THE STRONG KYRGYZ MEN
BY BRIENNA CARTER
Allegedly, people from all over Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan attend the Victory Day festivities in Borbash. I’m not sure how accurate this is, but I can confirm that there were at least a couple thousand people there. Just the day before, the only people on the streets were some kids and their farm animals, but on Victory Day, you could hardly walk.
I was only in Borbash because of a planning oversight. I’d meant to be Couchsurfing in Osh, passing the time until my Uzbek eVisa was approved. While trying to find a host there, I came across Zhanibek, a Kyrgyz man with over a hundred glowing reviews from travelers who’d stayed at his home. I shot him a request to stay, and he accepted with the warning: “Only one caveat, our house is located fifty kilometers from the city of Osh [sic] if you are interested in the life of the Kyrgyz village, then welcome to our house.” And then: “On May 9, near our village, in honor of the holiday, competitions in national wrestling will be held.” So I went to Zhanibek’s, to Borbash, where I could see the village life and wrestling men.
I arrived from Bishkek the day before the match, and within hours another Couchsurfer came: Goncalo from Portugal. That evening, we were joined by a Polish man circumnavigating the globe, Paluch. We spent most of our time around Zhanibek’s breakfast nook. He would sometimes join us, talking through Google Translate about Kyrgyz traditions and his business ambitions. His kids would run in and cause chaos. His wife would silently grab something from the fridge.
At one point, I left to take a walk around the village. The roads were rubble, and the only sounds were the chirping birds and the occasional call to prayer. There are these little tufts of poplar seeds floating delicately in the air, like in a dream. I found a mosque, a mechanic, two cafes, and three general stores. Otherwise, there were houses, and there were fields.
In the fields, there were women sowing seeds and men hacking at the earth to make holes for them. The women fit the scene, a bit wrinkled with a scarf covering their hair. They wore dresses that went past the knee with vests on top and long sleeves underneath. The men wore jeans and graphic tees.
On my stroll, I passed a kid riding a donkey and another walking a cow. I was stopped four times by drivers asking if I needed a ride. Coming from the U.S., a sort of fight or flight response kicks in when cars pull up to me on the side of the road. I am suspicious of people who offer me help and certainly of people who welcome me into their home for “tea.” But in Kyrgyzstan, they genuinely want to have you over for tea. They want to welcome you into their home and welcome you to Kyrgyzstan, even if it has to be done in broken English. Over and over, I would thank people for their kindness and hospitality, and they would shrug it off — this is just what they do.
In the morning, we were driven to the Victory Day celebration in a pickup truck, crammed in the cargo bed with two other families. I expected a small stadium and maybe some food stalls, but what we found resembled a state fair with bounce houses and cotton candy machines and one of those swinging pirate ship rides. There were also picnic sites — raised platforms with pillars and a wood frame to hang curtains on. The floors were covered by rugs, and the eating area was delineated by a cloth spread in the middle. You take off your shoes and sit on the perimeter, maybe even on a little pillow if you’re lucky.
Zhanibek’s uncle had one of these picnic shacks reserved, and we were invited to join for plov, a rice dish with meat, carrots, and onion. In Central Asia, everyone’s always trying to feed you plov and telling you their region’s is the best. I, however, am not a plov connoisseur. I was unable to tell too much of a difference except for some having a larger pool of oil left over at the end than others.
There were three shared platters of plov and three pots of tea going around. The party consisted of me, Goncalo, Paluch, Zhanibek, and a bunch of middle-aged dudes that were somehow related to him. There’s always this word association game that goes on when you’re introduced to a crowd with low English proficiency, a sort of acknowledgment of the other. Being from Portugal, Goncalo is always met with “Ronaldo!” while I get “Biden!” and “Trump!” (though more frequently, Trump). This group gives Biden their endorsement though. Biden is good because Biden has helped Ukraine.
I became known as “America” and was asked if I’m single. Would I like a Kyrgyz man? They are strong and tall and we have one who is 26. He’s single! Look! Here’s his Facebook. Isn’t he handsome?
His name is Manas, and thank god he lives in Moscow because Zhanibek’s relatives were incredibly keen to make that match. Back in the day, it was Kyrgyz tradition to literally kidnap a woman to make her your wife. These days, the practice is illegal, but it is sometimes still carried out as a consensual formality (though sometimes as a nonconsensual abduction).
I never brought up the question of why there were no women at the plov party, but it didn’t seem to be a coincidence. Victory Day in Borbash was gendered in every way. I got the impression that the heart of the celebration was the wrestling match and that all these other things (the rides, the games) existed as a means for the women and children to occupy themselves while the men watched the match in peace.
After the plov lunch, we went to the stadium, an open-air sand pit surrounded by bleachers. Sitting in the bleachers, you got the feeling that if everyone squeezed in any tighter, some sort of bubble would burst, sending everyone flying. And yet, in this crowd of thousands of compressed bodies, I couldn’t find any women. Behind the bleacher walls, a swing going back and forth revealed some teen girls every oscillation.
I wish I could report that the wrestling match was invigorating, that I found the sport thrilling and that by the end I was leaping out of the stands to cheer my favorites on. I wish I could prove them all wrong! I, a woman, love Kyrgyz wrestling! But no, it’s actually quite boring. It’s just some plain-clothed men trying to see who can flip the other one onto the floor faster. They hold onto their opponent’s belt, and after two or three minutes of stalemate, one of them is down, and it’s over. Most of the match was spent reconciling the invisible push and pull of equal and opposing forces.
After dinner that night, Zhanibek ran into the kitchen to get Goncalo and Paluch (“Sorry, but I’ll be taking the boys”). They were off to play football with the locals. My attendance was not in question. I was left alone at the breakfast nook, the ripped-up bread from dinner still scattered across the table. I don’t like football anyway.
BRIENNA CARTER is a writer and researcher from New York, based in Tbilisi. She hates planes and loves hitchhiking. You can read more of her writing on Substack briennacarter.substack.com and contact her via email at briennac4rter@gmail.com.