World Nomad Games Opening Day

I Was Adopted by a Lovely Family

After Aibek helped me settle into my guesthouse in Cholpon-Ata on September 1, I faced my next problem: getting to the World Nomad Games.

I knew there was supposed to be a shuttle to the arena, but I couldn’t find it. The arena was about a mile away, and a taxi driver wanted ten dollars to take me there. I declined and walked.

At the arena, no one seemed to know much about transportation or the schedule. Even ChatGPT’s live translation was little help. So I wandered into the food court, bought a drink and something like a shawarma, and sat down.

A man approached and asked whether his family could join me. His name was Nurlan; his wife was Kanykey; and their daughters were Daniela, Keylana, and Tessa. Nurlan and Kanykey spoke excellent English, and we quickly became friends.

At one point, Nurlan returned with a bottle of a slightly fermented local grain drink. I liked it enough to take the rest back to my guesthouse that evening.

When we learned that the opening ceremony required free tickets, Nurlan went to find them. He could get five, but there were six of us, so I had to obtain my own. That was my introduction to lining up with Kyrgyz people. Nurlan guided me through the crowd and blocked the aunties trying to push past me. Eventually, I reached the front and got my ticket.

The ceremony was enjoyable, though less spectacular than the previous night’s event in Bishkek. Music played, and riders performed horseback stunts in the dimly lit arena. I could tell something impressive was happening, even when I couldn’t see all of it clearly.

Afterward, Nurlan and Kanykey drove me back to my guesthouse. I had set out looking for a shuttle bus and ended up being adopted by a lovely family.

Kyrchyn Gorge

The next morning, I headed to the cultural village in Kyrchyn Gorge. Getting onto the bus was chaotic, with plenty of forceful pushing but no real violence.

I met an Englishman named Steve, and we managed to board together, even securing the front seats. After a 40-minute ride, we walked the final kilometer to the village.

The cultural village featured regional displays, music, food, and entertainment. Steve and I wandered among the yurts until one community invited us inside for tea, bread, and regional dishes.

Nearby, an enormous pot simmered over a wood fire. Inside were livers, spleens, intestines, and other entrails. Steve asked for a sample, and I accepted one too. It was delicious—an unexpected but memorable drink.

Later, we met a man with a golden eagle on his arm. He invited Steve to hold it, then asked for 500 som once Steve had put on the protective glove. I suggested that I hold the eagle too and that we split the cost.

The eagle was surprisingly heavy. I paid, expecting to send Steve his pictures and collect his share later, but we lost each other in the crowd. I still have the pictures. Steve never paid me back, and that’s fine.

By then, rain had begun, and the bus area had become muddy and crowded. I couldn’t read the Russian signs, but I noticed another English-speaking visitor with a local helper. When the helper identified my bus, he started running. I grabbed the back of his shirt and followed as he pushed through the crowd to the front of the line.

On the bus, an eleven-year-old boy wanted to talk. I think his name was Abdul, though I may be confusing the names of his brothers. We used ChatGPT’s voice translation, switching from Russian to Kyrgyz at his request.

He asked me many questions, including one about my salary. I refused to announce it to the entire bus, but as we said goodbye, I showed him the amount on my phone and asked him to keep it private. We talked for half an hour and had a wonderful time before he and his family got off.

Back to the Cultural Village

I enjoyed Kyrchyn Gorge enough to return the next day. I watched some sports but spent most of my time among the cultural displays. Once again, people invited me into a yurt, this time for a full meal that included horse meat.

The rain returned, but transportation was more orderly. I caught a bus to the arena and walked back to my guesthouse.

The Sports

One sport I remember clearly is kok boru. Riders race after a goat carcass—or something representing one—lean down from their moving horses, lift it, carry it across the field, and throw it into a large circular goal. The strength and skill required were extraordinary.

I watched the United States play Russia. The Russians had far more experience in a sport deeply rooted in the region, and they took an early lead. The Americans kept fighting and scored several times, but Russia won. I was proud of the American team’s effort.

I returned once more for the final events. I’ve forgotten the name of the last sport I saw, but not the impression the Games left on me.

Leaving Cholpon-Ata

The World Nomad Games were phenomenal. Kyrgyzstan had brought people from around the world to this lakeside region and created an enormous international celebration. Transportation was often disorganized, but there was food, lodging, and an infectious spirit. Even the rain didn’t keep people away.

I’m glad I went. The Games will remain one of those experiences I feel fortunate to have had.

On my last evening in Cholpon-Ata, I visited a hot-spring complex about 400 meters from my guesthouse. After several hours in pools of different temperatures, I returned, packed, and took a shared taxi to Bishkek the next morning.