Daypack clad with the crushing weight of the day’s water on my shoulders, I was unsure what this day would bring. Making my way along the dirt road from my guesthouse to the town centre of Bokonbaevo was a simple enough journey but I was already bracing myself for what was to come. My destination beyond the marshrutka stand was a nearby hilltop for a festival of traditional culture organised by a local arts group. The flier I’d seen in Karakol, my previous stop, promised traditional music, hunting demonstrations, and above all: a free lunch.
Hailing the driver to pull over at the side of the main road was an exercise in tenacity and patience but a lucky guess brought me to the bottom of the right dirt track. Lush meadows stretched out on either side of the tyre tracks and a flirtatious breeze from the shores of Issyk Kul teased me as I scrambled towards the crest. I was joined by two new travel friends and we were among the first to arrive which gave us a chance to admire the scenery atop the hill and chat with the locals organising the event. By chat, I mean smile as loudly as I could since my Kyrgyz was abysmal and my Russian sparse. As others started to bustle in we managed to claim some preciously shaded hay bale seats which proved to be prime real estate underneath an unforgiving sun. Seeing other travellers in what felt like masses for the first time in weeks felt distinctly odd though it was refreshing to hear similar blunderous tales to mine - I hadn’t been the only one bracing for dear life every time an overfull vehicle lurched to a halt or said a quiet prayer in my head when presented with a cup of fermented horse milk. The hubbub lulled as the compere in a traditional felted hat and waistcoat combo took to the microphone and welcomed us all to Bokonbaevo's first-ever culture festival. What followed both bemused and captivated me.
A formation of young girls in beautiful dresses and embroidered caps opened the event by performing a traditional dance followed by a rendition of the national anthem of Kyrgyzstan. Up next was a rousing performance by a manaschi, by far one of the most extraordinary things I've experienced and a real testament to the might of human vocal cords. A much-celebrated Kyrgyzstani art form, manaschis recite age-old traditional literature to a formidable rhythm and with vigorous passion. The most famous and revered in Kyrgyzstani culture is the epic 'Manas'. These singers, though the art of delivering the Manas is far more than just singing in my opinion as the performer in front of me seemed to recite with his whole body, were once travelling bards and even considered as shamans.
I later learned that the esteem of performing the 'Manas' is akin to calling the 'Adhan' from the mosque since at 500,000 lines it is the longest epic poem in the world. Honestly, I'm not sure how long these lines are but the length of this poem is twice that of the 'Mahabharata' of India - now that is thorough. To say the least, you'd really need to be in the mood (and with a decent supply of caffeine on hand, speaking for myself here) to undertake such a recital. The manaschi who I listened to that day only recited part of the 'Manas' though one day when I return to Kyrgyzstan I hope to experience the chills of a full recital. The narrations are every bit as fiery and expressive as you can imagine and I anticipate that the full spectrum of human emotion has a place somewhere in the chanting.
Just as I thought I'd already experienced the most intriguing spectacle, the next performance was announced by the compere. The teenage boy who entered the stage was dressed in traditional clothing like the rest of his entourage and until that moment had blended in seamlessly, that was about to change. Fighting through the kazoo yielding flashbacks of my youth I felt an unrivalled sense of awe at the sounds he began to produce. He wasn't chanting, dancing, or traumatising anyone within a twenty metre radius (I'm referring to a certain kazoo incident back in 1998 here) but instead managed to hold the attention of a hungering crowd - some of us may even have slipped into a willful state of hypnosis too. The characteristic boinging, twanging, and overall sensation of uncoiled joy of his jaw harp or temir komuz utterly enthused me. This is exactly what I travel for and I could see the same sense of awe from my travel companions.
After the musical performances, we were treated to a horseback hunting demonstration. Despite my tendency toward danger, I'm a nervous onlooker of extreme sports so I partook in my fair share of wincing as two young men rode galloping horses without riding helmets. All was well, of course, and I remember considering that they had probably been riding longer than they had been walking as seems common in Kyrgyzstan. Equestrianism might even be thought of as the backbone of Kyrgyz culture - traditional and modern. They used targets to simulate their prey and no animals were harmed during the display but seeing the prey caught so swiftly had my heart in my throat. Tamed eagles are also commonly used in hunting practices and had a part to play at the festival. Travelling at speed on the hunters' arms they looked dainty and chicken-like but once airborne their wingspans were a stark reminder of their power and menacing agility. I didn't like to think too hard about the damage an eagle beak could do to a handler it disapproved of...
Propped up above the alpine lake was the perfect setting for a Kyrgyzstani lunch. A gargantuan cooking pot, not unlike a cauldron, had been cradling enough plov to ground a marshrutka. Plov is a hearty rice-based dish accompanied by meat (usually beef or lamb) and vegetables (seasonal) - think risotto meets barbeque - and is a staple of not only Kyrgyz but Central Asian cuisine on the whole. It strikes me as more of a wintertime meal but I learned that it's ever-popular all year long and provides enough satisfying stodge to fuel someone for likely days at a time. I couldn't have any because onion had been included in the recipe (read about my unusual food intolerance here if you dare) but in a refreshing take on attitude towards calories, the compere and ladies who had been preparing in the catering yurt gave me a plentiful supply of crusty bread and fried batter rounds (a bit like British Yorkshire Pudding). Others started getting involved and were gathering around with bowls and anticipation and all was well atop the hill until things kicked off regarding the notorious free lunch.
It turned out that some guests weren’t impressed when they were charged for their food and saw others getting it for free. I never did get to the bottom of the matter but it seemed that two different advertising fliers had circulated around traveller hotspots - one with the promise of free food and one without. The lesson: opportunities to experience things like these don’t happen every day, be grateful without expecting more. I’d changed my itinerary to make time for this opportunity on the off chance and was lucky not to have missed it. Demanding free food and being impatient with the locals will stop countries trying to develop their tourism from gaining traction. Despite the grumblers, I did chat with some more lighthearted travellers and the festival ended on a high note.
My new friends and I were the last to leave which meant we’d definitely made the most of our day on the hill. The day’s dramas had well and truly zapped my energy and it was with trepidation that I embraced the long walk back to town since we’d missed the last bus, classic Liv move. When we saw a car approaching we knew the drill and I stuck my thumb out into the road. Two friendly Kyrgyzstani men pulled up and laughed apologetically. We reassured them in a broken mess of Kyrgyz and Russian that we were happy to pay them for our journey (this is the done thing in this part of the world) but they returned only comical anguish. At first, I was confused about why they seemed unsettled at the thought of the three of us covering the fuel to get us back to town, then amused as they themselves started laughing to each other as they tried to find a way to explain to us their predicament. In the end, they happily conceded and it turned out that there were no seats in the back of the car. Oh, how we laughed. Did we look silly? Yes. Did we feel silly? Yes. Did that matter? I was too wiped out for it to matter - but that doesn’t mean you should ride without a seat if you’re not comfortable with it!
Among these musings, writing this post and reminiscing on this adventure has made me seriously consider sourcing a temir komuz and learning how to play it myself. Lockdown phase or not, this is an inevitability my best friends will have to learn to enjoy. It's the temir komuz or the kazoo, choose your player.
This is the bit where I say a hearty "thanks!" and "рахмат!" for making it to the bottom of the page, I have plenty more Central Asia content in store for you - as well as other adventure tales from the likes of India, Japan, Peru and many many more! Stay tuned for updates on Instagram or subscribe to get the latest on here the moment I post something new.
Previous post: The Dismal Dinner of Bokonbaevo
Comentarios