Saturday, November 7, 2009


8. 

THE LAKE IN THE CHEST

Aidai, the Kochkor CBT coordinator, in a matter of hours arranged a three-day horse trek for 

me to Köl Ukok, the Lake in the Chest, leaving at nine the next morning. That was easy.

Showered and well fed I lay in bed listening to the azan. It was the first time I had heard the Muslim call to prayer since I arrived in Kyrgyzstan.

Most Kyrgyz identify themselves as Muslim, but they don’t strictly adhere to the religion’s five pillars. Gulbaira covered her head, but I never saw her or Assambek pray. They will observe Ramadan, which begins September 1st, meaning that they will get up at four in the morning to eat and then do all those chores with no more food until sunset.

Invading Arab armies brought Islam to Central Asia in the 8th century, but it didn’t become the official religion of what is now Kyrgyzstan until the 10th century.    Shamanism, the indigenous religion, continued to be a potent force; Allah was another god in its pantheon. The Kyrgyz adopted some Muslim rituals like circumcision and celebrating the first anniversary of a person’s death, but weddings and funerals proceeded whether there was a mullah there or not and women didn’t veil.

Islam grew more influential in the early 19th century during the rule of the Khanate of Khokand, particularly in the Fergana Valley in the south where there were large numbers of ethnic Uzbeks who were historically more devout. Its influence peaked in the 1920s, just in time for the Communists and their anti-religious policies to drive it underground.

Glasnost allowed Islam to come out of hiding in Kyrgyzstan and the other Central Asian republics, and since the collapse of the Soviet Union it has flourished once again, but nomads like the Kyrgyz have always worn their religion lightly.  

In the morning I was on my own again. Leaving Kristin, Alina, and my big suitcase behind, I went out to meet a horse.

Two horses were tied to a street sign in front of the CBT office. Tending to them was Cholponbek, or Chopo for short, my guide, a tallish, thin young guy in jeans, a blue windbreaker and slip-on, black, pointy-toed dress shoes.

It was the height of the tourist season and all the English-speaking guides were out with other tourists. We ran through Chopo’s repertoire of English phrases before we were out of Kochkor.  “What is your name?” How old are you?” “I am twenty-one. I have two sisters and one brother.” “My hobby is volleyball. What is your hobby?” The trip could be a quiet one. 

Chopo had a casual riding style. He’d slide his weight to one side of the saddle looking like he was going to slide right out of it, and then slide over to the other side. Sometimes he rotated his hips so that his upper body was facing sideways rather than straight ahead. And his horse pooped all the time. I don’t know if it had a problem or was trying to make me envious.

We followed Kochkorskaya Road out of town towards the mountains, passing white-washed houses with light blue trim that were right out of a fairy tale. The wood trim around the windows and along the eaves was cut into patterns of triangles and half circles. In-laid tiles and mirrors or bas-reliefs of traditional Kyrgyz designs, even the hammer and sickle, decorated the sides of some houses. The roofs were hipped or gabled using wood or corrugated steel. For the gables long, narrow slats of wood were arrayed vertically, horizontally and diagonally. Blue and white picket fences enclosed gardens in which grew sunflowers, dahlias, marigolds, cosmos, and apple trees heavy with fruit.

As we got further out of town the houses were set further apart and had been left the natural plaster color, but the trim was still painted light blue. Some had flats roofs and exposed wooden beams reminiscent of the pueblo style popular back home. And then I saw it: hollyhocks against an adobe wall, the clichéd postcard image of New Mexico. 

Leaving the road behind, we headed across wheat fields crisscrossed by gushing ariks. The water had been diverted from the Shamen River whose valley we would ascend to reach Köl Ukok.

The lake is described as alpine, but as the trail climbed up into the mountains, I saw nothing that brought the Alps to mind. The ground was sandy and rocky, dotted with tufts of coarse grass and bushes with sharp leaves and gnarled branches. The only trees were the ones that lined the banks of the river well below us.

The lake can only be reached by horse or on foot, there are no roads, and I felt very far from civilization; only momentarily it turned out, for around a bend appeared another guide returning from the lake with his sole charge and talking on his cell phone.

The trail led us higher and higher; the grass becoming thicker, more carpet-like. Herds of cows and sheep grazed on the green slopes. Flowers appeared. Purple was the most popular color: pale purple asters; clusters of bell-shaped, violet flowers; delicate purple-petaled flowers laced with darker purple veins; fat thistles. A variety of dandelion on a long, thin stem with a cluster of flowers at the top added touches of yellow to the scene. Now it was like the Alps.

We had been riding for almost six hours. I realized too late that my stirrups were too short and my knees were throbbing. We arrived at a rocky hill, the rocks covered with rust colored lichen; on the other side was the lake. The path among the rocks was no more than a few inches wide. I hoped Sherdar, my horse, who had occasionally stumbled during our ascent, wouldn’t stumble now.

From the top of the hill, the turquoise lake spread out before us, much larger than I expected. The near end of the valley was narrow, its sides rising steeply, the path just hanging on. It widened as we approached the far shore where a few yurt camps were set up, their chimneys gaily pumping out grey smoke against the cold. The temperature had dropped dramatically and the sky had issued a threat or two of rain or snow, but hadn’t yet followed through.

Chopo pointed to a yurt far from the lake as the one where we were going to stay. I felt a pang of disappointment; I had come to see the sunrise over the lake. “Try to be like the Central Asians, Liz, just roll with it,” I encouraged myself. “I will find something wonderful about the location.” And in the morning I did. Looking out from the high banks of the shallow river that ran by our yurt to the lake in the near distance was more beautiful than the lake itself.

Altanbek, Kenje, their son Zulkar, twelve, and daughter Nursia, nine, were our hosts. Their camp consisted of a yurt and a canvas tent where the cooking was done and where the family slept when they had guests.

In a week or two they would be leaving this jailoo for one farther down the mountain, and then in October, they would return to their village for the winter.

Yurt is the Turkic word for “dwelling” or “home.” It was the Russians who applied the term specifically to the portable domed structure of the steppe nomads.

In Kyrgyz it is called boz üy meaning “grey house” taken from the color of the felt. So entwined is it with national identity that the tunduk, the wooden circle with six crossed poles that frames the yurt’s smoke hole, is the emblem of the Kyrgyz flag.

The yurt is designed for mobility and easy set up and dismantling. Poplar poles called kanats are bent and attached with leather nails or straps to the kerege, a circular concertina framework of wood. Chiy, woven reed mats, are used to line the kerege, and the exterior of the whole structure is covered with heavy felt rugs held in place by ropes tied to stakes in the ground.

The er jak (left side) is the man’s side of the yurt, where all horse tack and hunting gear is stored. The epche jak (right side) is the woman’s, where the stove and kitchen equipment are set up. Nowadays, many families have separate tents for the kitchen. The juk is opposite the door and all bedding and carpets are kept there, usually stacked atop a brightly decorated chest.

If the family has money, the interior may be decorated with beautiful and colorful appliquéd felt rugs called shyrdaks and with long, narrow, weavings hanging down from the tunduk and tied to the kanats.

Altanbek and Kenge’s yurt was not a deluxe model.


photos: (1) Köl Ukok, (2) A view from the yurt, (3) Zulkar and friend

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