My dad, mom and I, we have always loved to travel. Together or apart, we adored each other and the romance of the wanderlust. The main feeling that has connected us was the longing for the new experiences and the ecstasy of the open roads.
I was 17 years old when for the first time I was overwhelmed by a time of severe melancholy, which has turned into a dark depression. I could not control it, for it was just pouring out of me into the canvas as dark black dirty squares. No idea why I felt what I felt. It was the end of the 90s. Me and my family, we have already survived the collapse of the Soviet Union and the end of the Cold War. I just came from the United States under the FLEX exchange program, spending a year in the US. And when I returned, everything seemed so painfully dull and alienated to me.
I loved my Soviet Union childhood days, and I adored the time spent in the US. And all of that was kept in the past at the moment. I could not return to the USSR, it was gone. I could not go back to the USA, because I had to spend one year in my homeland under the contract. And when you are young, a year seems like forever. It was 1996, and I was trapped in Kyrgyzstan, a newborn independent country that was yet unknown and a bit alienated to me. Everything seemed to fall apart, people and places were drawn into uncertainty and chaos together with me.
One day my dad approached me with a smile of the wisest monk and said to me: “Well, well, Nariste, who’s sad there? Don’t hang your nose, warrior-girl, pack your bags and let’s get moving.” I looked at him with despair. It seemed like nonsense. I just have returned from New York and now, how can a trip across Issyk-Kul help?
Dad poured a full tank of gasoline into his beige Lada, and our small family, my little sister, dad, mom, and I, we just hit the road for a little adventure.
For my father, moving was equivalent to living. He was a cinematographer and a true traveler at heart. I guess we were made of the same clay that has glued our family together forever and ever, not only because he was my father, and I was his daughter. There was something more to that, when you are born to the family of a cinematographer who is constantly traveling, you belong to the road.
With Dad, every day was a holiday, and traveling was especially pleasant. He was the best guide — always courteous, fit, cheerful, attentive and inquisitive, with a great sense of humor and impeccable erudition.
“Remember, Nariste, journey is about healing. Nothing lasts forever. And the waves of the Issyk-Kul will take your pain away”, – said my dad with calm and quiet confidence. I looked through the rear door glass of the car into the horizon, and I saw the Issyk-Kul. The lake was shining with serenity and stillness of turquoise silver. Since then, whenever I see Issyk-Kul, it has a soothing, almost therapeutic power over me. It reminds me of my father and the poem once written by Langston Hughes:
How still,
How strangely still
The water is today,
It is not good
For water
To be so still that way.
My melancholy slightly perished once I saw the sunset through the Broken Heart Cleft at the Jety Oguz Mountains. Sunset red, merlot colored stones of the cleft were standing tall as big proud giants, telling vibrant stories of the past to travelers. According to one of the many legends, the Broken Heart Cleft is the symbol of unrequited love. It is a story about a girl named Jyldyz — the Star.
Once upon a time there was a girl named Jyldyz. She was gentle, good hearted and stunningly beautiful. All men in the village were in love with her, but she had no interest in romance. One day, two best friends came to the valley. Both of them lost their hearts to Jyldyz. But Jyldyz couldn’t make the choice. Desperate, two friends turned into rivals and started a bloody and tormented duel. Not willing to give up, friends killed each other. Jyldyz was heartbroken, because she loved them both. The girl took her heart out of her chest, tore it and turned into the red Broken Heart Cleft.
For me, this legend is a great illustration that love to people can be cruel enough to break your heart, therefore, I have developed several coping mechanisms for myself to deal with psychological traumas. Writing together with constant traveling is one of them. Moreover, the love of traveling is something that I have inherited since my childhood from my father and all of his relatives and ancestors.
Starting from three years old I got used to constant trips to the Issyk-Kul and Naryn regions.
I was a toddler, when my dad’s grandmother took me to the homeland of my ancestors, to the great Naryn, the city of the mighty Central Asian mountains and steppes. Since then I have a penetrating chilling fear of strangers. What an amazing sense of awareness one might say, but collecting my childhood traumas is an enormously adventurous endeavor.
I was three years old, and it was the first time my parents left me with my great-grandmother, a powerful old woman, whom I feared the most. Chong-Chong Tai-Ene, that’s how we children called her. She always wore black from head to toe. She was as thin as the birch tree. Her face was wrinkled as the oldest apple in winter. According to dad, his grandmother was no more and no less, a real Kyrgyz shaman — Kara shaman.
I remember the day when Chong-Chong Tai-Ene came to our apartment for the first time. It was twilight, and it was the day when she came to take me away. I was terrified to meet her, therefore, I ran to the toilet, not willing to come out.
An hour later I came back from the ladies room to the living room, and sat down on the quilted Kyrgyz carpet called toshok and stumbled. I could not take my eyes off my great-grandmother. She was staring at me. Her eyes were dull and her old heart had no mercy. Chong-Chong Tai-Ene smiled with her black tiny lips opening a dark hole in her mouth. She looked into my eyes as if she was a witch of a dark force. I imagined her eating me, chewing and spitting me to the floor with the same delight as she was munching her black nasvay (moist of powdered tobacco).
As children we have no choice, but to seek safety in other people and depend on their kindness. Parents at first and in my case, sometimes even complete strangers. In the house where my great-grandmother lived, I found myself alone without parents, and there lived an old man. I still have no idea who he was. He loved to sit in silence against the front door and stare at me. But just looking at him brought chills running up and down my spine. It is good to know that I was sent to Chong-Chong Tai-Ene only once in my life, and it was enough.
From the age of four, my mother left me to stay with her mother, Nohan-apa. I Really loved Nohan. She lived at the shores of the Issyk-Kul lake, and I would spend all summer with her. At seven, I would travel to Issyk-Kul all alone by bus. It takes about 6 to 7 hours to get to the village of Ananyevo where my grandparents lived.
The only companion on these trips I had was a book and a prayer. I wasn’t afraid of strangers on the bus, but I used to pray to God to save me from car crashes. Boorskoon valley was a valley of death with memento mori signs scattered all over the roadside – broken bodies of the burned and tortured dead cars.
To cope with anxiety, I came up with a special ritual for myself — a good prayer. It was a simple prayer to God for protection and salvation. I believe it was helpful, for with it I was always under protection of a great God. I believe it was a good prayer, it kept me safe till today.
And no matter how strange or terrifying your journey might be, it is impossible to get rid of the endless longing for travel. We, the nomadic Turkic people, have a craving for the constant movement within our blood. We are like migratory birds, who have a special compass installed within us by the powers of nature. Sometimes you just feel in advance when it’s time to hit the road. No matter how hard I tried to settle down and have a white house with a rose garden, just like all normal people do, it never worked out for me.
Thus, I presume, I shall start this year with the intention to not settle anymore. My marriage is gone, for the second time in a row. I have resided in many houses. I have built them from scratch and watched them disappear, slide through my fingers in vain. So why bother to build something again? Maybe this is a true sign from the Universe to give it all up. Maybe normal life is just not for me? Perhaps my soul is here for some other reason, other than settling down?
“Don’t squeeze yourself in a square, dear. Don’t be afraid of anything. Just turn on the Kyrgyz spirit and move on!” — the voice of my father is calling me through all of these years, assuring that everything will be just fine. To live is to travel. Therefore, I have placed my apartment for rent, and from now on I will dedicate myself to familiar things, to writing and traveling. And who knows, what shall I find along the way?