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New record label from a Russian town we passed through

We have fond memories of getting completely lost trying to navigate our way through the southern Russian city of Krasnodar after we crossed over from the Crimea and plodded along toward western Kazakhstan. Definitely one of our navigational FAIL moments, we probably lost 2 hours trying to figure out how to get back to the right road once we found ourselves heading toward Moskow instead of Astrakhan. The whole thing probably would have been much less stressful if we had access to some of these soothing electronic tunes from new Krasnodar label, Sub Amp.

Our favorite audio blog covering all parts of the former USSR, Far From Moscow reports on the new label, and have posted a number of excellent tracks for your listening pleasure on their site. Enjoy.

In the meantime, we are putting the finishing touches on our Kickstarter backer rewards, and starting to drop those into the mail this week (though this may take time considering the hundreds of backers we had. and we love you all). We’ll be back soon with a new podcast from Kyrgyzstan, and some fresh blog posts.

Happy listening, and drive carefully!

Apr 04, 2012 | Categories: Russia | Leave A Comment »

Food poisoning, crack dens and swimming pools: the highs and lows of eastern Uzbekistan (August 12-14, 2011)

View Burkara to Andijon in a larger map

Our second evening in Burkhara was a rough one. Three members of our crew had contracted food poisoning the previous day at the lovely pondside restaurant. The next morning, the troops emerged looking haggard, either from having been up all night with illness, or having been up all night helping someone who was ill. It was a sad, and rather green scene, as we paid up, and prepared to leave the lovely gueshouse. Russian visa expirations were looming in the not too distant future for some of our group, and we had a lot more ground to cover before we would reach Mongolia.

We pressed onto Samarkand, and found the city full of visitors preparing to celebrate the country’s 30th independence anniversary in a couple weeks. There was a shortage of available, affordable rooms, but we managed to hole our group into a charming place that had decent plumbing — still a necessity for our team. Unfortunately, our memories of the UNESCO World Heritage city are marred by the plight of our fallen comrades, two suddenly inoperable audio recorders (we were convinced the Uzkeb president placed a hex on them so we would not record audio of the independence celebration rehearsals, which were audible, though heavily guarded by armed soldiers), and very little time.

Pushing on early the next day, our goal was to get past Tashkent by mid-afternoon. We wanted to avoid being trapped in one of Central Asia’s largest metropolises, and risk losing even more precious time. Fortunately, the roads were good, and to our delight, there was the sudden presence of functioning petrol stations! We stopped at one that looked to have a particularly nice-looking restroom (always a plus, especially as at least one or two people were still a bit ill, despite beginning a regiment of antibiotics).

A couple of chatty locals, a father and son duo, struck up a conversation with us, and Miki, the team’s sole Russian speaker, carried on with them for a few minutes. They mixed in a bit of English, and started chatting with the rest of us. Seeing that some of us were couples, the older man, the father of the younger, asked Miki which woman was his. When Miki replied that his girlfriend was back in Australia, and that he had not seen her in over three weeks, the father dramatically exclaimed, “How can you suffer for SO long?!” He pressed Miki further, in an exchange that went something like this:

Father: How many [gesturing by slapping repeatedly the open palm of one hand against the side of the closed fist of the other] do you have at one time?

Miki: Excuse me?

Father: How many women do you have at one time? Me, I have two women. My wife, and my girlfriend. This is my son, he also has two. How about you?

He seemed disappointed when Miki replied that he only [fist slapping gesture] one woman at a time. Then he proceeded to call his son’s wife, an English teacher, and put her on the phone with me. I restrained the urge to ask if she was friends with the other woman.

I note this stop at the petrol station because the exchange with the father and son resulted in two important additions to our Mongol Rally vocabulary from that point on: our mantra (How can you suffer…) and the fist slapping gesture, which we found was understood universally in the region. We had a be careful when we were joking around with each other from now on.

We only got a little lost navigating the ring road around Tashkent, and managed to clear the city about an hour before nightfall. Now our only challenge would be finding a place to stay the night. There were no major towns for the next 100 km, a distance we could not manage by nightfall. Camping was not an option, as it was illegal in Uzbekistan, and this area was heavily trafficed. As the sun set, we were passing through a town, and decided to stop and see if there were any hotels that could accept foreigners. A young man who spoke excellent English outside a cafe offered to set us up in an apartment. He took three of our crew in his car down a dark road to an imposing block of Soviet-style apartments. We went into the apartment, and took a very quick, cursory glance around: three bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen. Yes, there would be enough room for all of us. We accepted.

This turned out to be one of the worst decisions of the trip. We realized upon our return that the place was filthy. The single toilet didn’t flush (bear in mind we were 8 people, one of whom still had to spend significant time near a toilet), it was sweltering and airless, and to top it off, used needles were found in the trash can of one of the bedrooms. We suffered through a miserable night, and got ourselves ready to go early the next morning, terrified that the guy who brought us there wouldn’t return to take us to our vehicles (parked in a secure garage a couple miles away). He did in fact return, and proceeded to over charge us excessively, but we were so relieved to be out of there, that we paid him and tried to hold back our complaints, saying we didn’t sleep well because of the heat.

Back on the road, we passed through a beautiful, mountainous autonomous region, which slowed us town due to immigration controls on either side. Fortunately, the roads were good, and we made record time. We were planning to clear the Kyrgyz border by evening, when James announced that he couldn’t go on, and needed to see a doctor. We stopped at the next town we came to, and eventually found the hospital. The very nice doctors and nurses working on that Sunday afternoon gave him an arsenal of medications and a rehydrating IV drip, and sent us on our way. It seemed to have a much welcomed, immediate healing effect.

A good night’s rest was definitely in order before any border crossings were attempted, so we decided to stop in the eastern Uzbek city of Andijon, capitol of the ethnically diverse Fergana Valley region, and sadly famous for being the site of a horrific massacre in 2005, when the Uzbek military opened fire on protestors. Some estimates put the dead at 5,000. Today Andijon is peaceful, though we understand scarred by this not too distant memory.

Andijon turned out to be an oasis at the end of a topsy-turvy week in Uzbekistan thanks to the majestically fabulous Villa Elegant hotel. Described by our Lonely Planet guidebook as, “Andijon’s most comfortable option,” we were certainly intrigued and in need of some comfort after our night at the crack den. What we found far exceeded our wildest dreams. Positively palatial rooms, bathrooms as big as my entire NYC apartment, a SWIMMING POOL, and beer! We were in heaven. And we deserved it.

Best. Uzbek. Hotel. Ever

Clean, refreshed, and happily awaiting Uz-Turk burgers!

Mar 13, 2012 | Categories: Central Asia, Regions, Uzbekistan | Tags: hospital, illness, mongol rally, Uzbek, uzbekistan | Leave A Comment »

O’zbek in the (former) U.S.S.R

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In 1991, with the collapse of the Soviet Union, hundreds of thousands of Bukharan Jews left their homeland after 70 years of Soviet oppression and a new ugly rise in Uzbek nationalism. Most ended up in Israel, but around 60,000 found their way to Rego Park and Forest Hills in Queens. If you live in the city and pay close enough attention, you can catch a performance by the Bukharan Jewish Ensemble Shashmaqam, which apparently contains some of the finest living Bukharan musicians.

Shashmaqam is a 500-year-old strain of Central Asian classical music that sprouted in Bukhara. It is based in the six (shash) Persian musical modes (maqam) and the lyrics are mostly adapted from Sufi poetry and usually sung in Uzbek or Tajik. Track ten, however, is exceptional. It is a canonical shashmaqam song with lyrics taken from a Hebrew poem and sung by a Bukharan Jewish singer (now living in Queens) accompanied on the kashgar rebab by his Muslim mentor. Over the centuries, as Bukharan Muslim and Jewish musicians have cross pollinated, shashmaqam has taken on characteristics of klezmer and Hasidic Jewish music. Track five is from the Bukharan Jewish Ensemble Shashmaqam’s fantastic Smithsonian Folkways Recording.

Karakalpakstan, the autonomous region of Western Uzbekistan is one of the remotest, most barren places in the world, but it seems to have developed a proud and vibrant DIY pop music scene. Tracks three and six make great use of rudimentary MIDI technology. Track six, with its haunting synth melody and heavy reverb, has a particularly mournful, ominous quality.

Tracks four and eight are personal recommendations for Uzbek pop from our good friend Aziz. Great tunes!

We’ve also included three tracks from a pair of discs of traditional music we picked up in Khiva. We have no meaningful information about them, but they’re really lovely, especially track 7.

Track Listing

1. Tofakhon with Ensemble Nozanin - Shod-i Uforash and Ufor-i Tezash: Dilbaram Shumo (-41:20)

An example of sozanda. Traditional Uzbek dance music usually performed by women at formal celebrations and characterized by its call-and-response singing. This performance is unusual in that men and women perform together.

2. Unknown – Unknown (-39:24)

From a disc we picked up in Khiva. We know nothing about it other than the cryptic word “Mypog” scrawled across the front.

3. Sveta Shiniqulova - Ovora bo’lmang (-34:20)

4. Ozodbek Nazarbekov - Kundan kun yahshi (-30:07)

5. Bukharan Jewish Ensemble Shashmaqam - Dostanra Gum Makun (-26:02)

6. Da’libai Ma’mbetmuratov - Keldim (-23:00)

7. Sherzod - Istamas (-19:46)

8. Yulduz Usmanova - Mard Yigit (-14:54)

9. Unknown – Unknown (-10:21)

From the same disc as track 2.

10. Ochil Ibragimov and Suleiman Takhalov - Mogulcha-i Dugah (-5:21)

Mar 06, 2012 | Categories: Central Asia, Regions, Uzbekistan | Tags: Bukhara, Bukharan Jews, Karakalpakstan, Khiva, mongol rally, Shashmaqam, uzbekistan, Uzbekistan Pop Music | Leave A Comment »

Bukhara, Uzbekistan – “With Aziz, anything is possible!” (August 10-12, 2011)

After two nights in Khiva, we made our way to Bukhara. It was a brutal day of driving, 250 km that alternated from awful, pothole-ridden old road to road that had been completely torn up in preparation for the new road that was being constructed alongside. The gleaming smooth slab of white cement that awaited its final paving only magnified our frustration as we struggled along at 20 mph. The behemoth blue Willi Betz trucks that regularly blew past us were having a far better time of it. The German transport company won a lucrative NATO contract to haul supplies from Riga, Latvia to operations in Afghanistan via Uzbekistan and we wondered whether the new highway wasn’t being built more for their benefit than your regular Joe Uzbek.

We finally rolled into Bukhara at dusk and made it to within a kilometer of our hotel when our rear right tire blew. We’d probably damaged it somewhere when the road was at its worst, but by some uncanny stroke of luck, it held out until we got to the city and we weren’t left stranded in the desert. That sense of luck was heightened when we tried to put the donut on only to realize that it too was flat. As we contemplated how to get the car that last mile or so to the hotel, our crowning bit of good fortune found us.

A white Chevrolet Nexus pulled in front of us and put its hazards on. A tall, confident nineteen-year-old kid strode toward us and asked in excellent English how he could help us. At that point, we weren’t really sure that he could, so we politely thanked him and told him we would be ok. He was having none of it. We soon learned that his name is Aziz and that, “with Aziz, anything is possible in Uzbekistan.” He summed up his eagerness to help us. “Cars are my life. Not my hobby, my life. You are real drivers. You drive all the way to Mongolia, so I help you.” He made some phone calls, we tossed the bad tire and rim into his trunk along with the donut and one of our spares and he took me to a tiny tire shop that was somehow still open at 11 PM. They put our spare on the rim and balanced it and we drove back to where the car was stranded. We were back on the road within 30 minutes of his finding us. The next day, he sacrificed the better part of his afternoon taking us to the tire bazaar and negotiating an unbelievable price for two new spare rims and a new spare tire. He then helped us find some decent gasoline before heading off to a friend’s birthday party. Aziz walked away with the prize for Uzbekistan MVP, and was certainly on the podium for Rally MVP by the time we made it to Ulaan Bataar.

Unfortunately, our adventures in Bukhara getting our car sorted meant that we weren’t able to see much of what was clearly a beautiful city. The morning after we arrived, we had a couple of hours to explore (and try to find cash) before we had arranged to meet Aziz. We saw what we could of the city, and sat down to a lunch of shashlik and plov at a shaded cafe in one of the central squares.

When we got back from our successful trip to the tire bazaar and gas station, it was time to get the fourth member of our crew to the airport for her flight to Tashkent and eventually home to New York. From when we finally managed to find her in Odessa, Jamie had joined us for two of the most intense, but ultimately rewarding weeks of the rally. At times it seemed like there was no way we would get her home on time, and as she passed through security, I detected, or maybe projected, a mixture of relief and fond reflection.

As the sun was setting, I walked out to the taxi stand and after some hard bargaining, got a price on a shared taxi that I was comfortable with. As we approached the old city, however, it became clear that the driver had no idea where he was going. After a couple of phone calls, he shoved his phone at me and an English-speaking friend tried to jack the fare up. I refused and he ended up dropping me at the entrance to the maze of alleys where our guest house was located. After a few wrong turns and dead ends, I got my bearings and made it back to the hotel in time to join the rest of our convoy for our trip to the Uzbek bath house for massages.

The reception area at the bath house was a dark, stone-vaulted room with threadbare carpet and wood partitions separating the changing area. The ladies were led off somewhere else to change, and we gentlemen got into our swim trunks and were taken through a low stone corridor into a second, smaller vaulted chamber with a raised stone slab in the center and a cave-like hollow with a raised floor to the left. These turned out to be the massage tables. To the right, this room adjoined a wet sauna room, and a spigot room for rinsing. The sauna had no door so you could only get a good sweat going by standing on the bench and raising your arms. The water in the spigot room was lukewarm and didn’t provide enough of a contrast really give you that doughy post-sauna relaxation.

We were called one by one for our massages. My masseuse had me lie face down on the raised stone floor and after a benign first couple of minutes shoved his foot into the small of my back and pulled back on my arms until I was sure my shoulder blades were rubbing together. He then spent ten minutes exploring the limits of every joint in my body. When he was finished, he took me back to the sauna and smeared mashed ginger across my back. It did not feel good at the time, and I have no idea if there were any beneficial after effects because the slight queasiness I had had since after lunch was blossoming into full-blown nausea. By ten that evening, I was in the throes of a gastrointestinal infection that would leave me pretty well unable to eat for the next three days.

Feb 19, 2012 | Categories: Regions, Uzbekistan | Tags: Bad Roads, Banya, Burkhara, Massage, mongol rally, Sauna, Tires, uzbekistan, Uzbekistan Pop Music | Leave A Comment »

Things That Are Hard to Do in Uzbekistan

Uzbekistan’s black-market economy can be tough for outsiders to navigate. The Uzbek Central Bank has set an exchange rate that significantly overvalues the som. When we were there, the official bank rate was around 1850 som to the dollar. However, the government makes it nearly impossible for Uzbek citizens to buy dollars at this rate, so there’s a thriving black market that will give you a 30-50% better rate than any bank. To help counter this market, the government requires foreigners to purchase things like airline tickets in dollars, which the National Bank of Uzbekistan is loathe to give up to tourists on credit card advances. Large swathes of the country are also gripped with gasoline shortages that lead to gas lines dwarfing anything the U.S. may have seen in the 70′s. We relied an awful lot on strangers, whether we were lost in Urgench, at a loss as to where to find quality petrol, or losing our minds trying book a flight on short notice. On several occasions some nice guy stopped what he was doing, jumped in his car, and led us across town to set us on our way or show us where to find the best black market gasoline. If he didn’t have a car, he would flag down someone who did and have him guide us.

It seemed like we spent all of Uzbekistan short on dollars and gas. We learned pretty quickly not to trust men that come running out from behind abandoned gas stations claiming to have 92-octane in a canister. We were past empty, so we bought five expensive gallons. Within a mile, our engine started voicing its disapproval of whatever it was that guy put in our tank. It rattled, but it ran, and it got us where we needed to go. Unfortunately, every time we got anyplace, we ended up spending unbelievable amounts of time going from bank to bank looking for dollars. When we actually found dollars, it always seemed to turn out that either our banks had blocked our cards or the Uzbek bank was unable to connect. We lost entire afternoons in ancient Silk Road cities going from bank to bank trying to access our own money.

Feb 19, 2012 | Categories: Regions, Uzbekistan | Tags: Currency Crisis, Gasoline, Petrol, Uzbek Som | Leave A Comment »

A day in Khiva: Our first ancient Silk Road city! (August 9, 2011)

We hit three major Silk Road cities in Uzbekistan. The first was Khiva, a former slave market town. Its walled-in old city with its blue and green mosaic minarets housed dozens of museums, hotels, tourist shops and market stalls but managed to remain tasteful and un-Disneyfied, probably due to its remote location. Khiva is about an hour and a half drive southeast of Nukus, the capital of Karakalpakstan, the autonomous region of Western Uzbekistan. Khiva, only a stone’s throw from the Turkmenistan border, is actually part of Khorezm province, a tiny sliver of the country with a rich culture and vibrant history.

MUSIC MUSEUM

Wandering the interior of the walled in city didn’t take much time, and after one loop we chose our first tourist destination: the Music Museum! Not one of the major draws of this stunningly preserved city of magical architecture, the Music Museum nonetheless had a lot of charm in its own right. After walking in, the visitor is led to a courtyard, off of which there are about a dozen or so small rooms. Each room is dedicated to either a historical moment, a group, or a legendary musician from the region. There isn’t much text explaining the curators intentions for each room, but the helpful labels in Uzbek, Russian, and English under each photo or artifact helps the visitor get the general idea.

"The group of famous singers and musicians from Khorezm"

"Gavkhar Matyakubova with cotton pick uppers"

After touring each of the rooms, we entered a larger room featuring instruments behind glass, a television, and a DVD player. The friendly man working there asked in a mix of English and Russian if we would like to watch a film about the local music. We said yes, and sat down to enjoy it. The film looks like it was originally make in the 1970s, probably shot in 16mm. As we watched the film, the staff member told us the names of instruments that were featured, and pointed them out on the shelves in the room. We enjoyed the playful story, the traditional local costumes, the dancing, and the music so much, that afterward, we negotiated a reasonable price for a copy of the DVD. Rather than try to describe it to you, why don’t you watch it yourself! There are some great shots of the city, and you don’t need to speak the language to follow the story (although if any Russian speakers can translate the bit of narration, please do so in the comments). Look for the nay (flute), surnay (wind instrument), Khorezmian dutar (stringed instrument), and the Khiva rhubab (string instrument with decorative inlays).

CONCERT

We asked the man at the music museum if there might be a performance of Khorezm music that very evening somewhere in town. His eyes lit up, and he said “Follow me!” We were led down the alleys of Khiva to a large building. Inside the courtyard, he introduced us to a man who explained in elegant English that in fact a traditional family band would be performing that night at 6pm! We reserved a table and came back a couple hours later. For about $5, we were treated to unlimited tea, nuts and fruit, and an incredible show of traditional local music. The family – mother, father, two boys, and maybe an uncle (?) – were talented and gracious. I think the young boy is going to be a superstar one day.

A number of audio tracks from this performance are also available on SoundCloud.

EVENING

After the concert, we strolled around the city. As the sun set, we climbed on top of the ancient wall to soak in the magic of the place. Darkness set in, and the city took on a supernatural glow. Children played in the courtyards before heading home for dinner.

All in all, it was a good day off of driving!

Feb 05, 2012 | Categories: Central Asia, Regions, Uzbekistan | Tags: Central Asia, Khiva, mongol rally, music, Silk Road, traditional | Leave A Comment »

Entering Karakalpakstan (August 7-8, 2011)

As we left Beyneu at around 5:00, we were a little over 50 miles from the border. Those 50 miles would take us two and a half hours. The first half-mile was by far the worst and we ended up driving on the dirt track parallel to the road for most of it. Then it smoothed out for ten miles or so before it completely disappeared and we were left navigating what was basically a stony dirt track most of the rest of the way. Our suspension and tires made it through intact this time.

We came to think of borders as huge walls in our path. We were never sure what we would face trying to get past them, and we anticipated the worst. In our minds, they could have been on fire, strewn with jagged shards of glass, or as we came to experience, they may just have a door that opens very, very slowly. A lot of our crossings were in remote areas of already remote countries, so we always felt at the mercy of potentially bored or resentful officials. We brought along plenty of $1 bills, packs of real American Marlboros, I-heart-NY t-shirts and shot glasses as palm grease. We gave a lot of them away at the (usually) jocular request of guards or customs officials, but for the most part, our fears of a shakedown were unwarranted.

Still, as the owner of our little Hyundai, I got to experience the full glory of former Soviet bureaucracy. They generally divided the drivers from the passengers, so I was always sent off to another part of the border complex and we all met up again at the end. At the Uzbek side of Uzbek-Kazakh border in Karakalpakstan we may have found the embodiment of the platonic inefficient bureaucracy. It was time consuming, sloppy, and comically redundant. Three people in three offices painstakingly recorded the same information in three ways. The customs information I filled out in one office was entered into a computer in the next office, then by hand into a ledger in a third office. They emptied our cars of all the passengers’ bags to scan them, but as the driver, my bags were never touched. When they came across Kara’s medication, there was a big, ultimately innocuous fuss when they couldn’t find it on their official list, but in the end, the process cost us nothing but time and, at least on my side, the officials were friendly, funny, and generally kept things moving.

We got to the border at 7:30. We were through just before midnight, which left us the small problem of finding a place to camp so late on a desolate stretch of highway whose condition we knew little about. We drove about twenty miles into the moonless black desert, found a decent place to turn off, circled our cars and set up our tents hoping the sheer darkness of the place would be enough to keep us hidden from passers by.

We got up shortly after sunrise the next morning and assessed our surroundings. It was flat, dry and empty and it stayed that way for close to 150 miles as we drove toward Nukus. There were few signs of life — one or two semis, a trio of camels. At one point, the road bent eastward and a slight ridge formed to our left. Beyond the ridge we saw a long, high shelf of land that had once descended into a large body of water. The bed of land that remained was calcified white. It was a wasteland, and a small, startling peek into how the toxic salt flats of the dry Aral Sea bed might look. We didn’t make it far enough north to see what is considered one of the worst environmental disasters in human history, but we were certainly traveling through a sad shell of a place whose once lush landscape and temperate climate had been irreparably transformed into a land of harsh extremes.

As we approached the Amu Darya River, the monochrome desert abruptly gave way to forested marshland with scattered clusters of houses. Outside of Nukus, we stopped at a shaded outdoor café and lunched on grilled fish, non, and fresh garden cucumbers and tomatoes. We had driven over two hundred miles into the country, and the café owners and their family were the first Uzbeks we had met. Their warmth and graciousness were echoed again and again across the country during what would prove to be a testing week for our convoy.

This is how we roll

Jan 24, 2012 | Categories: Central Asia, Kazakhstan, Regions | Tags: aral sea, border, climate change, Kazakhstan, uzbekistan | Leave A Comment »

Friends in dry places

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We spent a quiet but fun evening in Dossor sipping Ukrainian vodka that the Aussies had picked up, getting to know the people we’d tied our fortunes to, and attempting to feed a malnourished kitten who attached herself to our group. We were fortunate the next morning to notice the kitten sleeping on top of the Brits’ front tire. She objected, but we convinced her to move, and got started early in the morning.

Our goal was to make it to the border of Uzbekistan by nightfall. Fortunately, the roads were smooth but empty with the exception of a few camels wandering dangerously close, and the view was one of sand and the occasional oil derrick pumping slowly, up and down, in the immeasurable distance.

By early afternoon, we came to a small town called Qulsary, about 200 kilometers to the border. We parked and decided to walk around and find something hot to eat. The town itself seemed to consist of small footpaths leading to shops and restaurants built along one busy thoroughfare of dirt and concrete. A busload of Hungarian oil workers employed nearby at the Caspian Sea stopped to practice their English with us and sign our car. Three of our convoy wandered off in search of chai, and had our first encounter with a police officer as we headed towards a smoking grill off the main road that caught our attention. He came across stern and serious, but after a few minutes it was clear that he was mainly just curious to see our passports and look official for a few minutes in the busy market area. After he was satisfied with our paperwork, he moved on to questions about what we were doing there (This is the question most people have. Our standard response, “We’re driving to Mongolia!” always gets a good, hearty laugh.) We explained we were looking for food, he pointed us to a stall across the way and said, “Good shashlik” with a smile. The woman out front beckoned us in. Not wanting to look bad in front of our new friend the officer, we went in and scarfed down some tea and shashlik (skewered meat) in record time, knowing the rest of our convoy was probably getting tired of those chatty Hungarians. Presently, we were on our way to the Uzbek border.

Jan 22, 2012 | Categories: Central Asia, Kazakhstan, Regions | Tags: Caspain Sean, Kazakhstan, market, police | Leave A Comment »

Қазақстан pай білдіру – Kazakhstan represent

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For Kazakhstan, we put together a slammin’ half-hour of tunes hailing from a few of the cities we passed through. It’s by far our most diverse podcast. There’s some opera, some metal, and a lot of hip-hop. There are also a few fine samplings of Kazakhstan’s two most typical traditional instruments, the lute-like dombra, and the bowed kobyz. The most striking track we found comes from Rin’go, the Kazakh boy band of the moment. “Tolgau” was released early last year, but sounds a lot like late-period ‘N sync with throat singing and Khazakh Jew’s harp substituting for JT’s beat boxing.

1. Смагул Умбетбаев – Иманжусуптин Ены (-37:11)

Smagul Umbetbaev – Imanzhusuptyn Eni

2. Кот Балу-крайности (-33:43)

Kot Balu – Krayinosti

Part of a crew based in Almaty.

3. Rin’go – Толгау (-30:52)

Rin’go – Tolgau

The video is pretty great. Ladies, tell me you’d take Joey Fatone over any of these dudes.

4. Эрик Курмангалиев – Ариозо Воина из кантаты “Москва” (-26:51)

Erik Kurmangaliev – The Warrior’s Arioso from the cantata, “Moscow”

Erik was born in Kulsary, a town we passed through in Western Kazakhstan. He broke into the Soviet perestroika-era opera scene in the early 80′s and disquieted the authorities with his androgyny and unusual, often haunting voice.

5. Асылбек Ахатов & Эдиль Басыгараев – Короглы (-23:01)

Asylbek Akhatov & Edil Basgaraev – Korogly

Asylbek is a dombra virtuoso from Atyrau, the major city in Western Kazakhstan.

6. Doubleface – Rest (-21:15)

Also from Atyrau.

7. Slowpaw Da Beat Maker – R & B (-20:16)

And again, from Atyrau.

8. Саян Акмолда - Ажырауктын ащы куй (-18:51)

Saian Aqmolda – Ajrauqtin Ashi Kui

9. ДЖАзовый – Вспомнить Азию (-15:49)

Djazhovyi – Vspomnity Azhiyu

From Almaty.

10. Мейрамбек Беспаев – Авпзвах (-12:51)

Meyirambek Bespaev – Avpzhvakh

11. Medas – Это Как Игра (-5:44)

Medas – Eta Kak Igra

This crew is from Semey, in Northeastern Kazakhstan.

Watch the boyz take Wiz Khalifa’s “Black and Yellow” beat and turn it into a love song to Semey. Nestled among the shots of Kazakh club girls’ rear ends are some nice shots of the city.

Jan 17, 2012 | Categories: Kazakhstan, Podcasts | Tags: Boy band, Death Metal, Dombra, Erik Kurmangaliev, Hip-hop, Kazakhstan, Kobyz, mongol rally, Rin'go | Leave A Comment »

Atyrau, Dossor (August 6, 2011)

Western Kazakhstan was difficult to navigate. During the next two days, nothing truly exceptional happened, but we were often inconvenienced. For the first time, we found it difficult getting cash from local ATMs, and our limited options for food were beginning to grate in their monotony. The ever-reliable Lonely Planet that we consulted mentioned that foreigners needed to register in hotels within 5 days of arrival in Kazakhstan or risk being subjected to fines or other hassles at the border. So, because we camped in the mosquito-ridden necropolis the night before, when our caravan arrived at midday in Atyrau, a city with wide open marble and concrete plazas containing extravagant fountains and statutes of long-bearded warriors on frothing horses, we set out to register as required. The face of Kazakh President Nursultan Nazarbayevof bore down on us even as he aided nurses or held babies on billboards throughout the country, reminding us of the importance of finding a hotel who would log our presence and appease the unseen but omnipresent authorities.

We got lost driving around the city center but eventually found our way to the water where the Lonely Planet indicated we could find a number of hotels and guesthouses. We didn’t intend to stay that evening but had every intention of paying for registration, but it took a long time to communicate this wish to the people working at the three welcome desks we visited, and it took even longer to realize that the hotels weren’t in the business of registering foreigners who chose not to avail themselves of their offers of hospitality. We returned, feeling frustrated, to our cars.

This was the first real test of our new collective’s resolve. Nobody knew what the government required or what we risked if we failed to meet those requirements. Would a failure on our part give the border guards leverage to take legal or quasi-legal action against us? Would there be fines that we couldn’t afford to pay? How could they make our trip more difficult? Could they impound our cars? Could they deport us? We parsed the pertinent paragraph in the guidebook, argued over its meaning, and concluded, because we were losing so much time, that we’d do our best to drive on and register that evening; the consequences couldn’t be that severe, and we were staying less than 5 days, so perhaps we were exempt. We wouldn’t be lying if we pleaded ignorance.

When we left, we got caught in one of the worst traffic jams we encountered during the entire trip. 5 improvised lanes fed into two. The sun beat down and strong wind whipped up sandstorms that forced us to keep our windows rolled up. Because the Hyundai was carrying four people and baggage, the middle seat in the rear of the car was laden with luggage, musical instruments, and plastic bags full of provisions, and whoever sat in the front seat had to keep it scrolled forward as far as possible, knees pressed against the glove compartment. James and I struggled for elbow room in the back as we crawled a quarter of a mile for an hour and a half before turning onto the highway with everyone else. We sweated, dozed intermittently, and made faces at children in nearby cars. From my spot in the back, I watched Jamie draw inch-high feathers, row after row they marched, striped, shaded or unmarked across the white page the size of a postcard. Permutations of a fundamental ideal; were they representations of escape from the day to day, from our current situation, or thoughtless doodles? Her tenacity was admirable. Dusty, tired, and uncomfortable, I felt incapable of any such creative endeavor. When we finally turned onto the road that leads out of town we realized that where these two busy city streets intersected, the installation of one stoplight could save thousands of people hundreds of hours.

We arrived in Dossor that evening and weren’t impressed by the look of the town. Barren fields sat against the long road. As the fiery sun set, the town took on a blue gray color and the small buildings seemed somehow shabbier. We needed gas and a hotel but everything seemed closed. Meandering stray dogs were more common than pedestrians, but we were eventually led by a friendly local to a guesthouse sheltered behind two locked gates. We slept four to a room, but were allowed to use the hotel’s huge kitchen that must have been built to accommodate the attached ballroom. The tables were covered with drop cloths and hundreds of chairs must have been stacked high along the columned walls. A crew went out to find a supermarket, and recorded one of the best songs we heard on the radio (Wait until about 55 seconds in. We promise folk-metal with throat singing!). We ate spaghetti with canned sauce and thick slices of salami under an elegant, seldom-used chandelier.

Jan 08, 2012 | Categories: Central Asia, Kazakhstan, Regions | Tags: bureaucracy, Caspian Sea, desert, Kazakhstan, traffic | 4 Comments »