Day one | Day two | Day three | Day four | Day five

LATE nights in Bishkek used to be full of street life and the sound of “turbo trash” pop blasting from cafés and passing cars. Since the violent ouster of the president, Kurmanbek Bakiyev, on April 7th, the capital's criss-cross of leafy Soviet-era boulevards tends to go eerily silent after dark. Eldar is in his 20s and unemployed, with a soft voice and a gentle face. Passing through empty streets after dark, he gestures towards the gutted supermarkets, restaurants and casinos that were looted in the anarchy following Mr Bakiyev's flight from the capital. “Look at those young men, in groups of four and five, always in leather jackets; they are just looking for trouble. They really unnerve me.”

It is estimated that as many as 10,000 marauders are still loose in Bishkek. With police nowhere in sight, Eldar feels comfortable driving the wrong way down one-way streets. “In a state of total anarchy you can do whatever you want,” and Eldar wants to exceed the speed limit.

Tension was building throughout Monday; by the early hours of Tuesday it has reached boiling point. By morning at least 1,000 squatters will have armed themselves with sticks and stones on the outskirts of the city, preparing to stage a violent protest for land rights. Landless farmers are seizing plots that belong to minorities, ethnic Russians and Meshketian Turks—and attacking members of both communities. In an uncanny echo from the dying days of of Mr Bakiyev's regime, the new authorities will announce that “provocateurs and ringleaders in the riot will be punished to the full extent of the law.” Three hundred troops will be dispatched to quash dissent; at least five people will die in the the confrontation.

Confrontations never-ending?

The night before, this can only be imagined. “We were all united in one single goal—removing Bakiyev,” Eldar laments, as we drive though the dead of Monday night towards the scene of the latest uneasy standoff. The new government's temporary headquarters has been encircled by an angry mob demanding that a member of their clan be reinstated as the minister of the interior. Eldar sounds depressed. “Now that Bakiyev is gone, the united front is falling to pieces. Each faction is obsessed about its piece of power while none care about improving the roads or the schools.”

He describes how he helped restored order during the looting that began after the government headquarters were stormed. “Those nights I was a vigilante. I drove around with my friends listening to radio updates and gangster songs. It was awesome. I beat loads of people up. I had a baseball bat. I hit one guy over the head. Maybe I killed him.” I am unsettled, but as we approach the scene of the latest demonstration I feel glad to have him on my side.

Protesters are chanting and whistling in anger. These are men from the northern region of Talas who are furious that the ministry of the interior—and, with it, control of the national police force—has been handed to a man from one of Kyrgyzstan's southern clans. They have surrounded the hulking concrete structure that used to house the ministry of defence.

(Later, eye-witnesses will speak of a panic inside the building. The leaders of the new government—including the acting president, Roza Otunbayeva—cannot get out. They discuss evacuating the building. One witness says members of the new government even considered calling the FSB, Russia's main security agency, the successor to the Soviet KGB.)

The mob is passing around drinks and settling in for a long night; they refuse to leave until their demand is met. Drifting through them, I come across a senior aide to the new authorities as he tries to slip away. “Things are really dangerous here, you must go,” he advises. He hopes to reach his car.

Three gruff men approach me. They insist that the press must leave, but they are willing to share a thought. “We are not happy with the new government. They have not appointed our man to the main post.” An official from the interim government had come out of the building to negotiate, only to be heckled and turned back. “They are not recognising our sacrifice,” the protesters growl.

On the edge of Bishkek four armoured tanks block the road to the airport. The sour mood feels more like the build-up to a revolution than like its aftermath. One entrepreneurial young man, Said, seems like he ought to be one of the revolution's partisans. But he is already sceptical. “People are not trying to solve problems in an analytical way,” he observes. “They are becoming used to solving political and social problems through violence.”

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Day four

THE charred wreck of the general prosecutor's office looks desolate as heavy rain falls on Bishkek. The interior has been ransacked by rebels and gutted by looters. Its office space is strewn with scorched metal, smashed tiling and ash.

Less than two weeks ago this building was the headquarters of the feared prosecutor of the ousted president, Kurmanbek Bakiyev. Today it is a corpse of power. On April 7th, when mobs stormed government buildings across the capital, I sheltered behind a car just outside. Rebels attempted to smash up an official vehicle as it made its getaway under the crackle of gunfire. My foot slipped as I crossed a gutter that ran with blood. Armoured vehicles, commandeered by the rioters, ploughed through the iron fencing that had protected the seat of power. The mob whistled and jeered.

Now the rebels inhabit the building as their own. Leaders of street-fighting factions have gathered in a bureau to thrash out plans for the country's future. An official from the interim government tries to calm the aggressive mood. In private, he has harsh words for his new colleagues. “They really want to change everything. They are of below-average intelligence and are demanding radical changes.”

Middle-aged workers who call themselves “the youth” are staking their claims. They insist that action be taken against migrants, that positions in government be reserved for “the youth” and that a people's council be established, with power of veto over the presidency itself. One tough-looking man in his 30s pushes me towards one of his fellows. All were engaged in the fighting that toppled Mr Bakiyev. “This man is a hero of Kyrgyzstan.”

I am introduced to a gentleman in his 40s who, they say, drove an armoured truck through the gates of the government's headquarters, under heavy sniper fire, while firing off rounds at security forces. Abdrahim Kasimov seems an unassuming man.

“I risked my life so that there could be democracy, so children could have good education, so there could be jobs for the youth and good health care. If there were more blood spilled in the future I wouldn't hesitate to seize another truck and do it again.”

He attributes his revolutionary fervour in part to the Leninist education he received in his upbringing. “When this was the Soviet Union...I took an oath to the people.”

Like many of those still camped out on the square Mr Kasimov is angry that the interim government allowed Mr Bakiyev to flee the country. “Bakiyev should be brought to the square and his life should be judged on the square by the people. There were 86 people shot there and their families will never forgive him.”

A few blocks away, inside another concrete hulk, the core of the new government is making itself at home in the former ministry of defence. Portraits of Mr Bakiyev have been removed and other symbols of his regime stripped away. A row of framed portraits of Kyrgyzstan's defence ministers ends in an empty frame with the name scratched off underneath. The new government's bespectacled chief of staff, Edil Baisalov, worries aloud about the new situation in Bishkek.

“There is a vacuum, and as after any change of power, it is not clear who is who, what is what, who owns what and who can guarantee your safety.”

Mr Baisalov thinks little of America's former policy in Kyrgyzstan. As he sees it, America turned a blind eye to Mr Bakiyev's human-rights abuses in exchange for access to the Manas airfield outside Bishkek, which became a critical supply line for the Afghan war. “The United States wanted to build democracy in Afghanistan at the expense of democracy in Kyrgyzstan.” Naturally, Mr Baisalov continues, “the future of the American base at Manas will be a decision for the next government.” (He is rather keen to demonstrate his own fluency in Mandarin Chinese, it happens.)

Mr Baisalov defends the nationalisations and seizures of assets that have spread across Kyrgyzstan in recent days. Of the confiscated properties, he says that some “were owned by the Bakiyev family and they have to be nationalised because they were stolen from the Kyrgyz people.”

Businessmen tell a bleaker story. Uluk Kydyrbayev, the chief executive of the Bishkek Business Club, has said that “the administration is overstretched and losing momentum.” His view is that “it's not the people in power that matter, but the investment climate.” An investment banker, who wished not to be identified, says he wouldn't put his own money here, not yet. “The corporate raids that have been going on have a criminal side to them. It is not safe to invest in Kyrgyzstan.”

Back on Bishkek's central square, near the wrecked prosecutor's office, dozens of protesters have gathered outside the ruins of the main government headquarters. They are angry that their fugitive ex-president was allowed to leave the country. They have pitched yurts and decked them with slogans demanding that Mr Bakiyev be brought to trial. Flowers have been laid at the spots where rioters were shot dead during the clashes. The discontent is palpable.

Mr Baisalov, settling into his new office, will hazard only one prediction about Kyrgyzstan's near-term future. “It will be a turbulent election.”

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Day three

“HE'S not here anymore, he's gone to Osh,” muttered one of a few teenaged boys crouched at the make-shift road blocks into Teyit, the Bakiyevs' family seat. Kurmanbek Bakiyev, the republic's supreme power only one week ago, had left his uncle's village on a road trip. I had heard that the new authorities had lain road blocks along the way. But locals along the roadway confirmed it: “Bakiyev has driven out of Jalal-Abad in a convoy of 20 cars with guards.”

So I hit the road, and on the way I phoned the deposed president's elder brother. The affable Kanabek confirmed: “We are driving to Osh now, where we are rallying our supporters outside the theatre there; come and join us.” Driving along the bumpy road we soon came across the scattered concrete slabs of the new road blocks—no armed forces in sight. On the phone again, a senior diplomat took the news that the Bakiyev clan was on the move and judged it to be a major setback. “We have been attempting to find a legal answer,” he said, “but Bakiyev has been making contradictory statements about his intentions. The news that he is rallying supporters in the south is extremely provocative.” On Wednesday, speaking from the nuclear summit in America, Russia's president, Dmitry Medvedev, had warned that the danger of a civil war was real. Its reality seemed to be inching closer.

Kyrgyzstan's impoverished villages raced past the car window. Men on horseback herding sleep and children playing in the dirt seemed oblivious to the turmoil in the cities. The slow pre-modern scenes—of cows blocking the road, corrugated iron roofs and peasant life—seemed to tell a quiet story of misery.

The scenery was interrupted by another phone call, this time from Osh. “They've started shooting. Bakiyev's supporters and supporters of the opposition are shooting. There's sporadic gunfire.” The erstwhile president had arrived in Osh with his cortège of blacked-out SUVs an hour earlier and tried to force his way through to address the crowds who had gathered there. Thousands were screaming “No Bakiyev! No Bakiyev!” A smaller number of loyalists had joined Mr Bakiyev's group, trying to push their way onto the main square to start a demonstration of their own—only to see an opposition mob marching their way. According to some witnesses, Mr Bakiyev tried to rally his side, shouting “Don't run away, don't run away!” Then his guards hoisted machine guns, tipped them towards the sky and began firing into the air. The crowds ran screaming for cover as Bakiyev's men whisked him into a jeep. Outnumbered by their opponents (and terrified by the gunfire) the loyalists had fled—losing face decisively.

Diminishing expectations

Still on my way south and miles from the city, I saw Mr Bakiyev's cars racing north and called Kanabek for a car-to-car chat as we crossed paths. Kanabek sounded acutely distressed. “We are driving away now…When the president tried to get onto the square, he was shot at...So we are going back to Jalal-Abad—but I feel all right.” Back in Osh, more gunfire was heard in the minutes after Mr Bakiyev's abrupt departure.

Continuing south, we arrived in Osh to find hundreds of youths thronging the streets. They seemed indifferent to the drizzle and lowering grey skies. University professors were trying to disperse the crowds. “Go home, stay calm, do not fight,” they called to the excited boys. Chanting could still be heard near the local TV station: more “Bakiyev! Bakiyev!”, as in Jalal-Abad the day before. The same older women who had formed the core of that demonstration were still caterwauling away, their voices hoarse and their eyes raging from beneath multi-coloured floral headscarves. Just metres away from a group of their rivals, about 50 of these pro-Bakiyev supporters were demanding to be allowed into the station, to broadcast their wailing on the airwaves. “There are people from the secret services searching for Bakiyev, there is no more free speech and Kyrgyzstan is lost,” lamented one of Mr Bakiyev's supporters.

Perhaps twice as many onlookers gawked at these holdouts, scoffing at them and their demands. “Bakiyev is finished,” spat an elderly Uzbek in a sports jacket, “he couldn't even come to Osh; now he just has his village.”

I hit the same road again, heading back north towards the enclave of the increasingly farcical pseudo-president. As rain splattered the windscreen a call came in from the same senior diplomat who had been riled to learn that Mr Bakiyev had ventured to Osh. “High-level talks are currently being held between the rival parties,” he announced. We sped to the Bakiyevs' compound through the rain, dodging lugubrious cattle and shabby-looking shepherds, as the telephone continued to bring news of negotiations. I urged the driver to drive faster still. A bad road, on which to be chasing an ex-despot up and down the countryside. As we neared Jalal-Abad a grey military transport plane soared overhead.

“He's fled—that's him!” I shouted, craning my neck to spot the aeroplane. Soon we were approaching Teyit itself. Drenched farm boys stood outside in the rain, manning checkpoints outside the village and looking miserable and confused. Minutes later a familiar convoy of blacked-out SUVs overtook us. It seemed very likely that they were making the return trip from Jalal-Abad's airport; the vehicles looked distinctly empty. Outside the gates of the presidential compound I tried asking the guards where Mr Bakiyev had gone. “No questions,” snarled a camouflaged guard, cocking his shotgun for effect.

Eventually some of the younger guards were fooled into letting me inside. The sun was setting. The mosque was calling. “He's flown to Kazakhstan,” one of Mr Bakiyev's aides announced. Elderly women in the compound whined, “We don't know what's happening.” Further into the compound I found the yurt-like summer house that Mr Bakiyev where had received journalists from a plush armchair. The lights had been left on. Having sighted us, a few of the young guards, armed with rifles, rushed towards me. “He's gone to Kazakhstan,” they gasped, before asking “Can you get us visas to England? We got you inside the compound.”

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Day two

JALAL-ABAD slept uneasily. The deadline set for the surrender of Kurmanbek Bakiyev, the fugitive president, had passed at sunset on Tuesday, April 13th. Throughout the night the city jumped at any sound that could be confused for gunfire. In the lawless atmosphere people cleared the streets and locked their doors. But the anticipated convoy never came to capture Mr Bakiyev, who remained bunkered in the village of Teyit, just outside of town.

By late morning of April 14th the streets of Jalal-Abad were echoing with the sounds of rallying protesters. Thousands of Kyrgyzstanis supporting the opposition began to assemble in the central square in front of the headquarters of the regional government. They were hoping to find a traditional Kyrgyz assembly of elders, a kurultai, to appoint a governor who would answer to the new government formed in Bishkek. Instead they were greeted by the shrieking of elderly women equipped with megaphones. Their now-familiar chant, “Bakiyev! Bakiyev!”, resounded across the square. Young boys waved banners reading “The president is here and with the people.”

Fighting mad in Jala-Abad

As the two sides squared off, another slogan made itself heard. “Uzbeks get out, Uzbeks get out...!” screamed the old ladies in Mr Bakiyev's camp. Old ethnic tensions had been kept quiet in the days since the killings in the capital; this marked a new phase.

Two thousand Uzbeks, citizens of Kyrgyzstan, had been gathered outside the town's square, preparing to march in a demonstration of their own. When their leaders heard the new cry blaring from the megaphones, they told their people to turn back. “Uzbeks do not want ethnic violence, we do not want civil war, but we will defend ourselves,” said a young woman in sunglasses and hijab. A young man among them shouted, “They were trying to provoke us—Bakiyev and his men will do anything to hang on to power, even bring us civil war.”

The thwarted Uzbek marchers milled in a courtyard, angry and worried about what they had heard from the square. One of their leaders, Kadyrjan Batyrov, addressed the whole group: “Bakiyev is trying to provoke us but we must not be provoked. His men are armed and we must not forget that Uzbeks and Kyrgyz have lived together as brothers.” He was received with applause.

Jalal-Abad sits in the verdant Fergana valley, part of an ethnic puzzle of Uzbek, Kyrgyz and Tajik communities divided by some of the most labyrinthine boundaries in the world. The Fergana's political borders comprise a network of enclaves and frontiers designed by Stalin's own hand to cut across cultural and ethnic lines. The goal, in Soviet times, was as to render regional autonomy unimaginable. Today Uzbekistani and Kyrgyzstani soldiers lock down the borders regularly and occasionally engage in fire-fights. Members of the opposition are accusing the Bakiyev clan of trying to ignite this tinderbox. Nurbek Kasymbekov, an official aligned with the new government in Bishkek, says “it is possible that Bakiyev is stirring ethnic tensions in order to cling to power.”

Back in the main square Mr Bakiyev's loyalists spread rumours among their flock. They say a southerner was murdered by northern Kyrgyz who support the opposition. “Bakiyev is telling the truth, the northern Kyrgyz are trying to push us out of power,” shouted a group of teenaged boys (who confiscated my cigarettes). Scuffles ensued and opposing sides swatted at one another with newspapers. Frightened by this chaotic turn, anti-Bakiyev organisers with megaphones attempted to disperse their own gathering. “Think about tomorrow, think about our children; we must not let ethnic tensions overtake us…Go home, the meeting is over,” they pled. Police stood by nervously. “We're neutral,” insisted an officer. A more junior member of the force snapped “we know who we are for but we won't tell anyone yet.”

This show of strength on Mr Bakiyev's behalf has failed to impress the great powers. America is moving closer by the day to recognising the temporary government and Russia has already dispatched $50m in aid and critical oil supplies. On Tuesday Mr Bakiyev had told journalists he would consider exile in exchange for a guarantee of safety for him and his family. But the new power in Bishkek did not flinch. After the deadline for surrender passed, the opposition's leader, Roza Otunbayeva, demanded that Mr Bakiyev face a “people's trial”.

Seeing his options dwindle, Mr Bakiyev received the prominent human-rights activist Aziza Abdirasulova. “I have met Bakiyev and he is ready to talk,” she said over the telephone. “He is ready to talk to the new government, recognise the new government and believes he has lost the moral right to rule after what has happened.” Dialled for confirmation, Mr Bakiyev's press secretary simply snapped “No” and hung up the phone. Whatever their intent, Mr Bakiyev's gestures seemed to have little effect. Word soon spread that the new authorities had indicted Mr Bakiyev's brothers.

I drove to the village of Teyit, where the erstwhile president has taken refuge. With his press secretary refusing my calls, I was stranded at a freshly laid concrete road-block manned by local farmers and teenagers. Posing as a Russian and doling out cigarettes, I managed to convince some of these lackadaisical guardsmen to escort me to the gates of the compound. From there I simply walked inside, uninvited, and soon bumped into Mr Bakiyev's elder brother Kanabek. Haggard and a little confused, with thick bags under his eyes, Kanabek contradicted himself as we talked. He started with “My brother is ready to resign, providing that the security of the family and the people is guaranteed. But no opposition figure can guarantee that.” Then he changed tack: “My brother is not going to resign, as he is the legitimately elected president.” As we talked another relative interrupted with a burst of candour, “The president won't talk to us, he's not talking to any of us today.”

Only a day after Mr Bakiyev held a defiant press conference in this same compound, the mood had grown sombre by the time I sat down to tea with Mr Bakiyev's aunt Habiba. “It's such a difficult time for our family,” she explained, before introducing me Mr Bakiyev's uncle. A 90-year-old veteran of the second world war, Abdulvasit Bakiyev sat hunched over his walking stick in a blue dressing gown and bonnet. The family's elder, Abdulvasit is regarded by the deposed president as a father figure; in turn, he calls Kurmanbek “my son”. Melancholy and barely audible, he tried to explain the situation. “The opposition only want power and I am very tired.”

When the family heard that their enemies were placing armed checkpoints on the road, Mr Bakiyev's brother muttered that his people would attempt to hold a rally in the southern city of Osh on Thursday. Mr Bakiyev's aunt invited me to spend the night with them. I was tempted, but as sightings of military vehicles moving towards Teyit were becoming increasingly frequent, I decided to leave the leader of the Tulip revolution sheltering alone with his family.

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Day one

HIS face gnarled by worry and exhaustion, the fugitive president of Kyrgyzstan, Kurmanbek Bakiyev, strides forward to meet the journalists who have followed him to a heavily defended compound in his native village. He may be making his last stand here in Teyit, 5km (3 miles) from the southern city of Jalal-Abad. Perhaps 20 thugs stand to either side of him, wearing sunglasses and swinging AK-47 rifles freely from their shoulders. He speaks on the verge of zero hour; the opposition's newly appointed deputy prime minister for internal affairs, Azimbek Beknazarov, has issued an ultimatum for Mr Bakiyev to surrender before nightfall on Tuesday. A crowd of roughly a hundred loyalists in the courtyard look tense and in disarray. Nonetheless they find time to confiscate my mobile phone.

Preaching to the choir. For now

The ousted leader opens boldly. “I have not had any contact with the opposition and am ready to negotiate.” He explains, “I could resign if my security, that of me and my relatives, was secured, looting and killings were stopped and new elections could be held in the next few months.” Mr Bakiyev is calm but warns that “special operations against me would create fury.” He says he is not afraid, though a source from the OSCE (Organisation for Security and Co-operation in Europe) has told journalists that a column of 15 armoured personnel carriers is on its way to arrest him. Mr Bakiyev and his anxious brothers are still wearing tailored silk, a vestige of the wealth they enjoyed while his family dominated the government. They were chased from Bishkek, the capital, on April 7th, and now they are surrounded by shabbily dressed peasants, local heavies and former collective-farm workers. Mr Bakiyev hints at the inner turmoil he has experienced since fleeing his offices: “Today I have been spending time with my family; people think this is easy for me, but it is actually very hard.”

As dusk falls villagers gather to pray at a mosque in Teyit proper, which has been sealed off by makeshift road-blocks. Ulugbek, a father of three who lives less than half a kilometre from Mr Bakiyev's fortified compound, hopes aloud, “Allah will protect us tonight.” Other villagers are frightened and confused, swapping the latest rumours—either of negotiations in progress or of troops massing—as they drift tensely back to their homes. Farmyard animals, as if riled by the mood, low unnervingly as the sky begins to darken.

One week ago Mr Bakiyev stood in command of this mountainous, ex-Soviet Central Asian republic. But after protests in Bishkek turned into mass killings, his support base shrunk to his native region, around the city of Jalal-Abad. There, on Tuesday morning, the deposed president addressed more than 5,000 supporters. Imams sang prayers for his flagging cause and guest speakers hailed him as “Khan Bakiyev”, before breaking into chants of “Bakiyev! Bakiyev!” His loyalists held high banners that read “Youth Behind the Legitimate President,” or “The legitimate president is not to blame.” Mr Bakiyev's voice boomed out over the central square of Jalal-Abad, before the local administrative building. Bunkered inside were vigilantes aligned with the opposition. They said they would defend the building with “clubs if necessary”, but they seemed distinctly frightened. Mr Bakiyev denied his culpability for the massacre in Bishkek and exclaimed that he was only guilty of not having foreseen his own overthrow. “The opposition drugged the rioters in Bishkek and made them drunk, before shooting them from behind because they wanted blood.”

Locals on the square in Jalal-Abad seemed to believe Mr Bakiyev as he raised the spectre of civil war between the industrial and Russified north of the country—where the opposition is now in control—and the southern, strictly Islamic regions where he still commands respect. “He is speaking the truth, all the truth,” an elderly man wearing the traditional elfin-looking Kyrgyz cap. Younger loyalists told journalists “We will defend Bakiyev—we are unarmed but we have the strength in our souls for this.” Members of the local Uzbek minority seemed terrified of impending violence. Hamid, a businessman, said “I just don't know what to do if the Kyrgyz start fighting. Our leaders are telling us to keep calm, but we can gather our own men.” All dreaded nightfall, as rumours from Bishkek trickled south. Word had it that the opposition was holding a war council in preparation for seizing Mr Bakiyev by force.

Back in the capital the mood was dark, as the cost of the past week's violent uprising began to hit home. A family, grieving for a middle-aged man who died in Bishkek's main square on April 7th, sobbed uncontrollably as they gathered outside the city morgue. Their loved one, they say, had been shot by a sniper from among the security forces who answered to Mr Bakiyev. “Bakiyev must come to Bishkek and be tried by the people,” the dead man's sister demanded, her eyes reddened by tears. To prove that her brother had been struck from the front, by the government forces—and not from the back, as Mr Bakiyev seems to claim—the family led me into the city morgue, where 13 cadavers still lay. Inside, they had to cover their mouths with their shirts; the choking stench was overpowering as we came to their fallen relative. Naked corpses, shrivelled and some with their eyes still open, lay on iron tables, bullet holes piercing their chests. “He died for the people,” a man said of his brother. The room's odour, powerful enough to taste, soon drove the family outside. On the concrete wall behind the morgue's doors, a small sign reads “For Psychological Help Call This Number.”

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