BISHKEK, Kyrgyzstan -- Throughout the former Soviet Union, the architectural barbarities of communist civilization have inflicted a dreadful sameness on disparate lands and peoples.
Where nomads once pitched circular felt yurts, where Muslim horsemen galloped in to capture their brides, modern cities stand, made of grayish brick or slabs of cracked concrete. In every village square, a Lenin on a pedestal strides forward, arm extended, as if to shake hands with someone much taller.
My driver, an ethnic Russian named Alan, promised a glimpse of the real Kyrgyzstan. We would stop in a yurt and quaff a traditional drink of mare's milk.
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