Karakol, Kyrgyzstan

When I was tetrissing my movements through this part of the world, I knew as if by instinct that Karakol was going to be my kind of place, and I scheduled a prolonged time here. And indeed, it is my kind of place. I freaking love Karakol.  I’ve already taken to calling it Cedar City, Kyrgyzstan:  about the same population as that Utah town, about the same altitude, relative position to the mountains/nature/red rocks, bunches of outdoorsy types milling around, a few Subarus, lots of sheep.

It’s also a much more traditional town, and by “traditional” I mean that Kyrgyz nomadic culture is very much a part of the governing ethos of the place.  There are a lot of people on horses, even in town.  There is a very lively weekly livestock exchange.  There are plenty of yurts in people’s yards, in which they hold social gatherings.

(A very nice yard-yurt)

There’s also a long history of welcome.  The most prominent populations of the welcomed include the Uyghurs and the Dungans.  The Uyghers are perhaps better known to westerners:  Chinese Muslims who’ve fled over the border to the west to escape reprogramming in a crisis that is onoing even today.  The Dungans are probably less familiar.  They are also a community of Chinese Muslims, but their exodus from China was keyed to persecution by Confucianists in the mid-19^th century.  The Dungans arrived in Karakol in large numbers, and brought to this area on the eastern corner of Issyk-Kul an expertise in agriculture.  Where the nomadic Kyrgyz people had primarily lived on livestock and dairy, mushrooms and orchard fruits, the Dungans brought a robust cultivation practice including tomatoes, potatoes, cucumbers, onions, garlic, peppers, cabbage.  They make noodles from wheat and also from bean starches.  The fusion of these two cuisines—the nomadic Kyrgyz and the agrarian Dungan—has led to a very rich culinary culture, of which the Karakol residents are rightly proud.

(Karakol's Dungan mosque, built all of wood, without any nails)

There’s an organization in town called Destination Karakol, which helps connect (mostly English-speaking) tourists with local activities, giving guidance on logistics, marshrutka (minibus) schedules, etc. I was able to book through DK a dinner at a Dungan family’s house.  The family taught the small group of visitors to make some dishes, then served a 6-course meal most of which was grown about 20 steps from where we sat. Dinner was accompanied by a history lesson about the Dungan people, their migration, the cultural practices, their distinct religious observances, and so on.  I’m so glad that I got this opportunity to learn not only about the Dungans but also about Karakol, at the beginning of my time in this community.  It helps me to understand that when I feel welcomed here—and I very much do—I’m part of a very long story of strangers being made at home.

(My hostess teaches guests to make ashlan-fu, which deserves its own post at a later time)

(Dumplings filled with the greens of green onions and garlic)