Phantoms of the Opera

The neo-classical façade of Bishkek’s ballet and opera house looks a little out of place surrounded as it is by concrete, Soviet municipal architecture and the characterless front of the Hyatt hotel. The opera house stands as a solitary reminder that the Russians did not arrive in Kyrgyzstan only in the wake of the Communist Revolution; the city had been a Russian garrison since the middle of the 19^th century. A love of the Russian ballet and European opera has endured despite a century of dramatic social and political change.

The Soviet Union, already a generation into the past, also left its indelible mark on Bishkek’s opera house. As you climb the stairs from the main lobby to the balcony, the ceiling is painted with a brilliantly coloured fresco. However, whereas one might expect the usual buxom nymphs, bacchae or cherubs to be frolicking across the ceiling, instead you are met by the smiling faces of the Soviet Union's numerous ethnic groups - the happy peasant is alive and well.

The Cold War’s separation of the USSR from western Europe influenced not only the fabric of the opera house but also the productions on its stage. Touring companies came only from within the Soviet Union and the new works premiered almost all originated in Moscow. Operas with supposedly bourgeoisie plots or morals were out of favour; in fact, Mozart’s famous opera The Magic Flute did not get its Central Asian premiere until it was performed in Bishkek in 2002.

Even today, the cast of the ballet gives testament to Central Asia’s turbulent past. Among the ballerinas are not only Kyrgyz and Russian dancers but also, quite unexpectedly, Koreans. Koreans were forcefully resettled from the most eastern parts of the USSR to Central Asia in a bid to prevent them joining forces with the Chinese and conspiring against Moscow. Although many of Kyrgyzstan’s ethnic minorities have emigrated since independence in 1991, the existence of a disproportionate number of Korean restaurants in Bishkek is a reminder of their former presence. 

Last but not least, the phantom of the USSR stalks the opera house bar in the form of Georgian champagne. Incredibly cheap, incredibly sweet and not always all that palatable, Georgian wines and champagnes were the mainstay of a Russian or Central Asian cellar throughout the 20^th century. Trade embargos prevented European, Californian or South African vineyards selling wines to the USSR, so the Soviets were entirely at the mercy of the Georgian growers. Whatever they grew, regardless of quality, was quickly sold and the habit has not yet been kicked: warm, sweet champagne remains the drink of choice in the opera house bar.

Back in the USSR: Introducing Kyrgyzstan

Kyrgyzstan is a country with a distinctly split personality. High altitude gold mines, Lexus 4x4s and brash Russian lake resorts appear to herald a Las Vegas of the steppe, but they stand side by side with nomads in yurts, un-spoilt landscapes, and the genetic descendants of Genghis Khan. This eclectic mix makes it hard to pin down a single national identity for Kyrgyzstan, but ensure it is a fascinating destination for those willing to make the trip.

We first arrived in Kyrgyzstan almost by accident, becoming stranded in the capital, Bishkek, after particularly heavy snowfall. 93% of the country is mountainous and, in places, the snow never melts. Bishkek, however, usually enjoys slightly warmer climes and its partly for that reason that the city has been able to grow from a tiny 19^th century Russian garrison town into a buzzing metropolis today. Although geographically to the north of Kyrgyzstan, Bishkek is very much the country’s heart: economically, politically and culturally, almost everything is centered around the capital.

Its in Bishkek that Kyrgyzstan’s Russian side is most clearly evident. The Bolshevik military leader, Mikhail Frunze, was born here, the capital used to be named in his honour, and a street and museum still bears his name. Statues of Marx and Lenin are noticeably more conspicuous than in other post-Soviet states, and a visit to the State Historical Museum will introduce you to a fabulous Cold War relic: a cowboy clad in stars and stripes, riding high on a Pershing missile. For those with an interest in high-culture, the National Opera House, built prior to the Russian Revolution, is housed in a charming neo-classical building and hosts regular performances of opera and ballet by local and visiting troupes.

When the weekend comes, Kyrgyzstan’s elite head out west to join Russian and Kazakh tourists in resorts on the shores of Lake Issyk Kul. This volcanically heated lake is the second largest alpine lake in the world (after Lake Titicaca), and during the long summer the beaches are packed with beautiful bodies sunning themselves: think of it as Central Asia’s Monaco. If sunbathing isn’t your thing, you can befriend an oligarch with a gin palace, climb onboard a banana boat  or even go hunting for the remains of Soviet torpedoes and ancient cities buried beneath the waves.

Kyrgyzstan’s second side is distinctly quieter: it lacks the bling and the noise but, in spite of that, it is all the more enthralling. Wide open landscapes, unclimbed peaks and pristine glaciers beckon those prepared to leave the roads and continue on foot or on horseback. You won’t find a single hotel here: your hosts are the nomads in their tents, villagers in single-storey houses, and, if you choose to camp, the hillsides themselves. This is an ancient land, traversed by pilgrims, traders and travelers for thousands of years. When you climb into the mountains, you leave the present behind you and see the legacy of those who have gone before: pagan shrines with flags and goat skulls, Buddhist rock carvings, and distant look-out posts.

To understand the traditional spirit of Kyrgyzstan, you should look no further than a horse. The Kyrgyz say that a horse is the soul of a man and that it can carry him up into the heavens. Children can ride as soon as they can walk, and adrenalin-fuelled displays of horsemanship will garner a man respect. Whether you’re a Grand National winning jockey or a complete novice, you should take to the saddle for a few days, go well beyond the beaten track, and get up close and personal with nature. The mountains loom overhead, golden eagles soar, and snow leopards, Marco Polo sheep and ibex stalk the passes. There are no creature comforts up here, so bathe in the thermal springs and sleep each night on a pile of rugs in a round felt yurt, the traditional nomadic tent. The physical exertion may tire your body, but the peacefulness  revitalizes mind and soul.

Kyrgyzstan is yet to fully open up to tourism, and this is its beauty. The terrain is pristine, the people genuinely hospitable, and you won’t compete for space with tour buses and school groups. Now is the time to go, however, as things are set to change. Relative political and economic stability is attracting attention and investment from China and Russia, not to mention western powers. Multi-million dollar plans for ski resorts, shopping malls and super casinos loom large on the horizon and, although they may fit with some aspects of Kyrgyzstan, they risk engulfing the other parts altogether. Pack up your boots and phrasebook, and get on the plane.

Photos C. Tracing Tea 2008-2010

 

Insight into Bishkek

The advantage of taking an interest in some of the more weird and wonderful parts of the world is that, every so often, someone else comes across you and thinks (rightly or wrongly) that you must be an expert. It's a huge compliment, if occasionally a little worrying, but you do your best to answer their questions and say something vaguely intelligible.
Having stomped around the remoter parts of Central Asia for protracted periods since 2008, Max and I are now considered sufficiently expert to talk and write about most of the 'Stans, and the questions come thick and fast on subjects as diverse as gold mining, felt production and the new Great Game. Of all the subjects presented to us, the one we've become most comfortable with is tourism.
We arrived in Bishkek for the first time in November 2008.The snow had come down unexpectedly early and the temperature had plummeted to a gnawing 25 below freezing, orries had jack-knifed on the roads and the country seemed poised to hibernate through the long, harsh months ahead.
Three years on the Kyrgyz winter is no less frightful but we've learned to manage the cold.  Thick furs, a moral dilemma on the streets of London or New York, are as essential as a bobble hat and shoes: fashion has little to do with it. Springtime thaw brings with it new life as the parks burst into emerald green, but freed from the focus on surviving through the nights, politics, greed and ambition take the chance to rear their ugly heads.
Putting Kyrgyzstan's troubles for once to one side, we worked last night on the first words of a new travel guide for Insight / Berlitz. Thanks to Bradt we're no stranger to the travel guide format, but it was a strange and unexpectedly positive experience to look again in detail at a place we not only know intimately but love and hate in equal measure.
The first challenge, as is often the case, was how to squeeze the essence of a dynamic, if occasionally psychotic, city and its 3/4million inhabitants into 250 words or so. Whatever is written cannot hope to do justice to a fraction of the city, but something must still be put on paper to give readers a microscopic taste of what might be in store.
Introduction complete, we turned our attention to the city's sites: if you were simply passing trough Bishkek for a day or so, unlikely to ever return, which few things best explain the place, its past and its people? I chose, after much deliberation, the opera and ballet theatre with its elegant facade and enthusiastically performed programme of Russian favourites; two Soviet-era museums replete with Lenin memorabilia, stuffed animals and life-sized yurts; and the White House.
Unlke its more famouse namesake, the seven concrete storeys of Bishkek's presidential adminitration share more in common with an NCP carpark than a seat of national power. Iron railings keep the populace at bay and all too recently those who crosed this unholy threshold have been met with snipers' bullets. Informal emorials to the fallen continue to cling to he ironwork, holding on somewhat longer than those whose lives they recall.