Two Stops Past Siberia

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 1^st 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 10^th 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.