We had about a week left to get to the Chinese border on time. We wanted to get close enough to the Irkeshtam border post, such that if there were any mechanical problems or road blockages we would not be delayed. Yet we were hesitant to get to Osh too early, in case any ethnic tensions reignited. So we made a plan to hang out halfway in the tiny city of Jalalabad for a couple of nights. This was the plan, but the chief navigator (that’s me) was struck by a case of verbal diarrhoea that morning and in distraction completely overshot Jalalabad (no not the famous curry house in Hereford…my navigation was not that off!). Fifteen minutes later I realised my mistake ascertaining that the large village we had driven past earlier was probably in fact the city of Jalalabad. That said, Col was on a roll and taking it as a bit of a sign, we decided to throw caution out the window, bite the bullet and push onto Osh, tempted by the thought of free-wifi, pizza and hot showers and reassured by the latest local reports that things were indeed stable there.
We had a surprisingly smooth ride through the Fergana Valley -Kyrgyzstan’s flatter and hotter agricultural belt- that morning and were feeling quite relaxed. However as we neared Osh the feeling changed. Firstly we noticed a few UN vehicles on the road as well as more police checks, but it wasn’t until we began entering the city via the eastern Uzbek enclave that we were in for the rudest shock. Without warning, on both sides of the road, where there had been quaint donkey carts and farms moments earlier, now stood a sea of burnt out shells – the remains of houses and businesses torched in the June-violence. This stretched out for about two kilometres and scarily not one house appeared to be spared. An eerie silence fell over Miranda and the reality of what had happened made us feel sick in our stomachs. It reminded me of the ease in which we can remove ourselves from horrific events unfolding around the world, with the flick of a television switch. Now as we came face to face with the darker side of human nature, it was not possible to switch off. The memory of what we saw stayed with us for the rest of our time in Kyrgyzstan and the thought brings back chills even now.
As we crossed the river which dissects the city into east and west a distinct air of normality returned. The western halve is home to the mostly Kyrgyz majority (who surprisingly only make up 60% of Osh’s population) and thus had spared the damage inflicted to the east. Despite the presence of the odd tank in the street or Russian soldier, locals were out in droves, traffic seemed to have returned to its typical chaotic central asian-self and for the first time we were able to marvel at some of the cities sights – most notably a huge statue of Lenin and the domineering Solomons Rock – a sight of pilgrimage for Muslim’s, as the Prophet Mohammad had apparently once dropped by to pray there. Moreover, as Osh was a key crossroads on the Silk route (estimated to be 3000 years old or older than Rome) and had even been the centre of silk production in the 8th century BC, we were actually very excited to be there.We decided that a little guesthouse tucked away out of sight from the main road, beside the river, was the most “low key” place for us to stay in Osh, in case anything flared up downtown. However because it was so well hidden we needed some help in finding it and in asking for directions, accidentally enlisted the help of one over-enthusiastic local, who just happened to be quite drunk and didn’t hesitate to barrel himself into our car and squeeze in beside me. The local, who nicknamed himself as “the love guru” (and reminded Col of his good friend Del) was probably a great relationship councillor, but a terrible navigator – proposing that the best way for us to drive Miranda to the guesthouse was via an unfeasibly narrow pedestrian bridge riddled with bollards. That said, he was actually quite a funny bloke, a local university football coach, whose greatest crime was probably nailing one too many post-independence day vodkas. After a few more u-turns we eventually made it and we presume the Love Guru made it back to the pub.
Tess Guesthouse became our home away from home for the next five nights. It sat in a delightful little spot, surrounded by lush vegetation (it was here that we excitedly spotted our first snake). The whole place had such a relaxed vibe - I was able to use their kitchen to cook dinners and the complimentary buffet breakfast (the best in Central Asia) was set around one communal table so it was a great way to meet other guests, most notably Gulia a Kyrgyz lady from Lake Issy-kul (thankyou for the beers, kind words and great conversation!) The staff were also very warm and friendly. They accompanied us around town to help us do the shopping (yes it was time for another bulk purchase of cereal), service our car and try to fix our broken window (unfortunately the necessary spare part was missing).
Incidentally, Tess also doubled as the NGO base for humanitarian organisations and it was here that we became well acquainted with the delightful Juan and Pablo from ACF. The pair worked tirelessly for ACF and not only restored my faith in the credibility of humanitarian organisations, with their genuine concern and interest in helping the people, but they were also an entertaining couple of guys. E.g. Their impersonation of visiting a Russian nightclub and beating a Black Mamba snake in the Congo story, still makes us smile.
On a more sombre note, the guys’ account of the situation in Osh, coupled with some local Uzbek’s very personal and chilling stories on the events that had unfolded in June, reminded us of the challenges that the citizens face in order to rebuild their country, make amends and move on from the horrors of the ethnic violence. We had felt very safe at Tess in the warm and cosy environment, but this safety was an illusion and in fact we were in the eye of the storm. In reality it was still very tense in Osh. Unlike other accommodation we had visited in Kyrgyzstan, Tess was located in quite a secure compound. Uzbek people were worried to let their kids walk home from school alone and no longer felt safe at work or in their homes. Even that Pizza Col and I had been craving proved to be too difficult to order in the end, as a curfew was still in place and no one wanted to deliver a pizza in the dark. It seemed that everyone was waiting for the next episode to kick off and in the case of the Uzbek people, driven by fear for their families’ safety, had already begun emigrating to Russia in droves, not because they wanted to leave their homes, but because they felt they had no choice. Col and I thoroughly enjoyed our time in Osh, but we also know that we were very lucky, to have visited it at a time when things were relatively stable. Even now with looming elections no one really knows what is going to happen.
On our last day in Osh I wondered what Stalin would have to say about the current problems in Kyrgyzstan. During Russian occupation of Central Asia, Stalin was supposedly responsible for drawing up the crazy jigsaw borders (which haphazardly divide each Stan from one another today) with little disregard to ethnic heritage. The Kyrgyz were traditionally a nomadic people and had only begun permanently settling in the flatter, southern Kyrgyzstan region in the latter half of last century, whereas the south was traditionally an Uzbek stronghold. If Uzbekistan had been drawn up differently, to include this southern part of Kyrgyzstan, would things be different today? An old adage sprung to mind again. If things happened for a reason, have there ever been or would there ever be a ‘silver lining’ or positive outcome of this arrangement? Could the Kyrgyz and Uzbek live alongside in peace again? Only time will tell.
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