Sugar High: Nookat District, Kyrgyzstan

“Come anytime.” This text from Zhanibek was all it took before we decided to spend our first few days in southern Kyrgyzstan not in Osh (the “capital of the south”), but rather, in Borbash, a tiny village, outside of the town of Nookat, outside of Osh.

Zhanibek is a local Kyrgyz Couchsurfing super-host; having only discovered the Couchsurfing community a year ago, he has already hosted over 75 guests from all over the world in just twelve months, and he was recommended to us by a friend of a friend who had stayed with him last year. It was a bit random at first, since this village is not really close to anything and there’s not much to see or do there, but since one of the key principles of our trip is “People > Places” (people over places), it seemed like the right decision. (And since we had already acted against one of our other principles earlier that morning—by hopping on a 50-minute flight instead of taking the twisty 12-hour bus ride from Bishkek to Osh—we felt compelled to hold ourselves at least somewhat accountable.)

Little did we know that the initial welcoming words of Zhanibek were only a glimpse into the deep well of generosity and hospitality that filled his home and our lives over the next three days.

Upon arriving at the Osh the airport, we took a taxi to the bus station to catch a marshrutka for the hour ride to Nookat, where Zhanibek then picked us up and drove us another 20 minutes to his home in Borbash. His home is off a dirt path, a half-constructed, five-room, two-story house with only the first floor in use at this time (and no way to get up to the second floor). As with many modern homes here, it exhibited almost a comedy of contrasts: large spacious rooms with vinyl floors but scant furniture, not even beds for the adults; electrified lights and cable TV, but no running water or toilets. The cooking area was outside in the courtyard, where the family did everything from peel potatoes, brush their teeth, and play ball.

We were immediately welcomed into the guestroom, where we met a sleepy-eyed Hamed, a fellow Couchsurfer from Iran who had arrived the night before. While it was just the three of us that night, stacks of colorful blankets and mats piled high in one corner indicated that they often house many more guests at a time. We also met the entire family: Zhanibek’s wife Ahsing, his mother, four kids (five-year-old twins Selma and Salik, two-year-old Zimarat, and three-month-old baby Musa), and nephew (four-year-old Atomboi; we are likely butchering the spelling of all of these names). Normally, there are even more family members, as Zhanibek’s brother and his other kids also live there, but they were out of town at the time. Add to that a few Couchsurfers almost every week, and you’ve got a really full and lively house!

Part of the Family

After introductions, we sat around…and did nothing. The kids sort of ignored us at first; since they have foreign guests all the time, they are used to backpackers passing through, so they didn’t think we were special. Zhanibek had to take care of some business (more on that later) and left us alone to hang out. Ahsing was busy finishing up chores, and Grandma was taking care of baby Musa somewhere. We were just there.

And y’know what? It was awesome.

We were treated like one of the family, not a tourist or guest to be fawned over. It was like we lived there—we could walk to the village store and back on our own, read our books, take a nap, draw pictures with the kids, watch them do their homework, watch really weird Kyrgyz music videos on TV—and no one asked what we were doing there. In this way, we were both able to observe and become immersed into everyday Kyrgyz family life in the village.

We were fascinated by the buzz of commerce as trucks rolled by with flatbeds of raw coal (though the smell of their exhaust was tough). We loved seeing the dirt paths come to life with uniformed children walking home from school, babushkas with their headwraps and bags of bread coming to pick up the little ones. The kids themselves loved running up to us and shouting, “Hello! What’s your name?!” all in one breath, followed by giggles, as if their friend had just dared them to do it. In fact, overall, we were delightfully surprised to see how independent and capable the children were. As young as five years old, they walk home by themselves or catch buses and taxis; they help feed and care for younger siblings; they bring pots of freshly brewed tea to guests at their home.

Zhanibek’s own young kids—even two-year-old Zimarat, or maybe especially her, as she was truly a character!—were constantly entertaining or feeding themselves, going into the streets and back home on their own, grabbing food on the table when they were hungry. They were simply the most self-sufficient, sweet, fun-loving gaggle of children we have ever met. They warmed up to us quickly, and before long, they were wrestling with us, begging to be lifted, playing with all our devices (tablets and phones and cameras), tricking us for candy, and climbing into bed with us. Baby Musa somehow did not cry once in our three days there, instead spending his waking hours keenly observing, eating, or giggling, his fat cheeks and belly happy to be held by anyone around. Neither Zhanibek nor Ahsing ever seemed worried about them, and when it was dinner time, everyone showed up to eat. It is a stark contrast to what we see with kids and parents in the U.S.!

In addition to hosting us, Zhanibek and Ahsing also fed us delicious dinners and breakfasts. These home-cooked meals were actually quite similar to everything we had eaten in restaurants throughout the country—plov (Central Asian pilaf); noodle soup with potatoes, carrots, meat, and dill; samsas (pastry dough filled with meat, potatoes, and onions); lots and lots of tandoor-baked bread; and lots and lots of tea. For one meal, we even got fresh cow’s milk, which was the richest, sweetest (and most-filling) milk we’ve ever had.

Sitting on the floor around the dining table on our first night, we, Hamed, and Zhanibek went through several pots of tea as conversations drifted between everything from what the locals think of their current president (he’s OK, but there’s still corruption in the government) and the daily differences between Sunni and Shi'a Muslims, to whether Zhanibek and Hamed thought Michael looked more like Tom Cruise or Ashton Kutcher (Karen: eye roll) and why Kyrgyz babies do not wear diapers for long. While Zhanibek’s English is infinitely better than our Kyrgyz or Russian, he is still learning the language (which has improved vastly over the past year by hosting so many Couchsurfers), so a lot of this was accomplished with the help of Google Translate.

At one point during the conversation, Zhanibek was passionately trying to explain something to us, with arms flailing in the air, but the three of us just didn’t get it. Frustrated, he finally shouted into his phone. The resulting Google Translate message had to be a first for its database and had us laughing in tears: “Diapers. Impotent. Genitals moist too long.”

Got it! The Kyrgyz don’t want to keep their kids in diapers for more than about six months because they believe it ultimately causes impotence; he showed us all the ways in which babies can take care of business without diapers (including use of a traditional wooden bassinet with a potty-hole cut into it, with the aid of an apparatus we can only describe as a fitted wooden straw for pee; see them in the buckets in the picture to the left…), and explained that they potty-train super early. Hey, this guy’s got four kids going on nine (his ideal number of children), so who were we to argue?

At one point, we got to talking about why Zhanibek loved Couchsurfing and was willing to host so many visitors. He had only discovered it last year when his brother came across a Belgian hitchhiking near Lenin Peak Base Camp not too far away; they picked him up, gave him some shelter for a couple nights, and then learned about Couchsurfing from that traveler. Since then, he’s been hooked. Some of it is for reasons you would expect—he loves meeting and learning from people all over the world, and he appreciates that visitors like us are willing to “give up comforts” in order to experience their local life. But there were also reasons more subtle than that, which he alluded to several times throughout our time together—he and his brother had a very rough upbringing, and he so passionately wants to provide something better for his children; Couchsurfing and the constant exchange of ideas and languages that come with it seem to be part of that equation. So much so, that he is building a separate structure with more guestrooms for future Couchsurfers, with plans to include a bathroom and shower. Construction has been stalled as he saves up money to finish it, but his dream is to have folks volunteer there for months at a time while teaching his kids English and opening up their minds to the expanse of the world, so that “they can go to Oxford,” he shared. His neighbors all think he’s crazy for not charging tourists, but the mutual enrichment for both his family as host and us as travelers pays far more dividends over the long-term.

Before we fell asleep that night, we learned more about Hamed, who shared the room with us and who was very interesting in his own right. A current PhD student at Cambridge, he had previously received his master’s in the U.S. at the University of Georgia. Due to travel restrictions between the U.S. and Iran, he was unable to leave the country for the entire four years on his student visa, lest he risk not being able to get back into the country to finish his degree, nor was his family able to go visit him. He made the most of it, though, using his holidays and breaks to visit over 40 states during his time there—more than either of us have visited. And he Couchsurfed most of the way.

That night, we all slept soundly under the red blaze of the Kyrgyz flag. Literally. Zhanibek had constructed the ceiling of the guestroom to look like a massive Kyrgyz flag, billowing in the wind, with the ceiling light fixture representing the bright yellow sun at the center of the flag.

A Hard Day’s Work

We woke up the next morning excited to go to work! Zhanibek runs a bakery attached to his home, where a small team bakes around the clock, churning out sugar pound cakes and cookies shaped like bananas, hearts, and stars, among other goodies (they literally baked all through the night while we slept). We had tried several of these “cakes” already since they are found everywhere all over his home, and were eager to help with some of the local delivery rounds. Their territory stretches all the way to the border with China, which involves a full day’s drive with a truckload of inventory, but on this first day, we tagged along just for the short local route.

We filled his Hyundai Santa Fe with bags of baked goods (about 24 cakes to a bag, sorted by type), and took off to the surrounding villages, stopping every kilometer or so at teeny tiny storefronts in the middle of nowhere, some no bigger than half a shipping container. These shops serve as the main general store or corner bodega for the villages, selling everything from bar soap, socks, and screwdrivers, to all types of candy, bread, and, of course, Zhanibek’s cakes.

We learned the sales routine quickly: Zhanibek jumps out of the car before it even stops rolling; together with the store owner, he quickly assesses the unsold inventory from his last delivery (likely 4-7 days ago, depending on the location) and then, in a display of excellent customer service, takes back anything that did not sell and/or is now molding (which was actually not that much); together, they decide on the number and type of new cakes the store will buy; we or Zhanibek then run back to the car to fetch the order; and then most of them pay cash right then and there (though some of the bigger stores can operate on credit and don’t need to pay right away). For the smaller shops, which we estimate to be about 75% of his customers, this whole process takes just 2-3 minutes before we were off to the next stop. Some bought just five new bags, others up to 15—these are truly the definition of small mom-and-pop shops!

It was fascinating to see the demand for different types of cakes—the banana cakes and white sugar cakes sold themselves, while Zhanibek really had to push the rugelach, though apparently these preferences can differ by season and weather. It was even more fascinating to see that some of these isolated stores exist at all and actually attract customers, given their location off tiny dirt paths with seemingly nothing around them.

After the short local route, we brought the rest of the inventory to the local bazaar in Nookat. Sales in the bazaar were a bit different, and far more fun! First of all, we had to hire a rickshaw palette and its “driver” to bring all the goods into the bazaar, because we couldn’t drive the car through the narrow market streets and crowds of people. This cost 50 soms (about 75¢ USD) because we were relatively light that day. The rickshaw then followed us around as Zhanibek visited all his customers at various stands throughout the bazaar, somehow zigzagging through the tight corridors without hitting people or knocking over other products. We fully enjoyed scurrying through the lunchtime crowds even though we were pretty sure we were more a liability than helpful at that point. We dropped off bags of cakes next to stalls selling everything from butchered meat to flannel jackets, and, yes, even wooden pee straws. This bazaar is extremely local (there are no tourists in dusty, noisy Nookat!), and at the end of the sales route, Zhanibek insisted on buying all of us local Kyrgyz hats and scarves from the market (his Couchsurfing tradition), even though we should’ve been the ones treating him. He ultimately let us cover his lunch, and we all retired home after a successful morning.

The next day, we set out to deliver again, but this time on a much longer route, hitting up the far reaches of Osh Region toward the villages of Jany-Bazar, Kok-Bel, and Papan. Since the route was longer and the stores bigger, we really filled the car to the brim this time, bringing 150 bags and leaving Michael to fend off encroaching banana cakes in the backseat as our delivery car made its way down bumpy country roads. The drive out was beautiful, with the snow-capped Pamir Mountains in the distance (the mountain range that separates Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan) and villages dotting the foothills.

More importantly, sales were hot!—it turns out that the more isolated a store is, the bigger their order! We believe the reason for this is because then they’re truly the only game in town, serving all the school kids eager to buy cookies and ice cream when they walk home from school—something we witnessed many times. The orders got so big that Zhanibek needed reinforcement. “Michael!” he would yell out from the store. “Fifteen banana, ten red, five white, five normal!” We learned the product SKUs quickly and ran back and forth from the car fulfilling orders, often surprised whenever a store exceeded a 20-bag order. (For reference, the bags are big enough that we could only hold about three per hand without dropping one, so 35 bags is a big order!) Before we knew it, hours had passed and the car was almost empty; we were completely out of banana cakes—the hot seller—and almost out of everything else. It was a good day, Zhanibek confirmed.

Of course, we could not stop asking questions about the enterprise and needed to know for ourselves if, indeed, it had really been a good day and how the finances worked out (#businessschool).

For those also tickled with burning questions, here’s what we learned, both about the business, but also about the cost of living in general in rural Kyrgyzstan:

A bag of the banana cakes sold for 80 soms, while some of the lesser-demand cakes sold for 60 soms (so, average 70 soms, or about $1 USD per bag). This actually seemed high to us just for baked goods, given what everything else costs in the country (e.g. a whole plate of lagman noodles with beef and vegetables only cost 100 soms in these areas). To the end customer, store owners can mark up a bag to 100 soms, or split up the bag and sell each individual banana cake for 5 soms each. Zhanibek did admit that his prices were slightly higher than the competition, but he’s been able to demand it because of his consistent high quality and punctually reliable production—two customer-focused business tenets that we were glad to see him champion. Even in the rough winter months, he is still making deliveries on the snowy mountain roads, week in and week out.

We sold about $50 USD on the first day at the bazaar and $150 USD on the second, longer route. For the super long routes toward China, they can make up to $400 USD a day! Between all their routes, Zhanibek said they often bring in about $2,800 USD in revenue per week, which felt incredibly high, but plausible given that he and his brother are out delivering in parallel on most days. As for cost of goods, we accompanied him to pick up some supplies and ingredients after the Nookat bazaar, and learned that they go through 2,500 kgs/5,500 lbs of flour per week! (No, our little car did not hold all that flour, so he had to hire an additional taxi to do so.) Correspondingly large quantities of sugar, butter, oil, and kefir are also consumed weekly, none of which are cheap. The bakers get paid based on productivity, and as mentioned above, they bake throughout the night. Finally, they contend with 14% interest on a $1,500 USD loan that they had taken out for bakery equipment. Our back-of-the-envelope income statement isn’t perfect, but we estimate (and he confirmed) that there’s about 20% profit at the end of the day, or $560 USD per week.

Initially, making $29,000 USD per year seemed incredibly high to us for a country whose GDP per capita (adjusted for PPP of course; #economicsmajor) ranks just #183 in the world at $3,700 USD per year (2017 estimate). Kyrgyzstan sits below the likes of Bangladesh and Cameroon. However, when we then think about the fact that Zhanibek is the sole breadwinner for his family of seven (not even including his brother’s family, who also share in the business, so the profits are likely split even further), the numbers make more sense. Even with modest means, supporting a family is expensive: buying a sheep cost $100 USD while a large cow can be $1,300 USD (both can serve as milk and food for a season, among other uses); the 5,000-6,000 kgs of coal needed to heat the house each winter costs more than $500 USD; diapers cost almost $20 USD each month (they use good ol’ Pampers)—another reason to get that baby out of diapers sooner.

Despite trying to make ends meet and working extremely hard, Zhanibek does not worry about these numbers. He told us that what keeps him up at night is not the price of sugar or whether he can continue to provide enough to eat for his family and the Couchsurfers coming through his door; he worries about widespread corruption in the government, and that everyone is only motivated by money these days. He worries for his children, because the country is at an inflection point, and if it chooses corruption, there is no future for his kids. We asked whether he had ever considered trying to join the government himself to try to change things, even locally, particularly because he has so much knowledge about how the systems work. He lamented that he can’t enter the government because he has no formal education, even though he is clearly educated on so many other levels; this reality seems both all too unfair and all too familiar.

But Zhanibek’s entrepreneurial spirit and optimism are not cowed. “All you can do is raise good children and be good to your community,” he said, before lifting Baby Musa up and playing air guitar with him for the next twenty minutes. People > Places.

Karen & Michael

Nookat District, Kyrgyzstan, September 30-October 2, 2019