The shock of theater culture in Bishkek

Going to the theater in Bishkek is always entertaining and not only because the tickets are affordable and the performances enjoyable (accept for that rendition of Carmen . . . shudder). No, the theater is great fun because the audience provides endless, awful distraction. Here are some examples.

During a ballet performance of Giselle at the Opera-Ballet Theater, audience members wearing gowns and wrapped in furs answered their phones (which rang at regular volume) to say, “Sorry, I can’t talk right now! I’m in the theater. Yeah, the ballet. It’s pretty good. Okay, okay . . . call you later.” My friend Nora and I – solid plebeians in our own country – cursed the uncultured oafs throughout the performance.


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The theater may be beautiful, but it is filled with chattering plebians.

On another occasion, I went to see a professional Swiss violinist at the Philharmonic who was performing with members of the Kyrgyz National Orchestra. The woman sitting behind us – who attended alone and was clearly a music lover – searched noisily through her plastic bag for snacks through the performance. Every time I leaned back to let the power and beauty of the music sink in – rustle, rustle, rustle; munch, munch, munch. Perhaps classical music is best enjoyed with potato chips?

However, the coup de grace was seeing The Hunger Games at Ala Too Theater. While I’d assumed that movie theater culture couldn’t possibly be more annoying than it was at formal performances, I was wrong. The movie was a free-for-all, with audience members answering their phones, talking loudly with one another without cease, and stomping up and down the steps during important scenes. Rue is dying, you say? Sorry I didn’t notice. I was too busy listening to my neighbor’s telephone conversation.

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Ala Too Movie Theater, haunt of gossiping teens and jigits being jigits.

This approach to theater is a cultural difference that I will learn to live with, but not adopt. I firmly believe that, out of respect for the artists and the cost of the tickets, theaters should be free of cell phones. Conversations – when necessary – should be whispered. If it’s not a medical emergency, what could possibly be so important that it necessitates disrupting everyone else’s experience?  

The mad genius of geographers past

As we approached the roadblock, the marshutka driver turned and shouted, "Quick! Get down!" Without understanding what was happening, I scrunched down in my seat. "Lower!" the driver demanded. I scooted uncomfortably low, my head squashed in my neighbor's lap.

At the roadblock, the Uzbek border guard stuck his head in the driver's window. "Tajiklar bormi?" he asked ("Are there Tajiks?").

"No, only Kyrgyz," the driver replied. The militia officer waved us on.

"You can sit-up now," the driver said. I stretched-out in my seat and looked around. "Now we are in Uzbekistan! In about 20 minutes, you need to get low again." Uzbekistan looked strangely similar to Kyrgyzstan.

Whoever drew the borders in the Ferghana Valley was either a mad genius or an inept geographer. Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan come together in a tangled mash with international borders twisting around one another. In the border mess, Tajik communities are in Kyrgyzstan, Kyrgyz communities are in Tajikistan, and Uzbek communities are everywhere. To further complicate matters, there are six foreign enclaves - four Uzbek and two Tajik. The Uzbek enclaves are largely populated by ethnic Tajiks; the Tajik enclaves are populated by Tajiks and Kyrgyz. And, because a geographer past looked at the Ferghana Valley and saw a joke that would only be hilarious in the future, the only good road from Osh to Batken travels through Uzbekistan and several enclaves.

Those with Kyrgyz passports can transit Uzbekistan and the enclaves without a visa. As a foreigner, I would need a transit visa to do so legally. Yet, the Uzbek border guards are apparently only interested in Tajik travelers, who they shake down for bribes on their way to and from the markets in Kyrgyzstan. Unfortunately, the Tajik enclaves are so strict that foreigners without transit visas have to drive the unimproved roads around them, adding hours to the journey.

Still in Uzbekistan, the driver told me to get low again as we approached the border crossing back into Kyrgyzstan, but in vain. This time, the Kyrgyz border guard opened the van door and demanded all of our passports. "Tajikter barbi?" he asked ("Are there Tajiks?"). Again, the driver stated that there were no Tajiks in our car. After checking our passports, the guard waved us on. The Kyrgyz border guards also bribe Tajiks on their way to the markets.

After about eight hours of overland travel from Osh to Batken (hours added to bypass the enclaves), I determined to find a direct flight the next time regardless of the cost. And I pitied the Tajik traders who lose on all borders and can't afford the luxury of a flight. The mad genius or inept geographer really screwed things up for the southern economy.

Four days in Batken

As a Peace Corps Volunteer, Batken was forbidden to us. Some years ago, members of the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan (IMU) kidnapped American and Japanese climbers in two separate incidents. Because of this, Batken was deemed dangerous and, to me, it became like a blank hole on my map of Kyrgyzstan. My site-mate Sean and I used to joke that Batken was where we’d find all of the glorious things that we’d been missing – Starbucks, McDonalds (yes, McDonalds), washing machines.

Now that I’m no longer in the direct employ of the Department of State, I was free to travel to Batken last week. After four days there, I can say that it is no longer a blank hole on my map, but neither is it the land of glorious things.

Batken City is a large, dusty village consisting of two, very short, paved streets, an intersection with a statue, and a litter-strewn park. Rather than permanent structures, many of the shops are converted shipping containers. A short distance away from the paved streets, winding, dusty neighborhoods spread out in every direction. Women wear headscarves, men wear kalpaks or the Uzbek do’ppi, and groups of Central Asia gypsies – the Lyuli – travel from house to house hawking their scrap metal. Simply put, it’s very different to Bishkek.

Yet, there is beauty here. The city is surrounded by agricultural fields and, beyond those, stunning mountains. I’ve regularly heard doves in the trees, which takes me pleasantly back to vacations in England. And, perhaps best of all, the shashleek is abundant and cheap.

I’ll be back in Batken for two weeks in April, though I won’t be spending my time in the city. My Research Assistant, Rahat, and I will be staying in a village nestled up against a Tajik enclave (more on those later) while we conduct research on women’s land rights. More to come on rural life in Batken in two weeks!