Two Stops Past Siberia
- 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
- The Day Lasts More than a Hundred Years, Chingiz Aitmatov
- The Lost Heart of Asia, Colin Thubron
- This is Not Civilization, Robert Rosenberg
- Three Cups of Tea, Greg Mortenson & David Oliver Relin
- Handicrafts
- Informations
- Projects
Archive for category Letters
An Apology and an Adventure
First off, I feel I owe all of you an apology. I have tried, all these years, to provide the most wild and enticing letters the traveling community has to offer. However, my last one, I believe, was thin on the ground. Here, I’d like to offer an explaination, if not an excuse.
The “ear-ache” I mentioned in my last email turned out to be none other than a viral infection in the depths of my right inner ear. It was only after the fluid drained from my Eustachian tube did the pain subside. It was arguably one of the most painful experiences of my life, and on I was overcoming when I last wrote.
These things are a risk of traveling, and only my second time really getting sick, since that awful bought of esophogitis I overcame in Vietname, those many long years ago.
But boy oh boy, folks, have things picked up since then! After recovering from the ache (from which I still have some ringing) (and writing that too boring letter) my friends and I cavorted about Xi’an and all it’s wild splendor.
Xi’an is the city everyone expects to find when planning a trip to China. It’s ancient city walls are still in full force, big and broad enough to host hords of tourists as they ride around them on bicycles. Inside the walls, the buildings still have their upturned eaves, and even the tourists night markets sport very un-pretty touches, like external air conditioners; proving they are still lived in by real, breathing people. Outside the city walls, the buildings are giant, and it seems as though the walls are defending the inner city from the montrosities without.
After a mean set of suction cups (traditional medicine meant to suck out poisons) the three of us amigos got on a 12 hour train for Beijing. Here in this heavy touring season, train tickets are hard to come by, and we settled for seats, even though the train was over night. This was fine, until we found that (first) all the unseated passengers linger in the seating car, and (second) a landslide and a fire redicrected our train, and balooned the trip up to a solid 28 hours plus.
However, we did arrive in Beijing, our spirits in tact, and only missed a day.
Now, we’ve a few more days here. My friends are all cavorting about the sites, while I meet friends from a time long past. But more on that, when we meet again.
Western China, and on to the Mainland
I wrote to you last from Urumqi ( I think) the capital of the once and former Uighurstan. Today it is a modern Chinese city, appearing almost identical to every other Chinese city I’ve seen since. The marvel, of course, is how the Chinese are able to build at the speed that they do, and with such uniformity, in such far flung places. Urumqi sports clean streets and beautiful parks. It also features a 75% ethnically Chinese poplation, effectively drowning out the natives.
The Uighur language is very close to Kyrgyz, and during a mission to track down my laptop (unfortunately now lost forever), I got to speak to many Uighur people. They comiserated my loss, helped me try to track it down, and took the opportunity, for whatever reason, to share their discontent. Perhaps it was the novelty of a white man speaking something like their language, but the stories were unending. China, folks, is a big a complicated place.
(Language side note: The Uighur people I spoke with sprinkled their language liberally with Chinese, just as the Kyrgyz do with Russian. Just one more parallel with the old Soviet Empire…)
But we haven’t just been on a tour of big cities, not at all. My crew and I spent some serious quality time in the city of DunHunag, the plastic-y Disney Land tourist town nearby the spectacular MoGao caves. Once we got over the overwhelming mass of tourists pumped through the caves (an attraction in its own right), we were able to see some of the most extensive Buddhist cave art in the world. The colors were magnificent, and the restoration an abomination. It would have all been for naught had we not also gone to the dramatically less touristed 1,000 Ming West caves, a singificantly smaller find, but absent the tourist hord. In this place, we experienced a quiet ambiance that might have been closer to how the place could have been during its heyday. This plus a riotous night market and a desert oasis (chock full of Chinese tourists all identically clad in knee-highm, bright orange, sand protecting booties) rounded out our desert time in sheer magnificence.
Since then, folks, we dropped by the delightful Lanzhou, for a taste of a pleasant working class city (with more commerce than, perhaps, all of Kyrgyzstan combined) and are now resting peacefully in the city of Xi’an, in China proper. It is this place that houses the unparalled Terracotta Warriors. While my friends check it out themselves (these are old stomping grounds for me) I’m resting from our long train rides, getting over an ear-ache, and waiting to see what my old home, Beijing, has waiting for me, after all these years.
KyrgyCarl on the Road Again (In the Old Haunts)
First of all, I must thank all of you for the outpouring of support I received from my last letter. You were all so kind, and so gracious, it hurt that I could not reply to you all individually. Unfortunately, due to the nature of the violence, Peace Corps put all of its volunteers on radio silence. I can tell you all that I am safe and sound, and so are the other volunteers; furthermore, as for now, the future of Peace Corps Kyrgyzstan looks bright. I wish I could say more.
But time is moving forward, and I am moving with it, and that is where I will write from today. Specifically, from Kashgar city, China.
That’s right, your very own, Kyrgy Carl has returned to the Middle Kingdom, his once and former stomping grounds. This time, however, with my Chinese hiding deep in the recesses of my mind, my Kyrgyz is coming out in full force. See, the people of Kashgar are ethnically Uighur, and there language is in the same family as Kyrgyz. Imagine a Frenchman and a Spaniard trying to carry on a conversation. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
See, my father and my brother and my best friend, Matt came out to Kyrgyzstan, timed just right for the parliamentary referendum at the end of June. We toured the country. I showed them the world that I have grown to know, and I relearned the novelties. The fermented horse milk was once again sour; the boiled sheep bland; the hospitality overwhelming: at one point, my brother said, “Carl, I think I might be feeling hungry right now, but I’m not sure I can remember the feeling.”
We spent our Fourth of July in the At Bashy Mal Bazaar, the place I’ve now spent so much time. We drank beer and ate fried fish with grilled beef. My Dad didn’t like the fat. I was the kind of magic that is too easy to forget. Plus, to have such luxury as to share my new life with my best friends in the world is a gift finer than any other.
Their trip, a small two weeks, went by with reckless ease. Since then, Matt has stuck around, and we’ve teamed up with another volunteer, and cross the Torugart Pass, one of the highest commercial borders in the world, and are now resting with cold beers on a rooftop cafe in Kashgar, the capital of the Uighur world. At the border itself, high and cold in the middle of nowhere, we ran into a crew of Kyrgyz nobles, both from Kyrgyzstan and China. Upon learning of our language skills, they invited us to they’re parting party. We drank and ate with these people, enjoying hospitality like only the Kyrgyz can show.
Since then, it has been China, once again, in full force. The city is big, the buildings tall, and the streets broad and well paved. The Uighurs are surprisingly lax about hearing us speak a varient of their language, but tickled all the same. From here, we head to the magical Mogao caves, some of the most impressive repositories of Bhudist statues in the world.
It’s travel like I know it, folks, and never fear, you’ll be with me every step of the way.
So They Call You Kyrgyz Carl
I got an interesting phone call last week. It was from my superiors in Bishkek. They had seen the Trees for the Kyrgyz success video, and wanted to show it at their next big event. The event in questions? The Swearing In ceremony for the new class of volunteers.
And so this is how I was introduced to the new volunteers, introduced not by my Christian moniker, but instead as I am apparently known but the staffers in our main office, as Kyrgyz Carl. The reaction, among my compatriots, was positive, though did inspire some gentle ribbing.
“We should drop him off in the mountains somewhere, get him lost,” one of the new volunteers told a friend of mine, “that way we’ll lower expectations on ourselves.”
To which my friend so appropriately replied, “you don’t know how much he’d like that.”
And so it goes. We were the new guys, learning the ways of the experienced crew. Now, it is us who are showing people around, telling them what we know. And talking to them, folks, is different than writing letters home. For instance, during our first meet-and-greet, my friend said, “well, I don’t think anyone has been really hassled out here.”
“Well,” I countered, “there was that time I got into a taxi with a drunk guy, who sped down towards the bazaar, and chased me from his car swinging his fists.”
Whereas here, folks, I focus on the wonderful moments, the ones that extend to the majority of my service, I felt obliged to warn these guys. They know how wonderful it is here, how safe it is. I told them about the time a very, VERY drunk old man grabbed my bag strap, perhaps trying to greet me, as he was to drunk to speak. We pushed him off gently, though, because we didn’t want to knock him over.
And I got to thinking, in those moments of story-telling reflection, how different one audience is from the other. Folks, I give you my world here, in positives and negatives, in the proportions that I see it.
But so is life. And this new crew is throwing me, and many of us in the old guard reflecting. Before we were comfortable with our language abilities, before we had friends in the community. Before we were clear on our jobs and were close to our coworkers.
And in that reflection, it has grown clear how that comfort snuck up on us. Little by little, we grew with this place, and are still growing. And as much as I want to show and teach the new volunteers, I know how much I needed to learn it all myself. This part of Peace Corps, the transition to the new generation of volunteers, is a very real part. The city is now populated with so many more of us, with new personalities and goals. It is an exciting time. More so that those sneaky little feelings would have led me to believe.
Summer and the Final Bell
So, here in Sunny Naryn, during the winter, I seemed to reference the biting, bone chilling cold every week. These days, I just can’t get enough of the warm weather.
These Kyrgyz folks, so conscious about not getting cold, are walking around in skirts and t-shirts. I hardly even need a jacket to ward of a chill at night. We’re out and about without the armor that kept us warm all winter. The hills have turned green, and the animals have all gone out to pasture. The weather extremes, folks, make this place just all the more real.
The onset of warm weather has also brought another summer steadfast – kanykul, or, as we know it so faithfully at home – Summer Vacation. But before they’d let the kids out of their classrooms, we first needed to observe the tradition of akyrky kongoro – the last bell.
This is the ceremony where the old kids graduate, and the everyone celebrates. We were outside in the weather, and there was singing and dancing, and costumes and fun. But that was just at the regular school.
At the music school, where my 14 year old host sister was just finishing up, a recital commenced. There were piano players, a flute player, a kid who sang with an accordian, and lots and lots of komuz players. The komuz is the traditional Kyrgyz guitar type instrument, carved from the wood of the apricot tree. For those of you who saw the Trees for the Kyrgyz final video, you heard it played there, amongst a host of other traditional instruments. In the grand finale of the recital, all of the players plus their teacher got on stage for a powerful strumming string session of bliss.
The last bell, akyrky kongoro, has heralded far more than simply seeing the kids march about the streets in their new found free time. It also means all the happy summer things that I didn’t know I missed are coming back.
First off, kymys, the fermented horse milk that shocked me (and everyone else) on arrival has started to flow from the mountains. It is much lighter than the cow kymys I’ve been drinking all winter, and carries an almost woody flavor. Nostalgia is a funny thing.
There are also sheep. Lots of sheep are around these days, and the prices are going down. Over the weekend, my host father simply informed me that we’d run out of meat at home, and a koi soi, or sheep slaughter, was in order.
This time around, though, I’ve seen it done, and I’m getting confident. As I have now decided that I would like to slaughter a sheep for my American family when they arrive a month from now, I decided it was time to get my hands dirty.
Now, while they won’t let me slit the throat yet, I am learning to skin the beast with my fist. This stuff is Peace Corps, through and through.

Bishkek, Bishkek!
Since my last letter, my life has been defined, not by intimate, grassroots work, but by the other half of the work out here, the Western part.
Down in the sweltering Chui Valley rests the Metropolis of Bishkek, a city of anywhere between 800,000 and 1.2 million, depending on how you ask the question.
I had needed to come down from my mountain home to mail a laptop sleeve sample out to a prospective partner in Germany (hot dog!) and arrange a visa for my impending trip to the deserts of China this summer.
Where we in Naryn are just starting to feel the magical rays of real warmth, Bishkek is basking in it. Even in jeans and a t-shirt, I found myself sweating. Bishkek, folks, is a different world.
First off, there are white people. Lots and lots of white people. I was simply taken aback. As I asked around, the only thing I heard was, “you should have seen 10 years ago!” For whatever reason, it hadn’t struck me during training. But a year later in Sunny Naryn, it was shocking.
This white person prevalence led to another surprise: dramatic insistence that I speak Russian. Here in Naryn, folks just ask if I know Russian, and then go on with conversation. In Bishkek, though, I kept running into, “what do you mean you don’t speak Russian. How is that possible? You must speak Russian.” I even had a drunk man on a public bus simple berate me for lying, until the nearby women came to my defense.
But the real stand-out experience was staying in the heart of the city, with some ex-pat friends. These were information seekers and do-gooders: journalists and NGO directors. They had hot showers, refrigerators, good wine and wireless Internet. At one point, I found myself cruising around in the backseat of an SUV with the subwoofer bumping jams from the 80’s. We went out for Mexican food, where the sangria flowed liberally, and spent another day at a “health resort” that featured outdoor seating, fountains, and a horse riding stable.
“I don’t hear much Kyrgyz,” I told my friend.
“It’s almost looked down on around here, even among the ethnic Kyrgyz.” He said.
There is a real foreigner community here in Bishkek, folks, previously unbeknownst to me. They live at Western standards, though at dramatically reduced prices. But we all got along. We’d talk about the local politics, about development theory, the health of the country, and farming practices. These folks were all tapped into the country, though in a different way than me.
“I feel a bit like a country bumpkin among you guys,” I told my friend, the one who invited me out.
“Don’t worry, man,” he said, “I think these people admire your passion for this place. You are seeing a very intimate Kyrgyzstan, one we don’t really get to see.” It was mutual respect all around.
And then, after these few days of these novelties, the food and the thinking I’m Russian, I got on a public bus for Naryn city. I was the only white face to be found, and people were apologizing for getting in each other’s way. And I knew I was going home.
Green Salads and the Bloggers of Tomorrow
It’s a wonderful, happy world here in Sunny Naryn. For those of you who hadn’t heard the news, we had a little bit more revolutionary violence in southern Kyrgyzstan last week, and there was some fear that things could get really hairy. But the Kyrgyz people showed their true colors when they rallied together and kept everything cool. It’s just a wonderful time to be here.
On top of that, there is more cause for celebration. This past weekend, I had, for the first time in recent memory, a fresh green salad! We had skinned cucumbers, cabbage, and onion greens from the garden. Mix this together with pepper and mayonnaise, and it was like a little taste of forgotten magic.
The milk, folks, is getting cheap, too, as the cows now pasture in the nearby hills. That means yogurt, cream, and lots of fermented cow milk. Folks are even telling met the kymys, or fermented mare’s, milk will start flowing from the mountains soon!
With the weather truly warm, and the politics seemingly settled, it’s like sitting in the dawn of a bright new day. And with that in mind, I’ve paired up with another volunteer to help teach Naryn’s very own Future Bloggers of Tomorrow. Attracted by the exciting and dramatic success of KyrgyCarl.com (not really), these girls, part of the US Embassy’s gceKyrgyzstan.ning.com project, have gotten the blogging buzz. Their school’s are well equipped with American funded computers and Internet. They are sharing their culture, goals and dreams with the wonderful world that is the Internet. We all firmly believe, that with the right tutelage, they will be the best the world has to offer.
Back at the home front, I’ve finally gotten my compost heap up and running. It is sitting in an old wooden box in the back, but with the right mixture of green and brown matter, it is starting to heat up (Thanks Corey and Farmer Dan!). I convinced one neighbor kid to stick his hand in there and feel it, and now he believes I’m some kind of magician. Who knows, folks, I might even develop a following.
And speaking of home, after we dug up that stump out back, remember, my host dad said, “we’ll put a new room there, and tear down this old one!” I hadn’t believed him. But he’s proving me wrong. We’ve officially laid the foundation for the new room (which, when finished, will sport a big south-facing window), and are tearing down the old one.
As I emerged from my house this morning, I found the men already working, having made great headway tearing down the old room, that used to service as a mudroom. As a result of their efforts, our shoes were scattered all about the yard. As I looked around for mine, I came to a loss.
“Guys, have you seen my shoes around?” I asked, gazing at the man on the roof, and his nice black, leather boots.
“What did they look like?” they asked.
“Brown leather!” I replied.
“Oh, these?” It was the other guy, sitting on the steps. He was pointing to his feet.
They say, folks, that Kyrgyzstan has a collectivist culture. Sometimes, I believe them.
The Many Faces of Victory Day
While not a big holiday in America, May 9th, Victory Day, marks the defeat of Nazi Germany. WWII memorials are a ubiquitous feature in the Kyrgyz landscape. Soviet losses during WWII were among the greatest in the entire war, and their victory was a rallying point for all citizens of that once great empire.
That history has a long fingers in Kyrgyzstan. Among those are the Victory Day celebrations.
We started here in Sunny Naryn with a festival. Near the center of town there is a park with a giant memorial. Here thousands of people gathered. The entrance was lined with school children dressed to the nines in formal, quasi-military uniforms. We had a small march of soldiers, a 21-gun salute, and speeches by WWII survivors. These men, relics of an older time, came covered in medals. One, pushed in a wheel chair, brought an Uzi.
From there I made my way out to my new second home, the hamlet of Orto Nura. I had been invited under the auspices that they’d be slaughtering not the mainstay sheep, but a supple little lamb. This folks, I just couldn’t resist.
As for my part, I brought some of the fresh produce that has been showing up in the bazaars. Last week I saw radishes for the first time in months, and a large crowd around them. Since then, tomatoes and cucumbers have appeared, and their prices have been dropping. Since they first appeared, prices have dropped by half. My 1 kilo of tomatoes still cost and outrageous 2 dollars, but after we made the steadfast Kyrgyz favorite, tomato and onion salad, it was all worth it.
Before dinner I walked around the village, and checked out some of the new trees, and shopped around my Tree Growers Association. Then, after soft, soft lamb, and it’s intestines tied in knots, we headed out for a walk.
The mountains around Orto Nura are a wonderful thing. While across the river they are immediate, large and foreboding, on the Orto Nura side, they are smaller, accessible. Half an hour in, following one branch of a Naryn River tributary, we found a little house. It was neat an tidy, with trees and a little potato patch. There was a low animal barn around back, and kids in front. As we approached, the matron came out to greet us.
“Come inside!” we her first words, “we’ll have yogurt.”
This was Kyrgyz hospitality at it’s finest. They asked about us, where we came from, what we did. We asked to our own interests, like where the solar panel on the side of their house came from, and if they lived here year round (“no, no,” she said, “we move out in the summer, to the mountains.”)
And then, when I said I hailed from the Great Windy City, she just laughed, “oh! My brother lives there. He drives a taxi, you’ll have to look him up.” The world folks, just keeps getting smaller.
Trees for the Kyrgyz! A Success!
So, folks, this is special letter number 2. In the first one, I pitched to you all the Trees for the Khirgeez project. In this second letter, with 110% raised, I’m sending out a big thank you.
On the first day of the fund raising, we collected nearly half of the total requested money. The next day, brimming with confidence, I placed the order. What followed was an exciting, stimulating, and incredibly helpful week.
First, with faith that the whole $1,750 would come, I called my director and said, ‘I’d like 250 apple trees, 250 apricot trees.”
To which he responded, “Carl, how are you going to pay for this?”
“The money is coming from America,” I said.
“When?”
“Well,” and I stuttered, wondering this myself, “it needs to be transferred.”
“Is it definitely going to come?” He asked.
“Yes, definitely,” I said.
“Okay, then don’t rush.” That folks, means your one and only Kyrgy Carl was extended 500 fruit trees, on credit. As a good cash wage out here is $300, that means I was trusted with half a year’s salary.
Next, I went to Orto Nura. The people were afraid that the trees might not grow, but their fears were based on lack of experience, as the tree experts had assured me. Once I assured them, I dropped the bomb: “we’ll be here in three days. Get ready.”
Three days later, on May 3rd (okay, I jumped the gun) with 75% of the money for the project raised, sure that you all wouldn’t let me down, I brought the trees to Orto Nura. In community development theory, giving things away leads to people not really caring about your program; you must ask them to invest. So we charged people around thirty American cents a tree. Even out here, this is a pittance.
We gathered crowds, and trained them. All the trees had a knot at the stump, and we showed them to have the knots just clear the ground, and to face east, towards the rising sun. We told them to put bits of old metal under the roots of the apple trees, and to add manure, and water them generously.
And the people came out in droves. They came in cars, by horse, and on foot. They sent their children, with small wads of crumpled bills, sometimes buying only 1 or two trees. The average was 6 per person. If these people had needed to pay full market rates, they wouldn’t have been able to afford a single one. Rachel, the Orto Nura volunteer who brought this project to her village, lives there, and knows the people. This allowed us to extend trees on credit.
At the end of the day, I walked around the village. People were building yards for their new gardens, and circling the trees with small rings of stones. I saw people digging huge rocks from their yards, preparing the ground for their trees, and inevitably, every knot faced east. And then, over the next two days it rained and rained, like a blessing from God.
Folks, you helped people who didn’t have ¢30 in their pockets build new sources of income and nutrition. My American side was disappointed there was no grand opening, or fancy gala. Instead, the moment was intimate, it was small scale, it was grass roots by definition. I’ve put up photos and a video of the work on KyrgyCarl.com, please, go check it out.
The next step now is trying to form a Tree Growers Association. As I do that, folks, rest assured, you’ll be with me every step of the way.
Trees Trees and More Trees!
It has sure been a full packed week here so far. For those of you who didn’t hear, I set out to bring 500 fruit trees to the hamlet of Orto Nura, just less than one week ago. I had requested that you all might help raise the $1,750 required to see the project through to completion, and thus far, we’ve already got 72%. First off, thanks a lot folks. The donation period will end on May 5th, and we’re almost there.
Since then, I have been working as hard as I can, drawing on every skill I’ve so far developed to get this tree project off the ground.
I first heard about the wonderful co-op that brings trees down from the fertile Issyk Kul nurseries in their own truck, complete with moist dirt and expert trainers to assist tree recipients, from my counterpart at the UNDP office here, where I currently work. She put me in contact with the director of Zhash Danaker, for those of you who remember, my original work site.
With assurances from the experts that trees would grow in Orto Nura, I set out to convince the people. While I had been asked to do the project there by one resident, others were concerned that their little place in the sun was just too cold for fruit. So, armed with information to the contrary and some elementary Kyrgyz, I set out for the village last Friday to spread the good news.
Needless to say, the residents that I sat in the taxi with on the way down all thought it was a great idea. “They will grow,” one older lady said, “we’re just lazy.”
“Plus, we need to be taught,” said another passenger, “the people on the lake know about growing trees, we need to learn.” Perfect, was my reply, I’m bringing experts, too.
Then, in Orto Nura, freshly excited from this interested, I fell upon the Alphabet Holiday at the local school. Teachers, parents and students were all gathered, and the kids were reciting riddles, tongue twisters, and portions of the great Kyrgyz epic, the Manas. While my PCV partner in this, Rachel, and I chose not to steal the children’s thunder, after the event, during the teacher’s tea break, we sat together, and I said to the woman next to me, “hey, I have an announcement, but I’m a little embarrassed to just give it.”
Something about this kind of eagerness seems to appeal to the Kyrgyz, and she glowed, “Ladies, this boy here has something to say!”
Then, with a room of 10 middle aged teacher ladies at my disposal, I began with my standard, “I don’t speak Kyrgyz well yet, so if I mess up here, will you all help me out?” And with nods, and smiles of agreement, I told them what I wanted to do, and Rachel’s pen got busy as the tree orders piled in. That plus an eager local government almost assures we’ll make this happen.
The last and final step, as I looked over the nuts and bolts of this project, was actually getting your generous donations into Kyrgyzstan. The logistics of this were something I hadn’t previously considered. My bank said my current account wouldn’t accept American dollars, but if I set up a new one, they’d give me the “SWIFT” codes I needed to make it all happen.
And that folks, is that. 500 trees for Earth Day and Arbor Day, generously paid for by you all, my friends and family, made possible by me and the Peace Corps. For the actual event, I’ve got a handi-cam. So stay tuned for the video folks, this one is gonna be for the record books.



