Hello! This is a very quick post to say that I'm in Uzbekistan. The border control to get here was hell, probably the worst two hours I've ever spent doing anything. I'll tell you something: I care about my carbon footprint and I will always choose a twelve hour bus journey over a one hour flight, but if I need to cross the 134km between Shymkent and Tashkent again, I will fly.
Tashkent is good. I like it so far. It's not like Almaty though, where people leave you alone and let you get on with things. This is a pestering city. Everyone wants to say hello or help you find your way, and everyone official wants to see your passport. I presented mine to six different people before noon today. Three of them photocopied it.
Money is hilarious here. The first thing I did when I arrived was change $20 into 46000 Uzbek som. The official rate is much worse than that, but everyone changes money on the black market. You find a dude in the market with a bin bag full of money, and they give you a bundle of cash. It's the unofficially official way to do it, so they're mostly honest too.
The other weird thing: the biggest note is 1000 som ($0.43). I haven't even seen one of those yet, it's all been 500 som notes. $20 becomes 96 bits of paper. It takes two pockets to hold it all.
Tashkent has a metro with stations that are absolutely beautiful, but you're not allowed photograph them.
In other news, I've uploaded pictures of kokpar. Look, I'm not making it up!
http://whereistanya.smugmug.com/Kazakhstan/Kokpar/ (Millions of pictures, sorry, but I've got six minutes left online and don't have time to cull them.)
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Watching sports in South Kazakhstan
It was Sunday so the guesthouse owner asked if anyone would like to see the Kazakh national sport, kokpar, being played. Of course we would! We drove in his Lada to an enormous field where Shymkent and Tulkibas were warming up their horses.
Kokpar is kind of like rugby, but played on horseback by entire villages of men who claim to be descended from Genghis Khan. Riders fight to grab the ball out of the scrum and then use a combination of violence and ingenuity to get it across the opposing team's line. There isn't a limit on the number of players. I'd say there were around 120 on Sunday.
Also, the ball is a dead goat.
Kokpar is played in teams, and they do keep score, but really it's a game of individual glory. Here's how it works: The commentator (in a little makeshift box with a couple of local bigwigs) announces what the prize for the next goat is, and who sponsored it. There's some milling around as people decide whether they're in. Two men haul the goat into the centre. Some signal is given, and suddenly the mass of horses is spinning like a tornado. Clods of turf spray the spectators, who, I should mention, are standing around the action, not safely off in stands or anything. They scatter as the horde lurches towards them. Whips fly and the horses, enraged, exhausted and steaming, are yanked in one direction after another. I can't overstate this: it is madness.
In the middle of this storm, players hang off their horses between all those thundering hooves and try to grab the ball by a hind leg. The goat is heavy -- it takes two arms to hold it -- so when someone's successful, a friend grabs his reins. The two of them wheel around and gallop off at ferocious speed for the other team's goal line, pursued/attacked by the entire pack.
The game is fast. It's hard to keep your eye on the goat. Directions change abruptly and, if you're a spectator, you spend a lot of the game running for your life or diving under the horse trailers they've set up to give the kids a better view. There's no out of bounds: the field is enormous and the horde can end up behind the commentator box, among parked cars, or out of sight in the distance where nobody can see what's going on.
Eventually a goal is scored. The scorer gets this round's prize, usually cash, but I saw some carpets and things too. The team gets a point. The ball is checked for structural integrity and either goes in for another round or finds its way to someone's car boot for dinner.
Some riders swap horses, or take a rest and give someone else a go. (The horses don't get this option). A champion might sit out the rounds with low prize money to let less experienced players have a chance to win. Spectators meet their friends, shake hands, smoke continuously, spit sesame seeds. Young boys talk together in encyclopedic detail about players and previous games; older ones shove and play-wrestle. The commentator announces the next prize. Horses and riders get into position. A couple of guys bring out the goat. Game on.
So that's kokpar. I was hesitant about barging in on an activity that is really not for women -- someone told me that not even any of the horses are female -- but our guesthouse guy said it was fine. Foreigners don't really count as women. Nobody seemed to mind, anyway. Fathers dragged their kids in front of me, nudging them all "You learn english in school. Let me see you talk english!". Teenagers used my little Russian phrase book in reverse, reading out sentences in english and laughing at each other. There's an "Encounters" page for asking someone on a date, and of course they found it. "Can I buy you a drink heeeheeheehee?" The commentator did a whole bit where the word "Irlanda" was mentioned a few times. I'm a celebrity!
I've got a ton of pictures, so I hope there's fast internet somewhere in Tashkent. I'm going to find someone here in Shymkent who can sell me lunch and then I'm off to the Uzbek border.
Kokpar is kind of like rugby, but played on horseback by entire villages of men who claim to be descended from Genghis Khan. Riders fight to grab the ball out of the scrum and then use a combination of violence and ingenuity to get it across the opposing team's line. There isn't a limit on the number of players. I'd say there were around 120 on Sunday.
Also, the ball is a dead goat.
Kokpar is played in teams, and they do keep score, but really it's a game of individual glory. Here's how it works: The commentator (in a little makeshift box with a couple of local bigwigs) announces what the prize for the next goat is, and who sponsored it. There's some milling around as people decide whether they're in. Two men haul the goat into the centre. Some signal is given, and suddenly the mass of horses is spinning like a tornado. Clods of turf spray the spectators, who, I should mention, are standing around the action, not safely off in stands or anything. They scatter as the horde lurches towards them. Whips fly and the horses, enraged, exhausted and steaming, are yanked in one direction after another. I can't overstate this: it is madness.
In the middle of this storm, players hang off their horses between all those thundering hooves and try to grab the ball by a hind leg. The goat is heavy -- it takes two arms to hold it -- so when someone's successful, a friend grabs his reins. The two of them wheel around and gallop off at ferocious speed for the other team's goal line, pursued/attacked by the entire pack.
The game is fast. It's hard to keep your eye on the goat. Directions change abruptly and, if you're a spectator, you spend a lot of the game running for your life or diving under the horse trailers they've set up to give the kids a better view. There's no out of bounds: the field is enormous and the horde can end up behind the commentator box, among parked cars, or out of sight in the distance where nobody can see what's going on.
Eventually a goal is scored. The scorer gets this round's prize, usually cash, but I saw some carpets and things too. The team gets a point. The ball is checked for structural integrity and either goes in for another round or finds its way to someone's car boot for dinner.
Some riders swap horses, or take a rest and give someone else a go. (The horses don't get this option). A champion might sit out the rounds with low prize money to let less experienced players have a chance to win. Spectators meet their friends, shake hands, smoke continuously, spit sesame seeds. Young boys talk together in encyclopedic detail about players and previous games; older ones shove and play-wrestle. The commentator announces the next prize. Horses and riders get into position. A couple of guys bring out the goat. Game on.
So that's kokpar. I was hesitant about barging in on an activity that is really not for women -- someone told me that not even any of the horses are female -- but our guesthouse guy said it was fine. Foreigners don't really count as women. Nobody seemed to mind, anyway. Fathers dragged their kids in front of me, nudging them all "You learn english in school. Let me see you talk english!". Teenagers used my little Russian phrase book in reverse, reading out sentences in english and laughing at each other. There's an "Encounters" page for asking someone on a date, and of course they found it. "Can I buy you a drink heeeheeheehee?" The commentator did a whole bit where the word "Irlanda" was mentioned a few times. I'm a celebrity!
I've got a ton of pictures, so I hope there's fast internet somewhere in Tashkent. I'm going to find someone here in Shymkent who can sell me lunch and then I'm off to the Uzbek border.
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