whole family is relying on you to feed 'em? I guess we'll find out here as the last flicker democracy in Central Asia gets snuffed out. Matches anyone? Spichki?

Hu's On First? The SCO Summit in Bishkek: A Gathering of Despots

(photo from the 2006 SCO Summit, featuring the Despot All-Stars)

The city of Bishkek proudly played host to one of the greatest gatherings of ruthless, anti-democratic dictators in recent memory at the 2007 Shanghai Cooperation Organization (SCO) Summit (see Wash. Post article here). The one day event was mostly a ceremonial affair designed to show the world, and particularly the United States, that this coalition of Asian states was strengthening in its resolve and determination to not only work closely on issues of security, counter-terrorism, and trade, but also to counter American influence in the region. Call them Asia's answer to NATO. Well, maybe that's jumping the gun, since many of these states still have divergent interests and wildly varying levels of military capacity and natural resource wealth, but the major players, like member states China, Russia, and Kazakhstan, have deep enough pockets and entrenched cultures of paranoia toward the West to really focus their energies into forming a formidable bloc. Throw in observer status states like Iran and Turkmenistan, and the oil/paranoia levels go off the charts.

Certainly part of the paranoia comes from the leaders themselves, a rogue crew of despots that have done more than their share to crush democratic movements in their own countries, through effective use of legal and electoral manipulation, thuggish intimidation, and good ol' fashioned murder of political opponents. The roster of member states reads like a Who's Who of human rights abusers and corruption masterminds. Consider - member state leaders: Hu Jintao, China; Vladimir Putin, Russia; Nursultan Nazarbayev, Kazakhstan; Islam Karimov, Uzbekistan; and Emomali Rahmon, Tajikistan. All except Putin and Hu are self-imposed presidents-for-life, but Putin and Hu's cronies will certainly continue their anti-democratic traditions of rule once they're gone. Kurmanbek Bakiev, president of Kyrgyzstan, presides over the most democratic of all member states, though his taste for corruption, cronyism, and power consolidation surely have him frothing at the chance to become a dictator like his good buddies. He must feel like a real sissy being the only non-dictator in the Central Asian 'hood.

Then consider - observer state leaders: Mahmoud Ahmedinijad, Iran; and Gurbanguly Berdumukhammedov (say that fast with a mouth full of crackers), Turkmenistan. Both are oil/gas rich regimes with repressed societies and isolated from the global community. That this all-star team of despotism gathered in one city yesterday (in fact in one yurt for a traditional Kyrgyz tea at the Presidential compound) must have spun the minds of the hawks in the White House, the Pentagon and the CIA. One well placed cruise missle could have rid the world of three quarters of it's dictators (though observer state leaders Hamid Karzai of Afghanistan and Nambaryn Enkhbayar of Mongolia, the former benign if ineffective, the latter benign and quite effective, would be tipped off to visit the little boys room at the appropriate moment to avoid obliteration).

Needless to say, little came out of this conference except vague warnings to the West (U.S. and A.) to stop meddling in the military and energy affairs of the region. Particularly galling to Russia, Iran and China is the presence of the U.S. air base at Manas Airport outside Bishkek, the rear-supply base for operations in Afghanistan. Russia and Iran have also clashed head on with the U.S. on the planned missle defense installations in Poland and the Czech Republic, which are aimed at Iran, but sit in Russia's backyard. And Russia bristles at U.S. maneuvering to get pipelines from oil and gas-rich Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan to bypass Russia and deliver the goods directly to western markets through the Caucusus and Turkey. Behind the scenes certainly plenty of pressure was placed on the Kyrgyz government to oust the meddlesome Americans out of the country, but the Kyrgyz, true to their nomadic heritage, are masters of playing superpowers against each for its own financial gain, and they'll keep the Americans around as long as they remain willing to fork over increasing piles of cash to stay at Manas. With a rent of nearly $200 million a year, renegotiated yearly, the Russians and Chinese could never compensate the Kyrgyz for such a loss of revenue unless they threatened to annex the country themselves.

Mainly it was a big chance for these emerging giants of Asia to flash their new gang signs in front of the global media. The problem was, it barely bleeped on the global media radar. The defective Chinese toy story got far more coverage in the mainstream western media than this meeting. And for little Kyrgyzstan, caught in the middle with little to offer but poorly managed yet abundant water resources, it was their chance to show the world they are open to tourists and open to investors. The climate for both is certainly attractive for those with a taste for extreme adventure, but they have a long way to go before any significant volume of tourism or investment capital comes flowing in. No amount of last minute road paving, sidewalk patching and house painting could gloss over the fact that this country is criminally mismanaged and drunk on corruption at every level, and that the vast majority of people want to get the hell out and earn real money in Kazakhstan or Russia as soon as they can.

A funny story that emerged from this whole circus features a world-class rebuke of Iranian President Ahmedinijad by the Kyrgyz Parliament. As reported on the local news, apparently Ahmedinijad was set to meet with the deputies of the Kyrgyz Parliament, about 20 meters from my office at the American University (had I known I would have prepared appropriately offensive signage to tape up on our windows). But before the meeting started, Ahmedinijad's handlers entered the meeting room and immediately began moving furniture around so the honorable president would sit physically higher than the lowly Kyryz parliamentarians, as per Iranian presidential protocol. The Kyrgyz side then told the Iranians to put arrangement back or blow their protocol up their revolutionary asses. The meeting was called off. A missed chance for Ahmedinijad to slather his anti-American rhetoric all over his Kyrgyz hosts, and great chance for the Kyrgyz to demonstrate their nomadic tradition of anti-authoritarianism.

Now that the summit is over, the constant sirens of presidential convoys have quieted, the 5,000+ policemen have been called off overtime duty, the security checkpoints have been removed, the cheap paint jobs have commenced peeling off within a few months, and most importantly, alcohol sales in the city center have resumed (now we can buy 25 cent vodka shots at the corner kiosk once again!). And our little mountainous republic can go back to it's quiet anonymity, basking in the gentle warmth of the fading days of summer.

Bluegrass in the Bish..

The U.S. State Department, in a rare stroke of wisdom, chose Bob Perilla and His Hillbilly Bluegrass Band, the D.C. house bluegrass band, to tour around eastern Europe, the Caucasus and Central Asia to act as American cultural ambassadors and spread the gospel of bluegrass music. They came to Bishkek in late June, and I was of course thrilled. Here are pictures from their initial press conference, their workshop at American University, which I coordinated and participated in, and their final public concert at the Metro Pub Theater, where they collaborated with a local Kyrgyz folk music ensemble. It was real treat to have this slice of home halfway around the world, and Bob and boys certainly made new fans as they redefined what locals here consider 'kantry muzik'.

Skiing the Ak-Pai Glacier

(more pictures here)
Crossing the Ak-Pai River. This photo exemplifies our travails of reaching the Ak Pai Glacier. In mid June I decided to try to ski this long and extremely skiable glacier in the heart of the Ala too Range with my ethnic Russian friend Maxim, local mountain madman and co-proprietor of the Edelweiss Adventure Company, one of the bigger tour operators in Kyrgyzstan and only heli-ski operator in the country. I knew I was in for real workout going up with Maxim, but I had no idea we'd be blazing new trails both on the way and the way down and ending up collapsed on the side of the Sokolok River road under the starlit sky wondering if Maxim would ever come down alive.
Using GoogleEarth Maxim had spied the 5 km long glacier emanating from an unnamed (we'll call it Ak Pai Peak) 4300m summit wedged between the Ala-Archa valley and the Sokolok River valley. It was one of the few area glaciers he hadn't skied, and the timing was right to bag it. After dropping off his brother and mother at the airport, Maxim's father drove us out to the stunning Sokolok Valley, about 40 km west of Bishkek. We stopped at what appeared to be the mouth of the Ak Pai river canyon, and after a quick lunch of bread, cheese, tomatos and smoked pig fat, we made our way up the steep canyon mouth. I soon noticed there was no trail, but Maxim reassured me that it would be ok, we'd just follow along the banks of the river, which cut it's way through a narrow, steeply rising canyon. With our ski and boots laden packs we made extremely little progress as we rock-hopped, bushwhacked, splashed barefoot across the river and up the valley. After nearly 4 hours we had barely climbed up 500m, and evening was fast approaching. Adrenaline and pigfat kept me going and finally as the steep canyon widened we connected with a well worn horse trail that come down from a high ridge. Indeed, a big herd of horses greeted us curiously, wondering why the hell we were up in their pristine slice of heaven. By nightfall we had finally reached a reasonable spot to set up camp, not as close to the glacier as we hoped, but good enough for me as I was at the end of my rope after 7 hours of slogging it up to over 3000m. Sub-freezing temps came quickly as we burrowed in for the night, and by morning it was still bitter cold enough to prevent us from making as early a start as we wanted.

As we headed toward the moraine, we were well rewarded with spectacular views of our destination, a splendid looking peak with a proud mantle of white gleaming in the morning sun. Now it was a race against time to beat the melting snow on the glacier and to get down in time to meet Maxim's dad at the pick-up point at 6 p.m. After a frantic scramble through an endless boulder field, we finally reached the foot of the glacier and began our steady skinning up to the top. Aside from some emergency pitstops on the snow due my intestinal displeasure, we made good progress to the top thanks to Maxim's steady pacesetting and persistent cajoling. Fortunately cloud cover kept the slopes in good shape for our descent down, which was 5 km of carving butter bliss. 25 minutes of descent and once again we had to make a mad scramble over the boulder fields, this time with time pressure increasing as we had a mere 3 hours to reach the meeting point with Maxim's dad once we departed from the base camp.

We soldiered on down the valley, sad to leave such a pristine meadow so quickly, and soon we hooked up with the horse trail over the ridge to the next valley down. Max motored ahead with superman speed, so fast that I lost sight of him and kept trekking on the following valley, only to find him running up behind me. He had already bombed down the previous valley, and as I passed on the high trail above, he screamed for my attention, but out of my earshot. So he sprinted back up 500m to grab me, then together we just booneyed down the steep grassy slope of the third valley. By that time it was already past the pickup time, and Max cruised ahead once again, disappearing down the ever-narrowing gorge. By now I was nearing the point of drop-dead exhaustion, slipping and skidding across angled rockslides, barrelling through head-high bushes, brambles and weeds, stepping through ground vegetation and plunging my feet into stream beneath, slogging and falling, bearing on my ski poles with every step as if my life depended on it, all while dusk quickly consumed the day. And then, Maxim appeared, sans backpack, to report that made it to the road, flagged down a car, and cruised back up to tell me to keep trucking while he goes back down to meet the car, which will take him down valley into cell phone signal range to call his father. Not far to the road, he pledged, but then warned me about a certain obstacle ahead.
I should soon come across his pack and skis, but nevermind it, he said, keep going until I reach the waterfall, where I'll find a rope tied to a tree. Then I should rapel down next to the waterfall, about 10 meters. Say what? Yes, but no problem, it's doable, besides, he said, there was no other way out. In a flash Maxim was gone again, as if I had hallucinated his apparition emerging from the haze, and then he blended back into the vegetation. So onward I slogged, now on auto-pilot, oblivious to the blisters and shoulder cramps and vague notions of impending doom.
I found his pack, sitting on a rock it looked pristine and freshly laid down, as if he just jumped behind a bush to take a pee. I dreaded to see what lay ahead, but my fatalism drove me on. As the canyon walls now shot straight up, I could see how the geology was shaping my fate. Sure enough, the earth suddenly fell away next to a tree with low-hanging branches. I had to duck and scoot while monkey-barring the tree limbs, only to find myself teetering on the edge of the falls as Maxim's rope was slung hopefully around the trunk and drifted down down to the earth 10 meters below. I put my bike helmet on and prayed for guidance. The falls looked so peaceful, it would be a shame to pollute it with my blood and brains on the rocks below.
I decided my life and limbs were worth more than my beloved skis and trusty backpack, so rather than try to rapel, sans harness, with the ungainly mass on my back, I gently tossed it into the reeds below where it thankfully made a harmless thud. Then I found a few trusty footholds and gradually made it to a safe jumping distance and whammy... I thrust my hands in the air and high-fived myself as I landed on my feet with all systems go. Pack on again I bounded further down with renewed confidence as the stars were starting to take their places on the sky stage. 30 minutes later I found Maxim again, and I thought salvation was at hand. You're almost there, he said. A tour company van was on the way from Bishkek and I was to flag it down on the road. But wait Maxim, you don't need to get your pack now, I pleaded, it's too dark and dangerous and surely no one with half a brain would go up there in the next few days to steal it. Just get it later. Naw, it's ok, he said brimming with Russian resolve, I will not leave it there for sure, it's no problem really, just keep going and wait for me with the car. I thought about going back with him because i simply could not fathom doing that waterfall alone in the dark. It was really dark now, and my body rebelled against the idea and just wanted to deliver my ass to the road. Of course Maxim's 'almost there' meant another 45 minutes of sliding and tripping and cursing until the canyon mouth revealed itself, with a real, blessed trail to guide me to safety. I never felt so happy in my life to see a trail and I vowed right then and there to never ever hike off trail again. I would be a devout trailist and spread the good gospel of the holy trail far and wide.
Starlight and moonlight gave me enough hint of light to let me stumble down toward the sound of the raging Sokolok River below, and finally, the road. As soon as my pack was off I was lying flat on my back on the grassy embankment next to the road as a rush of endorphins swamped my aching body and floated me toward the star-packed night sky. It was past 10 p.m., 4 hours past our pick-up time with Maxim's dad, 28 hours after we started this mission impossible, and I was content to just lay there and die. 30 minutes later I saw the walls of the valley light up downstream, and soon enough the Delica from Maxim's tour company rolled up beside me. Though I was supremely grateful to spread out on the cushy seats and decompress, my thoughts were still with crazy Maxim who had yet to return. Not until 11.30 did he come cruising down, looking as fresh as the moment we started.

Anti-U.S. Protests Come to AUCA

Just a day before Richard Boucher, the Assistant Secretary for Bureau of South and Central Asian Affairs at the U.S. Department of State, was due to give the keynote speech at the American University commencement ceremony, a small but indignant crew of anti-U.S. protesters set up shop in the Old Square in front of the University calling for the U.S. military to close their air base at Manas, to not bomb Iran, and to generally piss off. Though Boucher was nowhere near the University at the time, the protest was expertly planned to get the attention of the media, who probably outnumbered the protestors themselves. It was another in a series of anti-U.S. protests organized by the remnants of the Kyrgyz Communist Party, which staged numerous other protests in front of the gates of the Manas base and the U.S. Embassy. The protesters also took up the cause of the widow of the ethnic Russian truck driver who was shot to death by an American guard at the airbase. The details of the case are still foggy, but it was clearly a horrible accident, and the U.S. government ended up giving the widow $50,000 in compensation. She and her Communist buddies feel more is needed to right this injustice, and the U.S. government really should boost the comp considering the precarious state of their reputation in the country right now. Nevertheless, the protest at the University that day proved an interesting distraction and reminded us how much of a lightning rod our little campus can become when the political atmosphere gets charged.

Spring in Kyrgyzstan 2007

A mild winter in Kygyrzstan transitioned smoothly into a mild and verdant spring. In the foothills just south of the city, rolling technicolor fields of glowing red poppies provided dreamlike backdrops for a few weekends worth of hikes and bike rides. (click here to see more photos)


A view of Ala-Too Square, the Erkindik statue, and the snow-capped Ala-Too Range rising majestically in the background.

A young Kyrgyz girl celebrates Children's Day, June 1st, by running through the fountains in Ala Too Square.

Mmmmm. Tasty plov served in a giant plov pot at the American University staff retreat at Ala Archa National Park in early June.

Early June at Issyk Kul, looking at the Raduga Resort pier in the foreground, the breathtaking Terskey (means 'away from the sun') Ala Too Range dominates the horizon on the south shore.

Another early morning shot of the south shore of Issyk Kul. The water was glassy smooth and the mountains radiant. Perfect conditions for water-skiing, or in my case, yoga and meditation on the pier.

The Ala Too Range on a perfect spring day.

Glitz and Glamour in Almaty

"Bodi, I'm traveling around Southeast Asia and will be in Almaty for less than 24 hours, come up and meet us! We're going to an awards ceremony, I'll get you on the list" was the approximate text message from Robb back in mid-April. It's not often I have close friends from the States on the same continent as me, let alone close friends visiting a neighboring country less than 3 hours from us, so of course the answer was, "hell yes." The rest of the cryptic details seemed intriguing, though minor, compared to the chance to meet an old friend from home in the land of Borat. And meeting Robb’s friend and travel buddy, the actress/activist Daryl Hannah, the honored guest of this mysterious awards ceremony, was no less intriguing.

Of course, the details, as they emerged, portended a surreal weekend ahead in Almaty, the former political and reigning cultural and financial capitol of Kazakhstan -- a city bursting at the seams with oil money, optimism and outrageous prices. Our plan to meet Robb and Daryl at noon in the lobby of the Intercontinental Hotel was in jeopardy thanks to all the border fuss and further hassles by the shamelessly corrupt Kazakh highway patrol, who accused our poor taxi driver of driving on the wrong side of the road, when his only crime was having Kyrgyz plates and Tajik parents. The charm and novelty of Almaty’s tree-lined, pothole-free streets and sanguine, vaguely European atmosphere, a marked difference from our provincial Bishkek, gave way to sticker shock when we checked into our Paris-priced boutique hotel room. Oh well, we could splurge for a night like this, though we still had no clue what lay in store.

Moments after starting our check-in, the front desk lady handed me the phone. It was Robb: "Meet at the Intercontinental, pronto. A hired car with a security detail waits for us to show us the sights of Almaty before D was due back at the hotel to give an interview. Then we'll have time hang out a bit before claiming our seats at the VIP table at the Kazakh-edition Esquire Magazine People of the Year (Chelovek Goda) Awards." If only a midget bellboy had handed the phone to me on a silver tray, I would have wondered who dosed my cola. As we scampered toward the front entrance of the 5-star Intercontinental, Robb bounded out with D. in tow, and we happily reunited and basked in the utter randomness of our circumstances. Then show business butted in.



“Ok guys, we gotta get moving, Daryl’s gotta be back in an hour, so pick a car and get in,” chirped Sam, Daryl’s agent and fixer on the scene. We had three blacked out, seemingly armor-plated SUV’s at our disposal, a coterie of stoic, thuggish yet handsomely dressed driver/guards, a PR consultant from Moscow, and Sam, an Armenian/Lebanese agent raised in Moscow, now directing talent from L.A. to Vladisvostok, from Whitney Houston to Milla Jovovich. Though a true mensch - down to earth and professional – to us he might have jumped right our of a movie like The Player. “They say you can’t get in that middle car, it’s full of guns, and we can’t have you riding in the armed car,” Sam warned us blithely. So we hurriedly jammed into the rear SUV, as if we were fleeing the palace during a coup attempt, and away we sped, up windy road from the city into the foothills of the Zaliskiy Ala Tau mountains looming over the city.

As we raced up the nearby mountainside, we quickly caught up on their adventures around Asia and got to know D as a super humble, open-hearted soul, who even offered her coat to Tuya when we reached the chilly viewpoint. But with the otherwise spectacular views of the city thwarted by thick fog, D and Robb suggested finding a nice, authentic Kazakh yurt café to see a bit of traditional culture before we get glitzed by the glitterati of the Almaty jetset later on. One yurt café coming up! Soon enough we found ourselves sitting cross-legged at a low circular table covered with bowls of tea and koumiss (fermented horse milk), lepyoshka (flat bread), borsuk (deep-fried bread), and the Kazakh national dish, beshparmak. Despite the presence of horse sausage in the latter dish, not a pleasant sight for a vegetarian horse-lover like D, we had a jolly time finally relaxing and playing catch-up. We weren't alone though; a big group of ethnic Russians sat at the other table in the yurt, and as we were leaving I could hear them wondering aloud whether they were in the presence of.... Kim Basinger's daughter!



Before we knew it we were back at our hotel getting gussied up in time for our private driver to take us back to the Intercontinental before the ceremony. Sam met us in the lobby lounge and introduced us to another one of Sam’s clients, Vania, a starry-eyed young Russian actor who’s had roles in Devyataya Rota, Russia’s second highest grossing film ever, and in the popular MTV Russia series “Club.” Vania came down from Moscow with his girlfriend Marina to join their friend Sam, who promises him a shot at the big-time in Hollywood. Vania’s gaudy lapel pin reading “Beverly Hills” either revealed his naked ambition or his odd, kitschy Russian sense of fashion.

“Cocktails are on the house, thanks to the Kazakh Ministry of Culture, so order up guys,” implored Sam. Thus the debauchery began as we waited for Robb and Daryl to appear. Before we knew it we were whisked away and dropped on the red carpeted front steps of the awards show venue. To our relief there wasn't a mob of paparazzi slithering around the entrance to the hall, but the two or three photogs who were there helped maintain the fantasy for us. Tuya was drawing attention with her classy black dress, but I felt wierdly self-conscious like had a big 'fashion sense-challenged' sign on my chest. Were our faces going to be splashed across the state-run Kazakh media? Blasted through the blogosphere? It was a little eery to think about this accidental fame, then I began to sympathize with D and the fear and loathing she must go through walking around each day. We found our way to the vip table in the center of the banquet hall and got busy with the bottomless white wine to sheild us from the stares of the Almaty gliterrati (hey, nice rhyme) sitting all around us.

The ceremony itself seemed mercifully short as far as awards ceremonies go, maybe because it was all in Russian and I caught a third of the corny commentary and bad jokes, which maybe was a good thing. Not that it was a farce, they seemed to be recognizing some accomplished Kazakhs in film, business, journalism, design, etc. Though you have to wonder how politics in this near dictatorship affected the selection of the winners. Finally D's turn to present the best actress award came up, and she took to the stage with a massive, pixelated, big brother-esque live video feed of her on the 15 foot screen behind her. I couldn't imagine the trauma for a shy person like her seeing herself magnified 20 times over her shoulder. Oh yeah, she is a movie actress... but I'd make damn sure my nose was booger-free if it was me up there. Actually, I'd probably do my tongue-to-nose trick to gross everyone out in the back of the hall.

After a drinks worth of mingling at the buzzing after hours party in the basement lounge, where Robb and I again got to laugh a bit at the absurdity of our present circumstances, we hussled back to Robb's hotel room, er Sultan Suite I should say, for the after-after party, and we quickly broke into the complimentary wine and snacks as Robb and D packed to catch their 2 a.m. flight, 20 hours after their arrival. Our mini reunion soon met an all too quick end as my good friend vanished from my remote neck of the woods as fast as he appeared. Was it all real? Our foggy heads the next day made it hard for us to believe what happened. It was not until we met our new Russian friends, Vania the actor and his girl Marina, for a late brunch that we started to believe it did. With all the racing around and schedules and flashing lights of the night before, it was nice to simply relax in the park next to the beautifully restored Nikolsy Sobor (St. Nikolas church) and watch the kids and adults whiz about on blades and boards, listen to the old folks gossiping on the benches, and soak up a lazy, balmy spring afternoon in blissful anonymity.

more almaty photos here