Religion, vodka and gays
Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan
October 2007
By Dan Murdoch

THE DOMINANT religion in this part of the world is Islam, which in some countries is taken pretty seriously.
Just over the Kopet Dag Mountains to the south is the extreme Iranian model, a theocracy based on Sharia law. Beyond the Hindu Kush and The Pamirs is the recently toppled but even more extreme Afghan Taliban, and the screaming-for-the-extreme Pakistani version.
In some of the villages and towns of these countries, women, if they are allowed out at all, must be veiled, sometimes covered head to toe. Being alone in a room with a man who is not your husband or a member of your family is prohibited.
I met a Serbian in Bishkek who works for an NGO that deals with the logistics of elections. A few years ago he was tasked with organising voting for 300,000 Afghan refugees sheltering in Pakistan ahead the historic Afghan elections:
“We met the village chiefs in their huts and first of all had to explain democracy to them. We told them that everyone would get a vote, including the women.
“’Great, great, good idea yes, the women should vote, yes’ they said.
“So we asked if we should set up separate polling stations for the men and the women.
“’What?’ the elders asked, ‘so the women will have to leave the house? No, no, no. This is not possible. Can’t you come round to see them?’
“There’s tens of thousands of homes, it’s not really possible…
“’Then the woman cannot vote.’”
Under the Taliban singing and dancing were banned. Even the game of chess was outlawed. And of course on the list of no-can-dos is the consumption of alcohol. Even in the medinas of Morocco, the opposite end of the Islamic world, alcohol is not sold.
Perhaps the tall mountains have sheltered the lands of Central Asia from the extremism lapping at their borders. Maybe the Soviet approach to Islam, attempting to fuse it with communist ideology, helped water down the religion’s illiberal edges.
For although the majority of the people here claim to be Muslim, few of these practises are noticeable. And no rule is abandoned more whole-heartedly than abstinence.
Judging from the huge proliferation of vodka, bandied about like nuclear secrets at an Axis of Evil conference, the culprits for this hedonism are likely to be the Russians.
In newsagents and grocery stores across the region it is quite usual to knock back a shot of vodka when you are picking up your morning paper. On the counter you can find a stack of grubby shot glasses, next to an open bottle of the local brew, and a plate of some sort of chaser- sliced cucumber, salted tomato, diced apple or whatever is to hand.
These ‘shop shots’ are generally pretty huge, often 70 or 80 millilitres, cost just a few pence, and are indulged in at regular intervals by working men of all persuasions.

Religion really is no boundary. Recently I got chatting to a serious, staid-looking man with a long Muslim beard: “We Muslims do not think it right to cut your beard,” and a little Islamic cap on the back of his head: “For Allah”.
“My religion is very important to me,” he told me, offering the local blessing by rubbing his hands down his face as if he were washing before going to the mosque.
Then he walked into a shop for a shot of vodka.
“Isn’t it Ramadan?” I asked as I followed, I had met a man the other day who had turned down water because it was daylight.
“Huh? Bah,” he washed the thought away with the fiery potion.

The effect of regularly quaffing terribly strong booze is tangible. I'm English and even I have noticed the amount of pissed shopkeepers and bus drivers.
The finest example must be Boris Yeltsin, who, along with standing on a tank to prevent a coup, declaring the break up of the Soviet Union and disbanding the Communist Party, was probably the most famous parliamentary piss head since Churchill.
Old Yeltsin loved a tipple: on an official visit to Ireland in 1994, he was too drunk to get off the plane at the airport, so had to stand-up the assembled dignitaries, refuel, and fly home to Russia.
In 1992, a little under the influence, he famously played the spoons on the head of Askar Akayev, the then president of Kyrgyzstan, and a few years later he was snapped by the press appearing to grab the Queen’s arse when she was on an official visit to Moscow.
His predecessor, Gorbachev, thought booze was stopping people from working and tried to ban the stuff, only making himself enemies. He may have been correct, but prohibition has never worked well with any drug, alcohol or otherwise, and in Russia vodka is a lucrative business.
Poor Yeltsin had no such qualms and, legend that he was, ended up making a right tit of himself through his alcoholism, pictures regularly appearing on international television of him dancing on stage at official functions with a bright red nose.

One morning I went down from our apartment to the little store to buy some eggs for an omelette. It was shortly before ten am and two men in their thirties were in the shop for a quick nip before they headed off to work.
A quick nip was a giant glass of vodka, downed in one, followed by a chunk of salted tomato.
Of course, as an intrepid field agent, keen to discover all I can about foreign cultures, I joined the men for a drink. They laughed a lot, but I knocked back the burning paint stripped without grimacing, shook hands and left.
The result was a merry morning of high-spirited banter and easy laughter.
The men seemed to be on to something so I stuck to the drink for the day and ended up in a nightclub, Golden Bull, where I may have been propositioned by Kyrgyzstan’s number one teen pop star, the nationally renowned singer, model and TV personality, Mikayel.

He was the club’s head of house, working the stage and occasionally showing off some rather impressive dance moves to the delight of the screaming ladies.
On our first meeting he appeared very vain. He showed Carlos and I a succession of videos on his mobile phone, offering a running commentary of each: “Oh and this is the one where I do a spin. And this is the one where the girls are screaming. And this is me singing. And this is me on stage…”
It went on and on: “And this is me, and this is me, and this is me…”
I asked if we might take a picture: “Oh yes, but not here, come with me.”
He escorted us to the lobby where there was a giant poster of him, looking sultry, emblazoned with the name ‘Mikayel’.
“We take it here, it is better.”
We took a few and then he insisted on looking through them.
“Oh no, not that one, that one is terrible. No delete it. No not that one. No delete it.”
“Um, ok,” I hesitated, but he watched intently to see that I did as I was told.
“Oh no and not that one. Delete it.”
“Ok.”
“And no delete. Delete….ah, there that one, good. Look at my smile. This one is the best. You may keep this one.”
“Oh, well thank you.”
It turns out that young Mikayel, who is 22, owns a stake in Golden Bull, and took me into his own private VIP suite within the club for a one-on-one interview.
But his opening question caught me a little off guard:
“So what is your orientation?”
As far as I could tell we were facing north.
“No, no. Oh…” he flicked a limp hand at me, “tut, it doesn’t matter.”
Ummm….do you mean sexual orientation?
“Yes,” he crossed one leg tightly over the other and lent an elbow on his knee.
“Well I'm straight,” and as an afterthought, in case I had not properly bridged the language barrier, I added, “I like girls…I’m not gay.’
“Ok, ok.” Bishkek’s biggest celebrity paused and eyed me: “It is just that you held my hand for so long when we met.”
“Oh, sorry. I am quite friendly….”
“What does that mean?” his eyebrow lifted.
“No, not like that. I mean I'm tactile…I’m just a friendly person.”
I was back-pedalling pathetically. There was a pause and I watched him measure me:
“But you have had gay experiences?”
“Excuse me? Umm well….” I tried to regain the initiative: “Are you gay?”
“Oh no,” I saw him try to drop the camp inflections of his accent, “It took me a long time to persuade the media that I am not gay.”
A young boy came in, bowed in deference and carefully presented two vodka shots from a tray. My host did not acknowledge him, the lad was clearly just a serf, but Mikayel lifted his glass and looked me in the eye.
“Come, we drink. To friendship,” then quickly added: “We only drink half,” he gestured at the midway point of the shot, raised the glass then took a quick sip.
I did the same.
“Are you religious?” I asked.
“Oh yes, I am a Muslim. Islam is very important to me.”
We finished the rest of the vodka.
After my homosexual denial he seemed to lose a little interest in our interview. He kept being called out to the bar to fulfil minor obligations, while I stayed in the VIP area steadily drinking the free vodka.

We met again in the club a few days later, and he practically blanked me.

Ends
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