A look at Osh

       Osh, so the story goes, derives its name from the world's first man. Adam, on orders from God, was to take two oxen and a plow in order to outline the fields for future plowing. He started in Mekka and spent days, months, and years plowing, driving these oxen, and one day spotted mountains rising up in the distance. Deciding that he had come far enough, he repeatedly called "ush", his customary way of turning the oxen. At this place, where the furrow turned, the city of Ush, later Osh, came into being. It was very fertile, and its borders expanded from year to year.

The Soviet fondness for huge fountains
manifests itself in Osh, in front of Peking
shopping centre and two blocks from
 the Central Market.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

       And Osh, indeed, is very fertile. The ground is lush with all sorts of fruits and vegetables, and grain, too, grows in abundance. You can buy the freshest fruit for very little money at the bazar: there are buckets of strawberries and raspberries, pallets of plums and peaches and abricots, and truckloads of watermelons. And trunkfuls, too: a farmer had driven up in his well-kept Lada of Soviet vintage, the trunk overflowing with watermelons, and simply parked the car road-side, popped the trunk and was having a smoke while watching his children play on the sidewalk. A comfortably-spent (and hopefully worthwhile) Sunday.
       I first decided to go to Osh upon hearing that its culture is such a different one from Bishkek's, and this really held true. The first and foremost reason lies in the make-up of its population. Depending on which poll you read (and perhaps whether it was taken before or after the 2010 riots) the population of Osh is about half and half ethnic Kyrgyz and ethnic Uzbek, with a slightly larger proportion of Kyrgyz (although I've seen numbers to the contrary). The other 5 or so percent is comprised of Russians, Tajik, and Turks. Adding to these factors the city's distance from the capital and drastic difference in size (it is between 2 and 3 times smaller than Bishkek), a quite different dynamic develops.
       Since I was only in Osh for two days, it would be very hard for me to form an accurate assessment of the city. But first impressions, being just that, are easier to come by, and I must say that my first impressions of Osh were very favourable. For one, everyone was slightly friendlier than in Bishkek. Now this is not to say that people in Bishkek are unfriendly, but rather that, as in big cities in general, shopkeepers, vendors and other people in service industries are often polite, but only polite, keeping their distance. In Osh, I had quite a different experience. Whether it was that people in Osh tend more towards personal contact and conversation, or that I was the only white person in the bazar (where I spent most of the two days) neither a local nor an expensive-travel-gear-toting tourist, or the fact that I was a German-Canadian speaking Russian and being able to negotiate (a very little) in Kyrgyz, or perhaps a mixture of the above: the vendors and hotel or restaurant managers and staff (and occasionally even the taxi drivers) were friendly and showed a personal interest.

A view of Osh from Suleiman-Too. Osh's holy mounatin.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

       I ended up having to use my limited Kyrgyz quite a lot in Osh, since about half the people I met spoke no Russian. I hadn't really realized it before, but it turns out I could negotiate prices and taxi fares quite effectively in Kyrgyz! Those two days in Osh really did wonders for my Kyrgyz - not that I learned new words or the like, but that much of what I had learned before became more fluent to use. A great advantage of this Kyrgyz haggling was that vendors tended to give me, on average, about twice the discount as when I spoke only Russian; I like discounts, so my Kyrgyz got a bit of a workout.
       The Russian in Osh, quite unlike the Russian in Bishkek, was pretty funny to hear. In Bishkek, everyone I've come into contact with speaks Russian fluently, naturally and correctly. In Osh, none of these are a given. In fact, of the three fluent Russian speakers I had conversations with in Osh, two had really strange ways of pronouncing things: for example, one kept saying язык (iazyk), with the pronunciation on the first syllable rather than, as it should be, on the second, and another repeatedly pronounced сегодня (segodnia) the way it is written, and not properly as sevodnia.
       Another somewhat surprising things is that night time in Osh is quite dark. I had slept much of the afternoon due to extreme heat and some humidity (42º high), and wanted to have some supper at around 9:30. The only lighting was from lit windows; street lights weren't in evidence (in contrast to Bishkek, where they are in evidence but often consider the actual shining of light superfluous) and I had to call on my months of experience wandering Bishkek's sidewalks to keep from tripping. Earlier in the day I had seen a Chinese place down an alley called Шанхай Кафе (Shanghai Café), and so, in the mood for Chinese (which was fortunate, since there wasn't much else open) I headed there. I was the only guest in the café proper, although a private dining room in the back was occupied, but 4 or 5 of the staff (and/or family) were sitting around a table in the centre of the café eating from about 12 half-empty meat and vegetable dishes and a vat of soup; either they had been eating for some time or these were the day's left-overs. In any case, I got a fresh meal, beef with green peppers, rice and tea, and enjoyed it as a Chinese news channel played on TV in the background. When the time flashed on the screen, I was quite surprised to see it was only two hours off the local time. Although I had previously been within 40 km of the Chinese border, the proximity to China hadn't completely dawned on me before.
       Osh, then, in conclusion, is a pretty great place to spend a day or two, or perhaps to live in a while, if you're not intending to study Russian. It was a great place to unwind and recharge; I'd definitely go back.

A look at the city's bazar.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

The Osh Philharmonic, intended to be the city's cultural
centre. Flowers in Osh were beautiful and bountiful.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

A long-abandoned building across the street from the
Philharmonic, signs pointing to the toilets next door.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

  

Cómo conseguí mantequilla de maní en Kirguizistán

       Antes de salir de Canadá estaba un poco preocupado, ya que no sabía cómo fuera la vida en Bishkek, pero me gusta vivir aquí. Me siento cómodo y, aunque tenía que acostumbrarme a varios aspectos de la vida en Kirguizistán que son bastante diferentes a la vida en Canadá, se puede encontrar casi toda la comida que tenemos en Canadá; de hecho, tienen aquí algunas cosas que no se encuentra en Canadá, en gran parte importaciones de Turquía y de Rusia. Además, en el supermercado cerca de mi casa aquí, vi barras de chocolate americanas que ni siquiera tenemos en Canadá. Pero no se puede encontrar por nada mantequilla de maní, aunque venden tres tipos de Nutella y varios de mermelada, miel y otros alimentos para untar. Así que decidí preparar mantequilla de maní por mí mismo.

Las herramientas esenciales de un fabricante de mantequilla de maní.
Crédito de la foto: Robert Henschel

       Para empezar, compré algunos maní; ya tenía aceite de oliva, la que es todo que se necesita para preparar mantequilla de maní. Desafortunadamente, no tenía una licuadora. Dando me cuenta de esto, podría haber comprado una licuadora, pero sería haber sido demasiado caro, y sólo compré un mazo en el mercado. Puse los maní en una pequeña bolsa de plástico y, golpeándolos con el mazo, los machuqué. Después, mezclé los maní machucados con aceite de oliva para que la mantequilla de maní fuera suave y puse el producto resultante - la mantequilla de maní - en el refrigerador. Y así fue como conseguí mantequilla de maní en Kirguizistán.

El producto acabado. El color es un poco más oscuro,
porque no quité la cáscara (o la piel) interna. Sabe bien.
Crédito de la foto: Robert Henschel

       Sólo queda una pregunta: ¿cuánto costó esta mantequilla de maní? Pues, tres puñados de maní costaban 51 som, que vale aproximadamente 1 dólar. El mazo me costó 100 som y lo poco del aceite de oliva que usé quizás 10 som. Para un tarro pequeño o mediano, entonces, se paga entre 3 o 4 dólares la primera vez y después, ya teniendo el mazo, sólo 1 o 2 dólares.

The Mountains Up Close: Song-Köl and Tash Rabat

What you may see looking out the car window in Kyrgyzstan.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

       Finding mountains in Kyrgyzstan isn't too hard, seeing as they cover 80 to 90 percent of the country. But seeing them up close can be a little bit more difficult, since, as an infrastructural risk analysis succinctly states, "road communication between the north and south of Kyrgyzstan is unreliable"; that means the "highway" is a pothole-ridden gravel road, the likes of which would barely be tolerated in Canada in any context at all. But the scenery was beautiful, although that adjective might not be quite adequate; Kyrgyzstan has everything from green fields to lush hills to red mountains and green mountains and grey mountains to tan ones to snowy peaks. There are big blue lakes or deep green ones; wide rivers, small fast ones; thick forests, sparse ones... Central Kyrgyzstan is breathtakingly beautiful. But when a friend of mine mentioned going back to Naryn (in southern/central Kyrgyzstan) I automatically shifted in my seat; the road, or rather its bumps, twists, and turns are still too firmly ingrained in my muscles.

A vista of Song-Köl lake, as seen from our yurt.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

       The first night of the trip we stayed in a yurt next to Song-Köl, one of Kyrgyzstan's larger mountain lakes. The food was amazing: for supper we had baked trout, a local specialty, with potatoes and the tomato-and-cucumber salad mentioned in previous posts, served along with, as all meals are, bread. Somewhat unusual, however, was the excellent sour-cherry, black currant or apricot jam served alongside; that seems to be more common in southern Kyrgyzstan than in the north. The yurt was equipped with a ton of very thick blankets, necessary since it gets to be quite chilly at night (at an altitude of more than 3000m). We rented a horse for an hour, but it was small, old and seemed to be on the edge of death; it wouldn't move unless you hit it with a stick, and we really didn't want to do that too much. We also took a two-hour hike up into the mountains; the air was clear and fresh, but quite thin: a relatively short walk through hilly country winded us.

Mountains in four colours: grey, green, red, tan.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

       The second day, we drove further south, towards Naryn. The roads didn't improve, but the scenery, if possible, did. Approaching Naryn, you could see mountains of 4 different colours, all standing together! Grey, green, red, and tan. The city itself felt very rural: dusty one-storey houses and small shacks selling a virtually identical mix of drinks, candy bars, and baked goods. Also, in stark contrast to Kyrgyzstan's north, the only people not ethnically Kyrgyz that I recall seeing were two obviously foreign cyclists. These cyclists are a fairly common sight, pedalling up steep mountains or avoiding children and dogs on the village roads. And cows. Everyone avoids cows, because they simply don't care what you do. Sure, they'll show an intense yet detached curiosity and, one assumes, amusement, especially coming across some tourist brushing his teeth by the lake in the morning, but they won't move for a car on the highway. Horses and sheep and goats and bicyclists will move if you honk, and dogs and pedestrians without being told, but cows will just peer at you with an idle sort of curiosity. While you're bearing down on them at 140 km/h. ("What, you expect me to moove?"...) I've developed quite an admiration for cows - in Russian, корова (karova), in Kyrgyz, уй (uy - think of what your German grandma might exclaim upon tripping over a rock or, should she happen to live in Edmonton, upon slipping on the ice in March). Kuh in German, for anyone interested, and vaca in Spanish. In (Russian-language) conversation class one day we had to discuss our favourite animals. The instructor was quite dumbfounded to have someone bring cows into the discussion, but after a number of my semi-intelligible explanations she had to agree that cows are pretty cool.

This road had 35 switchbacks!
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

       The second night's camp was also in yurts, but this time next to Tash-Rabat, the historically fascinating Caravanserai. As with all things long-ago, no-one quite agrees on its origins, but consensus seems to be that it was constructed sometime in the 8th to 10th centuries, originally as a monastery, perhaps Buddhist. Everyone agrees, however, that in the 15th century it became a caravanserai, an important link along the silk road due to the offered shelter from mountain storms and, in addition, most likely playing a significant role in the smuggling trade to China. A local guide claimed that the underground passageways leading out from the Caravanserai had not been explored, since neither flame nor flashlight will stay lit once underground; he speculated that they lead all the way (40+ kilometres) to China. On the other hand, he firmly believed that there were 500km of deserted land in central Kyrgyzstan due to yeti; I heard estimates of 800m to 3km for the Caravanserai's tunnels elsewhere. Perhaps the monks did use the 700 years they had before Islam took over to dig the 40km to China.
       In any case, the drive was beautiful, and the experience worth it. If there weren't so many other interesting places to go to, I wouldn't hesitate to make this trip again.
 

Tash-Rabat, the monastery/caravanserai/smugglers' haven.
Also rumoured to house ghosts.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

A lush green field and a fast mountain
creek next to Tash-Rabat. And a cow.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

Issyk-Kul

       Issyk-Kul or Ysyk-Köl (Russian: Иссык-Куль, Kyrgyz: Ысык-Көл) is the world's second-largest alpine lake, and an amazingly biodiverse area. What makes it additionally special is that, despite its high altitude, it never freezes over. The past week, I was there for about a day and a half, which is all I could spare from my lessons. The drive there was an experience in itself, and the landscape all along beautiful in a variety of different ways.

A giant flag of Kyrgyzstan on the
hillside, visible from far away.
Photo credit: Bente Lea Omdal

       Kyrgyzstan looks on the map to be comprised almost entirely of mountains, but population-wise most of the country lives in the two valleys: Chuy Valley, where Bishkek is located, and Osh in the Fergana Valley. The drive from Manas Airport to Bishkek, entirely within the Chuy Valley, actually reminded me of a slightly greener Barrhead-Edmonton drive, but as soon as you enter the mountains, the scenery changes dramatically. The mountains to the east of Bishkek, in the direction of Issyk-Kyl, are mostly craggy and largely arid, but every so often, in the vicinity of a mountain stream, the mountains become lush and green. Against the backdrop of the big, snow-covered Tian-Shan mountains in the distance, it makes a spectacular sight.

       An interesting custom that has developed is to write things out on the mountain-side with big white rocks, so that the message is visible from far away, particularly the highways. A variation on that was an absolutely huge rendition of the Kyrgyz flag, so big as to be recognizable almost from the horizon. Some enterprising businessmen had elsewhere written out their website or brand name as advertisements in this way; it seemed like a bit of a shame.

Sunset over Issyk-Kul.
Photo credit: Bente Lea Omdal

Looking inland from the lake.
Photo credit: Bente Lea Omdal

       The lake itself was, as far as lakes and sunsets go, breathtaking. What appealed to me far more, for whatever reason, was the craggy, desert-like landscape between the blue of the lake and green and grey mountains further south, towards central Kyrgyzstan. I could cheerfully have spent all day out there, and in fact more or less did. I ended up getting quite a sunburn, but learned a number of new Russian words associated with sunburn and lotion and healing and pain. All in all then, quite a successful trip.

       Our sleeping quarters were sparse, in a dusty, ugly, building with crookedly-run brick walls. The rooms were sparse and each contained exactly one bed and a hatstand or coat rack. The kitchenette was crowded with a fridge, cupboards, a sink, and a table; the bathroom was maybe five feet by seven, the shower not separated from the toilet at all, so you had to be really careful not to soak anything but yourself - we felt like we were in a palace! It's incredible how adjustable concepts like comfort, luxury, and the normal are: clean and cool rooms, hot water, a thick, colourful, possibly Turkish carpet in front of the second story floor-to-ceiling windows... we were pretty excited. We spent the evening sitting on this carpet, talking and snacking; it was nice, but it must get boring to do so night after night. No wonder alcoholism is such a problem in rural areas across Eastern Europe, Russia and Central Asia. 

The house from a distance.
It didn't look quite this good in real life.
Photo credit: Bente Lea Omdal

       For lunch one day the cook living next door, a most likely very nice lady whom we couldn't get to know since she spoke no Russian at all (and my Kyrgyz amounted to all of counting from 1 to 10), made us an enormous pot of plov, a rice-based dish with meat, some vegetables, salt, cumin, and the requisite animal fat and olive oil. The serving bowl must have had a diameter of a foot and a half, and was almost overflowing on the sides. Between the three of us, eating this for lunch and supper, we must not have finished even half, but it was delicious, and she served it with the customary cucumber and tomato salad with vinegar dressing. Plov, by the way, is fiercely claimed by the Uzbek as their invention, while the Kyrgyz viewpoint will generally range from agreement to  "sure it's Uzbek, but theirs tastes weird" to "what Uzbek?" (the Uzbek have few friends in the region). Outside of the Central Asian countries in question, however, plov is generally considered to have Persian origins. 

      Although there wasn't much to do at Issyk-Kul yet, summer and therefore activities apparently beginning in July (although it was 42 degrees out today), we all in all had a great time just relaxing and taking in the nature. Issyk-Kul is definitely worth the visit.