(I’m a new author on this site, and although it’s been a while since New Year’s, I hope you’ll forgive me for posting an earlier story about what that particular day was like when 2007 came to Batken…)

In a far-off corner of Kyrgyzstan, the Mayor is facing a strange dilemma. The guest list is looking like something out of “The Master and Margarita”, as Abraham, St. Gregory, Stalin and God Almighty all descend on his town for the New Year’s celebrations. The showdown is over a bottle of cognac and a terrified sheep. Make no sense? Bear with me while I try to explain. For this peculiar paradox won’t return to the Ferghana Valley for another 33 years.

Heavy snowfall has cancelled most flights, and the landing strip at Batken airport is littered with wanted posters. Crossing the 5000-meter peaks of Central Kyrgyzstan in a 15-seat Soviet version of the Fokker is like daring this awesome massive in a shivering toy plane. As my friend Azamat and I finally escape the hermetic horror of Kyrgyz aerobatics and get into a taxi, I do know one thing for sure.

There is nothing like having your butt safely planted in the backseat of an orange Lada.

Borderland madness

The first question to arise when confronted with a map of the Ferghana Valley is how many drinks the mapmaker had before drawing it. This cobweb of borders bears more resemblance to a painting by M.C. Escher than it does to an aerial view of three independent states. One country seems to slide into another, the first clawing its crooked way into the next until you finally don’t know which country you’re really looking at.

Some call it a breeding ground for terrorism. Others warn that it’s the most boring place on Earth. Whatever the truth, it seems like neither when you get there. Perched at the outermost edge of the country, Kyrgyzstan’s Batken region seems so seriously caught in the middle of just about everything, its own inhabitants barely know what to make of it anymore. Here’s but one example.

If you happen to be a citizen of a Western country travelling the mere 350 kilometres from the Kyrgyz city of Osh to the equally Kyrgyz city of Isfana, you will need no less than three visas. First off, your Kyrgyz visa. Then, an Uzbek visa. And finally, a visa for Tajikistan. And that’s only on the way there. Isfana lies in one of the country’s dead-ends, so there’s a good chance you’ll be going back the same way you came. That means you’ll need two more.

A total of five visas for a short weekend in the great outdoors? How in the name of Kafka could this even be possible?

Here there be enclaves

If you look a bit closer, you’ll realize that the international borders themselves are not the only territorial oddity of this region. Kyrgyzstan is also the reluctant home to seven enclaves belonging to neighbouring countries, the main ones being Uzbekistan’s Shah-i-Mardan and Sokh, as well as the Tajik enclave of Vorukh and its peninsular strip, Chorkuh.

Of course, only one moustachioed man could mastermind this geographical mess.

The street signs bearing his name might’ve been removed using screwdrivers, but a few pen strokes Stalin made two generations ago have proven much harder to wipe out. Originally part of the great game of favouring one ethnic group over another, these lines have now hardened into internationally recognized borders. Although locals don’t need visas to sail Stalin’s devilish ink-stains, they are required to bring something far more valuable: endless patience.

- We’re trying to raise money to build a road past the Uzbek enclave, says a Kyrgyz woman we meet at a roadside café. - The government contributed some; the rest is collected on a house-to-house basis. But it’ll be years before it’s finished. To get from one town to the other, we’re completely subject to whatever mood the Uzbek president might be in. Sometimes it’s easy, other times they simply won’t let you through. And each time a car passes that damned checkpoint, the guards take 200 Soms. Hundreds of cars go through there every day! Just imagine the money they’re making!

Our driver turns off the engine to save gas while we roll down the hill towards Chorkuh. The sudden rumble as the road turns from asphalt to gravel signifies that we have officially entered this curious piece of the Republic of Tajikistan. I get my passport out of my pocket. Three Tajik soldiers armed with machine guns peer disinterestedly into the side window of our car as we pass them. But they make no attempt to pull us over. My Tajik visa remains unstamped.

Hunting high and low

The Ferghana Valley is known for its rich Islamic traditions. The great historical centres of learning are all here. In a part of the world where Muslim practice seems light-hearted at best, this clutter of towns and cities is the heartland of religion. Today, however, the Ferghana brand of Islam is more often than not mentioned alongside words such as fundamentalism and terrorism.

And in truth, Batken region has had its fair share of problems. Following the kidnapping of four Japanese geologists in 1999 and a group of American tourists in 2000, Batken was the scene of clashes between government troops and what the authorities claim is the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan (IMU).

The IMU works to establish an Islamic caliphate in Central-Asia, and has been outlawed along with its non-violent sidekick, Hizb-ut-Tahrir. The fight against an unseen enemy in what was dubbed the “Small Batken War” took the lives of 55 young Kyrgyz soldiers. Uzbekistan eventually authorized air strikes against Kyrgyz territory, and while littering the mountain passes with landmines, killed many civilians.

Some claim that the very existence of the IMU is a fabrication. Finding an actual member of the organization has proven difficult, even for the most diligent. Yet, judging by the numbers of people disappearing into the abyss of the Uzbek penitentiary system, the IMU should have more members than the Rotary Club.

Others say the attacks were really carried out by major drug-traffickers, trying to shoot their way out of a very bum deal. As one young Tajik explains over shashlyk, it’s no secret that the main smuggling-route from nearby Afghanistan goes through here. – It’s a source of profit for local police, he says. – They’ve understood that not doing their job is far more profitable than actually doing it.

Whatever the truth of it, unrest has reduced this beautiful part of Kyrgyzstan to a two-line travel warning in the guidebooks. The optimistic billboards in Bishkek proclaiming that “Tourism is the future of Kyrgyzstan!” have had little effect around here. Instead, the oppressive governments of the region have been quick to use the threat of Islamic terrorism as a pretext to remove those opposed to their brutal regimes.

Concievably, the ever-suspicious Secret Services could even take an interest in our mild-spoken cab driver. His hat totally matches the profile! But although he sprinkles his language with Muslim phrases and makes gestures of prayer while we pass by mosques, he is hardly one to be fresh out of an al-Qaida training camp. Amusing proof of his lack of such affiliations come as I jokingly suggest that the wild mountains we’re passing would make a good hiding place for bin Laden. The driver gives me a puzzled look and says that nah, he couldn’t possibly be up there. He’s pretty sure he saw him on TV a while back, getting pulled out of a hole in Iraq.

Not knowing the difference between bin Laden and Saddam might not earn you immediate acquittal in a time when your choice of hats could have you suspected of terrorism, but it does seem to carry a point.
This town ain’t big enough for the both of us

As chance would have it, there could be no better time to find out just how fundamentalist people really are around here, than on the night leading up to January 1st 2007.

The tradition of a vodka-soaked New Year is alive and well in these parts of the world, as it is in most of the former Soviet Union. From Moscow to Minsk, in Baku and Yerevan, through Tbilisi, Nalchik and Kiev people will get so traditionally tipsy they won’t come to their senses until they’re half-way into February. And the Ferghana Valley is no exception.

Only this New Year is not quite like the others.

The most important Muslim holiday is loved by many and is known by many names. In Arabic, it’s called Eid-al-Ahid. The Persians call it Eyde Ghorban. In Sunni Central Asia, it bears the Turkic name of Kurban Bairam, literally meaning “sacrifice feast”. An annual 4-day holiday marking the end of the pilgrimage to Mecca, it is a day to be honoured by every Muslim. Christians will recall the gruesome dillemma facing Abraham in the Bible, as God asked him to sacrifice his own son – only to then tell him not to. In remembrance of this event, Muslims around the world pay tribute to the perils of the man they call Ibragim, often by sacrificing a sheep and handing out food to those less fortunate than themselves.

But now for the twist. There are many types of calendars. One of them is the Islamic lunar calendar, which is the reason why a Somalian will tell you he was born in the 14th century even if he doesn’t look a year over thirty. Central Asia does not work by the Islamic calendar, but by the Gregorian solar one, which is also used in Europe. In the Islamic calendar, Kurban Bairam falls on the same day every year, that is on the 10th day of the month of Dhul Hijja. But it always falls on different dates according to the Gregorian calendar - sometimes in November, sometimes even in January.

This year, either fate or mathematics must have conspired for a coincidence that won’t come again until 2039. Kurban Bairam falls on December 31st. And there you go.
Isfana, we have a problem.

’tis the season to be jolly

In Kyrgyzstan’s largely secular North, there is little doubt as to which way the pendulum swings. Although most Bishkekis will identify themselves as Muslim if you outright ask them, a drunken New Year remains a must for most. The mountains, however, do not only divide North from South – they are also a religious divide. In the Southern town of Isfana, the question is rather which holiday will cancel out the other.

But when there’s a will, there’s a way, and local officials are one step ahead of this curious onlooker. A committee has been established. Opinions have been voiced. And amazingly, a solution to the insolvable is already on the table. The good people of Isfana will have their cake and eat it too. The announcement finally comes, bearing proof of the creative minds at work at the Mayor’s office.

The New Year will simply be celebrated at 3 PM.
Let’s get this party started

The 26,000 inhabitants of Isfana are almost equally divided between Kyrgyz and Uzbeks. Most speak both languages, having grown up closely with people of both nationalities. All seem to have gotten their best clothes on for the celebrations at Razzakov Square, which normally end with the countdown to the new year at midnight. I let myself get lost in the crowds as the strange cacophony of Kyrgyz, Uzbek and Russian languages hail the coming of 2007.

On a make-shift stage up ahead, two men are pushing each other around in a slap-stick comedy act that has the audience roaring with laughter. The Mayor even comes out and says a few words, wishing us happiness and good health.

The official statistics listing the many smaller ethnic groups also present, has a column for indefinable “other nationalities”. They apparently number a total of seven individuals. While joining in this celebration among strangers, I take pleasure in thinking that today, we are eight. Then, fireworks crack the skies. It really is New Year’s Eve.

In glaring broad daylight.

Old habits die hard

An old clock in the village on the hills outside Isfana ticks one minute closer to twelve. We’re seated on the floor, drinking tea around a short-legged table. Our host Seyit has decided he’s not going to sacrifice his livestock this year, to which the sheep themselves are baah’ing gratefully in the backyard. But he has finished the prayers at the Mosque and his evening prayers at home, as well as having enjoyed the 3 PM New Year’s celebration. Silence descends on the house.

Seyit leans against the wall, as the day draws to an end. But something seems a bit off. He looks up at the clock again, thinking. 23:58. His fingers tap the table. Suddenly, from across the darkened river come the familiar first beats of the Russian hip-hop single “Columbia Pictures”. It’s immediately followed by a drunken holler from a neighbouring house.

Seyit gets up and goes outside. There’s the crunching sound of his thick boots in the snow, then of the door in the shed creaking open and slamming shut. When he returns, it’s with a small bottle of cognac. He gets a few glasses from the cupboard, and sitting back down on the floor, he pours one for each of us.

- Well, what can you do, he says and raises his glass with a reluctant smile. – Happy New Year.