Trabant Trek hobbles through Bishkek

Back in Bishkek, I settled into the Nomad's Home Guesthouse which is reasonably well-managed and comfortable, if not overcrowded. Since my last visit, the guest house had received some wily invaders from Tajikistan -- that infamous group of ne'er-do-wells, the Trabant Trek clan. Actually, that's the professional face of the project, and the soft underbelly and dirty laundry is located here on Dan Murdoch's blog.


The Trabant Trek (TT) group is attempting to travel 15,000 miles from Germany to Cambodia in three Soviet-era plastic cars, Trabants or "Trabbies" as they are affectionately known. Their purpose: to raise $300,000 for charity and have fun traveling. At last notice, they were approximately 50% of the way through their travels and had achieved about 3% of the their fundraising goal. But like the plucky little cars that they drive, the TT folks are not going to give up until they are impounded or melted-down to make lawn furniture. Actually, they were arrested in Turkmenistan and held for two days in an abandoned parking lot for overstaying their visas, while a tribunal convened to decide their fate. Long story short, they were let off with a small fine.

In any event, when I met-up with the TT group, it seemed they were on their last legs. The group that I met was really only a fraction of the team, and in fact, two of the TT'ers had departed for home and the cars and other members of their party (including the mechanic and founder) were still broken-down in Tajikistan and out of communication for several days. However, it seems that since I left Bishkek, the group has been reunited and will ultimately somehow find their way to Cambodia.

Cold storage in Arslanbob

It's amazing how much more inviting places ending in "bob" sound than those ending in "bad." For example, it almost seems by design that Pakistan named its capital in such a way that makes it sound foreboding and breaks down into "Islam-a-bad." What if it were transliterated as "Islamabob?" Doesn't that sound more amicable? Or better still, "Islamaawesome" or "Islamalanewlexus" or "Islamapillowmint" or "Islamabuyonegetonefree"... All friendlier-sounding transliterations and less like teenage posturing.

That said, from Osh, I traveled north to the village of Arslanbob, which is a bit like Kyrgyzstan's answer to Sesame Street. It's a simple, quaint ethnic Uzbek village located in the valley beneath towering mountain peaks from which flow numerous streams, waterfalls and bubbling springs. According to the local Community Based Tourism (CBT) Director, Ibrahim, the village was founded in 677 AD. There, I spent four nights at the home a local family (who shall remain nameless), who were invariably warm and hospitable to me, and who in the end, gave me a nasty spell of food poisoning. Their house was comfortable enough, if not subfreezing at night. The cold I resisted with a selections from their store of extremely heavy quilts (probably about 20 kg apiece; presumably cotton-stuffed).

That aside, Arlsanbob is an idyllic location. There are ample places for hiking and trekking, two pristine lakes, a sprawling walnut forest, mountains, waterfalls, and skiing during the winter. The locals are friendly, accustomed to foreigners, and unlikely give you "stink-eye" as one Peace Core worker described the suspicious askance to which locals of this region are prone. Like children in remote areas everywhere, the kids in Arslanbob love to have their pictures taken, and groups of kids leaving school often stop tourists to request pictures. Because it has been part of CBT for seven years, there is also a fair bit of English spoken around Arslanbob, and the thirteen year-old daughter of my host family spoke reasonably good English. On giving me a tour of their small farm, she pointed to a flock of geese, and for her upcoming fourteenth birthday, her father would slaughter the fattest one, she said, as she sliced the air with a stiffened hand.

Leaving Arslanbob and in a bit of a hurry to return to Bishkek, I shared a taxi with an Israeli couple who took three hours to collect their bags and negotiate a price for their taxi. "We have a lot of problems with tourists from Israel," Ibrahim apologized. But by this time, I was too distracted to care what the Israelis were doing as I slipped into a feverish nausea, which made an agony of the first 4 hours of our 10 hour trip and caused me to purge myself of yesterday's laghman while the others had dinner.

On arrival in Bishkek at 3 AM, the guesthouse attendant met us at the door, and said that there were two beds available in the house and some others in the much colder yurt. Knowing I was quite ill, "Sorry!" the Israeli woman snapped, claiming the beds for herself. But this claim was quickly rejected by the guesthouse owner as she remembered that rooms were freshly painted.

Two days in Osh

From the look of it, you wouldn't know that Osh is more than 3,000 years old. Like most places in Central Asia, the most recent marks were left by the Soviets, and Lenin's statue with his arm extended pointing the way to a future that no longer exists, still overlooks the downtown. Osh is a predominantly Uzbek city in Kyrgyzstan and in recent years was the sight of ethnic violence between Kyrgyz and Uzbeks that left more than 1,000 dead.

The Fergana Valley has long been the population center, ethnic mixing ground and hotbed of Islam and intellectualism in the region. Today, existing outside the grasp of the forcibly secularized Uzbek police state, Osh is a deeply muslim city and the main mosque was only about a block away from the stinking Osh Guesthouse, where the attendant, Kabuljon awakes early every morning for prayer and keeps a screensaver on the guesthouse computer that reads, "Allahhu Akbar!" or "God is great!"

Adjacent to the mosque, there is an internet cafe, which independently censors the New York Times using its software firewall. The administrator, who spoke passable English took the initiative to discuss "politics" with me. He complained that people in the West believe that Muslims are "ignorant," but it is not necessarily Muslim ignorance but the conflict of Muslim beliefs with oppressive modern constructs that are the problem. For example, he told me that his sister had intended to attend university, but was prevented from doing so do to the rule against wearing her hijab on campus. He was a predictable fundamentalist, who expressed his belief that everything written in the Koran is true now and for all times.

He also explained his belief in morality and its immutability over time. "Can you understand?" he asked rhetorically to punctuate his every idea. I responded that I believe that religious "morality" is simply a code that was written to keep society in tact given the circumstances at the time of its writing, and that with new circumstances, such rules can be relaxed. "Then, you are an atheist!" he shot back. He also expressed his disbelief that George W. Bush remains POTUS, to which I had neither an answer nor objection.

The Road to Osh

I arrived in Bishkek during a fairly severe cold snap, which meant that my plan to travel to Issyk Kul had to be shelved. According to some Israelis I met, the lake itself wasn't terribly interesting, and because it is located about 800m above Bishkek, it was too cold for trekking. Actually, I had made a hasty agreement to join a chain-smoking Swiss ethnographer to Issyk Kul and hang around the surrounding villages, visit the Polygon, and camp-out in the Soviet era bungalows that line the shore, but I went to town to get cash and when I returned before her planned 10 AM departure time, she was gone. Actually, that was not the first time I had such an informal and infirm alliance disintegrate in midcourse. Undeterred, I made another hasty agreement to join a chain-smoking Aussie to the southern city of Osh in the Fergana Valley.

I new before I joined that my new traveling companion would pose a challenge in backseat diplomacy, having dealt with him for three days at the guesthouse. A self-described "slob" and a feral snorer, he was 55 year-old former accountant, pearl diver, and speed dealer who was missing his left thumb, a good chink out one of his upper incisors and various intangibles including decency, modesty and a sense of moderation. But otherwise, he was a decent chap, having retired to Thailand several years before, his hobbies included traveling, talking incessantly, scuba diving, drinking, fist-fighting, and whoring, which he would discuss with the same air of nonchalance which most men might discuss golf -- and in mixed company. Later one smart Hungarian woman bristled, "He just doesn't understand that some men don't go to prostitutes!"

Shortly into our trip and with about ten hours ahead, I decided to lay down the law. Through the unbroken current of tales and spittle flowing in my direction, I made a simple well-planned request which was delicately phrased and somewhat lengthly. It began with "Look, you are an interesting guy" and ended with "so with the greatest of respect, I'd just like some quiet time." And that was that. He was house-broken.

Of course, having made the travel arrangements only at the last minute, my traveling companion had negotiated a price for the taxi of 1500 Som (about $40), which is far too much and at least twice what the Russian man sitting in the front seat paid. Feeling ripped-off, I took great liberties in requesting stops on the way to Osh and took a few minutes for picutures at every scenic spot. In fact, the new road from Bishkek to Osh includes three passes that tower above 3000 meters, dramatic peaks, craggy canyons, and pitilless cliffs. Our driver made a point to test the asphalt, driving the the car hard and the tires screeching impatiently at every turn.

After descending again into the low country and somewhere just on the eastern tip of Toktogul Reservoir, I asked the drive to stop at the edge of a field that tilted downward toward the reservoir, which sparkled topaz beneath the great blue dome that seems to envelope this region. From our vantage point, the water didn't appear very far from the road and I stumbled down the embankment into a sun-drenched field of drying corn stalks and sunflowers with the water just beyond the field and mountains rising from the far bank. Continuing down the incline of the open field towards the water, I passed by a group of farmhands collecting stalks, presumably for fuel, and one of them walked over to me for an exchange that neither of us understood.

Soon realizing that the bank of the reservoir was considerably further than it appeared from the road, I quickened my pace, and passed throught a patch of tall browning plants from which I collected sticky burs all over my clothing and tangled through my shoe laces. At the clearing, the water appeared at some distance before me and a small trailer standing somewhere near the midpoint between. So decrepit was the trailer, I believed it abandoned, but as I approached, it there appeared below it a covey of turkeys and then a small face appeared in the window then disappeared.

Drawing closer, a man wearing a high-topped Kyrgyz felt hat and a boy came from the trailer and approached me. I met them, we exchanged a few words, I snapped a picture and tried to mime my growing sense of urgency to return to the car waiting for me at the roadside. About 20 minutes into this excurision, I hurried towards the water, snapped some more pictures and then started the long uphill trek back to the road.

Again, as I approached the trailer, the man and boy appeared followed by a woman who carried a bowl of sweetened yogurt and a loaf of flat bread. They invited me into their home to eat, and all considerations of hygeine aside, I did my best to convey my regret that I must leave. I broke a piece of bread, dipped it in the yogurt and ate it quickly. I then awkwardly attempted to give them a few Som, but they refused. As I put my money away, a five Som note fell to the ground and the old man picked it up and handed it to the little boy. Bidding me fairwell, the old man reached out ot give me a hug and attempted to kiss my cheek, but small as he was, it only landed on my neck. I took another picture, bid them farewell, and then jogged uphill to the car.

The driver and passengers were visibly annoyed at my 45 minute departure, and as I exhaustedly plodded up the roadside the big Russian barked, "Time!"

The great recapitulation from Samarkand!

If my blog was a child, the government would probably prosecute me for neglect. The unfortunate thing about owning a blog is that, unlike a child, you can't really compensate for a lack of quality time by showering it with expensive gifts or giving it a shot of whiskey when it cries. Anyway, my blog and I are going to span time right here and now.