Two Stops Past Siberia
- Projects
- Handicrafts
- Books
- A History of Inner Asia, Svat Soucek
- Beyond the Sky and the Earth, Jamie Zeppa
- Chasing the Sea, Tom Bissell
- Empires of the Silk Road: A History of Central Eurasia from the Bronze Age to the Present, Christopher I. Beckwith
- Erica Marat, The Tulip Revolution: One Year After
- High Adventure in Tibet, David V. Plymire
- Setting the East Ablaze, Peter Hopkirk
- Shadow of the Silk Road, Colin Thubron
- The Day Lasts More than a Hundred Years, Chingiz Aitmatov
- The Great Arab Conquests, Hugh Kennedy
- The Lost Heart of Asia, Colin Thubron
- This is Not Civilization, Robert Rosenberg
- Three Cups of Tea, Greg Mortenson & David Oliver Relin
- Informations
Archive for September, 2010
Kyrgy Carl, Coming into His Own
Last week found ol’ Kyrgy Carl jaunting around Bishkek and the serene Lake Issyk Kul. See, with my natural dyes course all but wrapped up, I took the opportunity to indulge myself.
Bishkek, folks, is a city in its own right. There are little cafes and shady parks. Kyrgyz people sit beneath trees and on street corners selling hard yogurt balls, sunflower seeds, and other various sundries. The center of town holds a strikingly symmetrical array of imposing state buildings and fountains. Furthermore, the Internet can be so free flowing, that I used and abused that thing we all know as Facebook!
These days, folks, I’ve got friends in Bishkek. Since the beginning, the place I so liberally called a “metropolis” just keeps getting smaller.
From Bishkek, I made my way back to the Lake – it is, after all, apple season.
For those of you who remember my old teacher, Tamerlane, the Hero King, he was, just as last year, picking apples when I arrive. This time, however, helping him was my goal. We spent the better part of a morning together, just picking apples. We spoke mostly in Kyrgyz, a vast change from when I first met him. We told stories, and just enjoyed each other’s company. The serenity was profound.
If there are many things prettier than a hand on a red apple, framed only by a cloudless sky, I’d be hard-pressed to name them.
Later that day, some other volunteers showed up form the nearby city of Karakol, a real urban center. They came to help, but also to play. They wanted to slaughter a sheep. During our first day, we cleaned off some mighty apple trees in record time. The next morning, we headed to the animal bazaar.
Once there, in a funny way, I got to demonstrate some chops I hardly knew I had. I talked knowledgeably about sheep prices, and then helped tie up the animal’s legs. “Azamat!” said my teacher.
When we got home, I held the animal down while he slit its throat. Some of the other visiting volunteers were shocked by the site, for they’d yet to see a slaughter. It just shows to go you: there are as many volunteer experiences as there are volunteers. Next, when it came to butchering the animal, my teacher just said, “please, guys, go inside, and have some tea. I only need one helper, and for that, I’ll take the Naryn boy.” That Naryn boy, was of course, your Kyrgy Carl.
Really, though, it was a learning opportunity. Usually, folks, while I get to watch, nobody really wants me to help cut up the animal; there are inevitably people better qualified, even as helpers. Here though, I helped with the skinning, I knew when to snap the knees, and where to grab at the tendons. The organs didn’t scare me, and I knew they wouldn’t just break. When it came to torching the head and legs free of their fir, I was an absolute pro.
It seems, folks, Kyrgy Carl is living up to his name. He couldn’t have done it alone, though. And for that, god bless the lot of you, as you’ve been here, all the way, right by my side.
To Finish Dyeing as Winter Descends
I have finished up the Natural Dyes component of the this training just in time. The sugar beets were ready for harvest, and the Horse Ear seeds were a deep brown. I will miss, however, spending my days cleaning onions in the bazaar, in exchange for the onion skins I collected. I’ve got lots of pictures, folks, and even plan to make something of a video. This will all sit in a little section of my website, of course, god willing.
Now, on the coat tails of that success, the bitter tentacles of winter of probing aggressively into the highlands of Sunny Naryn. We had our first snow this year, already.
It was warm kind of a snow, with big fat flakes and a heavy dose of rain. So heavy, in fact, it brought down tree limbs and electricity transformers. We lost power for only a day in Naryn city, but much of the surrounding region is without it completely. It’s a grim portent for the onslaught of winter, and people are already saying this year’s gonna’ be a doozy.
But it hasn’t been all cold and white, folks. For along with this bitter cold, we got a few more guests in town, the interesting kind. This crew hailed from the What Took You So Long Foundation. They wanted to know about camels. That’s right, camels.
We’ve got camels out here, folks. Kyrgyz people say they were the trucks of the ancient times. Before roads and cars, when you wanted to move your yurt, you put it on a camel. They purportedly can hold a full ton on their backs. Plus, according to our guests, they make excellent milk.
So, with the help of my Kyrgyz, their cameras, and my host-father’s local knowledge, we drove high into the mountains and found a camel.
It was a training camel, and it came barreling over the snow. It’s owner told us all about riding it and caring for it. She even, contrary to what everyone else said, told us about milking them.
“Today, our people have forgotten how to milk camels, or they just aren’t interested.” She said, “but we used to do it. It took three people: one to hold the reigns, and two to milk them, because they are very big! Yes, we used to make camel kymys, but not camel cheese.”
These guys, you see, want the world to know the wonderful magic that is camel cheese. Now they’re in Uzbekistan, I think, learning, I imagine, of things we’ve never dreamed. (btw, they liked me so much, they asked if I’d talk a little bit for their cameras. For anyone who wants to see how skinny I’ve gotten, follow this link.)
And now, folks, I’m in Bishkek, living the high life. Old Man Winter has let fall sit around a little longer here, and that means crisp air, acorns, and multi-colored leaves. It’s a pretty world, but there is another thing.
This pretty Autumn is reminding me that, once again, my family in America will be having Thanksgiving without me. As wonderful as life is, sometimes, distance is a hard pill to swallow.
Love your families, folks. Do it for me.
Kyrgyz Camels and Kyrgyz Carl; A Match Made in Heaven
Posted by KyrgyCarl in Bonus Content! on September 24, 2010
Well, folks, I ran into an interesting crew the other day.
See, some documentary makers found themselves in my living room. Really. They are from the What Took You So Long Foundation, and are filming about camels, world wide. When they came to Kyrgyzstan, they met my host-father’s nephew. When they told this guy that they wanted to go to Naryn, he said, “My uncle lives out there, and has an American living with him. You should go there, they’ll help you.”
And help we did. I spent a Saturday with them high in the pasture lands. We found a camel, talked to the owner, and had a lot of fun. In the end, they pointed their fancy documentary cameras at me and asked what I thought of it all.
Well, to make a long story short, there is now a little video featuring your very own, one and only, Kyrgy Carl, talking about camels. Click there below to see it for yourselves.
What’s Normal Is Strange; What’s Strange Is T Pain
Posted by KyrgyCarl in Bonus Content! on September 22, 2010
I was recently conducting one of my Natural Dyes trainings in the village of Jalgyz Terek (Lonely Poplar). When the women showed up ready with their notebooks, I noticed something a little strange: the notebooks all had T Pain on the cover. Kyrgyzstan simply never ceases to surprise.
1st Annual International Shyrdak Festival
You all, must have, by now, observed my passion for Kyrgyz handicrafts. I’ve been writing and photographing shyrdak rugs and other things almost since day one. Well, here in little ol’ Sunny Naryn, the last burning epicenter of Kyrgyz-ness left on God’s green Earth, today, and for one day only, we gathered up all the artisans we could find into one blessed room.
That’s right, we called it the 1st Annual International Shyrdak Festival. The event dominated Naryn’s outdoor stadium, with 12 yurts (one so giant it had a ceiling fan dangling from its roof!), horses, a camel (!!!) and more boys and girls dressed to the fairy-tale nines than your average American could even imagine. All day the stadium raged with dancing, music and theater, with a final capstone of fireworks.
If this wasn’t good enough though, there was an indoor portion as well. Housed in the public gymnasium, Naryn’s mayor invited Kyrgyz artisans from nationwide to exhibit their wares. It was, arguably, the single largest collection of shyrdaks the world has ever seen.
If anyone wants to know how this effected ol’ Kyrgy Carl, just give my brother Richie a call. Rich was unfortunate enough to call me on the telephone this morning, just as I arrived. Where he surely wanted to tell me about his day, I could speak of nothing more than the swirling world of colorful magic all around me.
“Carl,” he said, “I think you’d be amazed by the computer advancements since you left.”
“No,” I said, “I think you’d be amazed at all these rugs.”
“No, Carl,” he said, “technology. It is becoming incredible.”
“No, Richie,” I said, “these patterns in felt are incredible. These slippers are one piece of molded felt! And they’ve got flower designs! And these silk scarves have felt molded into them!” For his sake, he was a good sport.
Even after spending hours and hours just walking around this space, coming home was all the more impressive. At dinner, between loud talk of politics (the campaign season for the October 10th elections has just begun), my Soviet trained, electrical engineer host-father just gushed about the festival.
“Carl,” he said, “you know I’m not really into all this Kyrgyz shyrdak stuff,” and he motioned around the room, where not a piece of traditional art lay. “But the festival! It made me so proud to be Kyrgyz! It was so beautiful. I wish I had had money to buy something!” Then, we took a break, of course, to look at the shyrdak I bought.
“And the man who made the bow and arrows!” he went on, “he said they’d shoot 65 meters! And his daughter, made that beautiful silver jewelry!” Then, he got serious, “now Carl,” he said, “when you go back to America, find a job, and then send me $100,000 to remodel my house,” a new idea he’s had lately, “I will make a pure Kyrgyz room, just for you! I promise!”
And this was the moment for satisfying reflection. For the artisans, sales were surely underwhelming. But the organizers suspected as much. “This year, there were very few international attendees,” one told me, “but next year, they will know, and it will be bigger!” They succeeded in making the average Kyrgyz man proud as hell to be Kyrgyz, and if this could stimulate my host-father so, next year will indeed blow us all away.
I Have No Wiener
Posted by KyrgyCarl in Bonus Content! on September 9, 2010
A more accurate translation of my host-brother’s comment is probably, “I no longer have an uncircumcised wiener,” but coming from a three-year-old in a swaddling fleece blanket and sporting a very grim countenance, this kind of statement is a tough sell.
See, what he had used the work chochok. This word specifically refers to a young boy’s uncircumcised penis. By Kyrgyz custom, a boy is snipped at age three. Of all the things he could have told me in that moment, this was the one I already knew.
It was sweet, really, in it’s vulnerability. I’d been gently getting in between him and his cartoons, some anime in Russian that he surely couldn’t understand. He turned to me, so quietly, and just said, “I have no chochok,” perhaps his first coherent utterance of value in our year together. “My dad’s friend cut it.”
Then, with a pure, child like desire for sympathy in shared experience, he asked me simply, “is yours like this too?”
I felt like the big brother he didn’t have. Just someone to tell him that he’d been through it himself, and it would be okay. I couldn’t tell him in America we do it right after birth, that there was no way I could sympathize with his pain. But to his soft little face, squinting through a perpetual wince; waiting; there was only one thing to say.
“Yeah,” I answered, “mine’s like that too.” And then he went back to his cartoons.
Of course, this isn’t how the evening ended. This is a big event out here, the cutting of the wiener. Normally there is a party, but my host-dad said we were in no hurry for that. Instead, we just invited over a few relatives, and made a nice dinner. Not of course, that my little host-brother cared one way or the other. He was more interested in sitting in one place and not moving at all.
He was also getting wise to a particular cruelty of the standard selection of drinks around the house: from mare’s milk to weak tea, everything is either vaguely fermented or lightly caffeinated. This means we can only provide him with diarrhetics, and urination is something he most definitely wants to avoid.
(He only did that once while I was home. I was digging for garlic in the garden, trying desperately to remember the word for worm, while he, already an accomplished screamer, was yelling at the top of his little three-year-old lungs.)
When the first of the guests came over, an aunt from the other side of town, she was warned, “don’t ask the little guy how he’s feeling, and definitely don’t mention the cut. He’s not in a very good mood.”
An understatement, to say the least.
Dyeing in the Kyrgyz Countryside
At the Natural Dyes training this week, the women seem as interested in me as they do in learning to dye. I got applause after I introduced the training, and the women have been trying to marry me off ever since.
It is really a funny thing, these marriage jokes. First, they insisted on knowing what kind of girl I wanted to marry. “She must have a mouth like a thimble,” I said. This, requirement, stolen from an old children’s story I read early on out here, inevitably ensures a laugh. Usually, in fact, it steers the conversation away from a potential bride, and towards the novelty of my request. Not today, however.
Today, instead, the women in the room, mostly mothers in their 40’s and 50’s, guffawed, saying their big mouths helped them laugh louder. One women, even, was less specific, and in other ways, much more so. She just looked at me with a grin and said, “mouths that are big are just better,” and the room erupted in laughter.
Our driver, this time around, is a quiet, laid back man, the husband of one of our trainers. He enjoyed talking with me, slowly, about food, and America.
“In China,” he said, “they eat everything. They raise everything, and they eat 
everything. For example,” he said to one of the son’s of the house, “you raise chickens, for eating, right? Right? The Chinese raise frogs and turtles and insects. They do it all.”
“I ate scorpions in China,” I chimed in.
“See, everything.”
“In America, do you eat dogs?”
“No,” I said, “no dogs, no cats, not even horses.”
“Really, why not horses?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Why don’t you eat dogs?”
Somehow, magically, he didn’t even have to think about this one. “Because they eat poop.”
When evening time came, I went ten kilometers down the road to the Ak-Tala rayon center of Baiotov. My friend Travis lives out there.
He showed me around town. I was amazed by how impressive the place was. It was a town of 5 thousand or so, and in Soviet times, had clearly been designed to impress. There were parks and museums, restaurants and billiards. The roads were wide and provincial.
“Sometimes, I think, in some other universe, this town went the other way. Here, in our universe, it got worse, and in some other universe, it just got nicer.” Travis was full of this really deep, very local thinking.
“I’m gonna’ be serious about winter this year.” He said, a sentiment I’ve heard more than once from village volunteers lately. “I’m paying my neighbor to make me juice in 3 liter jars. I want twenty of them. She’s also gonna’ help me make salads, I hope to get 50 jars. I’m not gonna’ be hungry this winter.”
Travis is also going to buy chickens. “I like eggs, you know? I can get young chickens in the bazaar for 50 som (about a dollar). I want ten,” he said, “I’ve already bought the feed.”
I left his house that morning, raving about his family’s jarma, and when I got to training, there was a new attendee, a girl, about my age. “Look Carl,” women said, “she’s skinny, like you, and she has a mouth like a thimble.”
From the Foreign to the Local, the Way of the World
From the foreign excitement of last week, we have drifted into the equally exciting grandeur of the very local.
In these the waning days of summer, when the nights already getting cold, my stalwart Anne, right here in Naryn, brainstormed the right idea for a very Kyrgyz date: we went to the roadside kymys strip-mall called “40 Yurts” and had a very informed, very esoteric kymys tasting.
This place boasts perhaps 20 kymys stalls, and it was our intention to share a cup from each. We hitchhiked most of the hour way up and back, one leg of it in the cab of a Kazakh big-rig. At our destination, we tasted from six different vendors, and found tastes that ranged from sour to very cheesy (we also found our goal of trying one of each 20 fermented milk varieties, a little, shall we say, ambitious). Nevertheless, It was a palate building exercise in a most peculiar delicacy, and a date that any Kyrgyz could appreciate.
This week also heralded the first of my natural dyes trainings. We started in the hamlet of Birlik, in the far-flung rayon of At Bashy. Making dyes, it turns out, is more about collecting the right materials than about the actual process. While our materials were, at times, less than ideal, we did produce an excellent burgundy from the bitter berries of the barberry bush. Next week, I hope to employ carrots and onion skins to form some brighter, more striking variations.
And with that, folks, an intriguing question from a response last week calls me to take a step back: “What does ol’ Kyrgy Carl know about natural dyes, anyway?”
Well, when it comes to naturally dying organic fibers, I’m as green as a spinach leaf before a boiling cauldron. Instead, for this training, I’ve hired local experts to do the work, and I sit and watch with the rest of the students. My job, thus far, you see, is about making connections; I am introducing these women to trainers with good skills (and footing the bill), and it’s as good a service as any.
And in the mean time, is back to the grunt work of being a foreigner in a strange land. I’m with my host-family again, full time. I spent this afternoon showing my host sister how to kill slugs with salt (they make horrible nests in the pits of pulled carrots, but are then all the easier to kill…). She also told me about her plans for the future, her aims to see the world traveling as a diplomat. For this Kyrgyz teenager, it seems, the sky’s the limit.
And now folks, we’re replacing last week’s foreign celebrity’s with home grown Kyrgyz ones: Rosa Otubaeva. That’s right, Kyrgyzstan’s very own president is coming to Naryn. As it turns out, she went to school here from 2nd to 6th grade, and wants to pay the old spot a visit. She’s also planning to visit some of our very own volunteers: the noble teachers at the American Studies Center. And that means none other than the kymys taster extraordinaire, Anne, from our first paragraph. It doesn’t get, folks, any more Kyrgyz than that.
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Kyrgy Carl, Making Waves!
