When I left Ainura’s container-shop at the Dordoi Bazaar in Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan, I found the market eerily quiet. I had not noticed the passing of time, while she generously shared her life story with me.
Walking towards the mini-bus stop at the square in front of the bazaar, the echo of her words mixed with the end-of-day soundscape at Dordoi: the heavy slam of container-shops’ metal doors and the resonant clang of heavy padlocks clicking into place.
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A moment later, only the sound of stray plastic wrappings stirred up by the last vendors and customers heading home, hinted at the day’s bustling activity.
Soon, the cleaners would sweep them down the pathways between the containers and children would try to snatch the recyclables. Answering my question about why she thinks Dordoi is a good place to work, Ainura explained:
Here in Kyrgyzstan, we can’t rely on the state. Dordoi feeds the country. It feeds our families; and it allowed me to start a new life after I had left my husband.
Ainura is one of thousands of people – many of them women – who found a new livelihood at Dordoi after life took an unexpected turn. Estimates of people working there range from 30,000 to 150,000, depending on whether auxiliary jobs, such as food hawkers, drivers, packers and carriers are included.
In 2025, these diverse economic activities generated roughly US$7.9 million in tax revenue: a substantial contribution to the city’s public finances.
Spanning more than 100 hectares and built from up to 60,000 double and triple-stacked shipping containers, Dordoi stands as one of Kyrgyzstan’s most important economic engines since the country gained independence in 1991.
Claudia Eggart
More than a trading centre, Dordoi is a city within a city. Beyond shops and storage spaces, it also has currency exchanges, medical centres, a fire station, hotels, a gym, beauty salons and a mosque.
Its liveliness is equally reflected in the languages spoken along its aisles. While Russian and Kyrgyz remain the languages of commerce, Dungan, Uyghur, Uzbek, Tajik, and Chinese can also be heard, revealing the extensive trading networks that converge here from across Central Asia and beyond. Traders sell almost anything that can be bought, packed and shipped – from sewing needles and refrigerators to cars and spare parts.
Yet clothing remains Dordoi’s lifeblood. Textiles, knitwear and ready-made garments dominate the trade, arriving chiefly from China and Turkey alongside an increasing volume of locally produced apparel.
Claudia Eggart
At the heart of the market, the central passageway serves as both a shopping boulevard and the bazaar’s main artery. Cart pushers weave through the crowded aisles, shouting “Jol, jol, jol, jooool, daroga!” (“Make way!” both in Kyrgyz and Russian) as they manoeuvre heavily laden carts through the throngs of daily visitors.
Threading their way through the crowds, they deliver goods to packing stations near the long-distance bus terminal, where workers compress merchandise into tightly packed bales and sacks. Every centimetre matters in the effort to minimise shipping costs.
By midday, the pace begins to slow. The air fills with the scent of roasting meat and fresh dough as food stalls offer a culinary map of Central Asia, from Dungan laghman and Uzbek plov to Uyghur samsa.
Claudia Eggart
Tea vendors, coffee sellers and fruit merchants weave through the crowds, while – to my own delight – a growing number of barista coffee shops have become an increasingly visible part of the market landscape.
I began studying market biographies in 2018, at first with a focus on the emotions involved in losing a career after the collapse of the Soviet Union, but also the trauma that is often associated with the post-Soviet period. In 2019, I extended my research to include the Dordoi Bazaar in Kyrgyzstan.
Ever since, I have returned to Dordoi for extended fieldwork in 2021-22, 2024 and 2026. For my dissertation I conducted a comparative study of Dordoi and the remarkably similar container-built 7th Km Market in Odesa, Ukraine.
I am now turning that research into a book – Lived Geopolitics – which traces the history of both markets from their rise after the collapse of the Soviet Union to the consequences of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022.
From a bird’s eye view, both the Dordoi Bazaar and the 7th Kilometer in Odesa appear as vast expanses of corrugated metal.
At ground level however every container opens onto its own distinct social world. That tension between scale and intimacy is what keeps drawing me back. These markets offer a unique vantage point from which to explore how personal histories, aspirations and moral commitments intersect with abstract forces of markets, logistics and global economic and political power.
Claudia Eggart
My research examines how people make lives, livelihoods and futures within these intersecting forces and the ways traders create pockets of stability despite recurring crises and upheaval.
The Soviet collapse
Bishkek’s Dordoi Bazaar is neither an anomaly nor a continuation of the ancient bazaars often associated with Arab cities. Its origins lie in the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, when countless similar markets appeared across the former socialist world. As factories closed and rapid market reforms pushed millions into economic uncertainty, large numbers of newly unemployed workers were left to seek livelihoods in the booming retail sector.
Among the most visible responses to the faltering state economy was the proliferation of “shuttle trading”: small-scale cross-border commerce in which individuals – predominantly women – transported goods, often in bulk and manually, between sites of purchase and resale. Despite the small-scale, manual character, shuttle traders supplied an estimated 75% of consumer goods to post-Soviet countries by 1996.
Claudia Eggart
Olena, one of the women I spoke to in Bishkek and a former pharmacist with family roots in Ukraine, recalled how she first entered this new world of trade in the early 1990s.
At first, she ventured to Poland, a dangerous and exhausting one-week trip in buses and trains, to buy goods at the Jarmark Europa, Warsaw’s infamous wholesale hub, where traders from all across former Soviet countries filled their bags for retail back home.
In Poland, Olena had heard of an opportunity to buy stock from a garment factory in Indonesia. “It seemed like a once in a lifetime opportunity, so I gathered a group of eight people and we flew to Jakarta,” she said. At the airport, she remembered, border officials had never heard of a country called Kyrgyzstan. The passports were as unfamiliar as the newly independent state itself. Only after repeated trips did local authorities begin to develop a formalised visa-free entry agreement.
Like Olena, millions of ad hoc entrepreneurs travelled to unfamiliar destinations across Turkey, China, the United Arab Emirates and beyond. They bought goods where they were cheap and abundant, then carried them back to resell at home. These vast informal networks became a powerful engine of what scholars have called “globalisation from below”, integrating formerly planned economies into global markets through the everyday mobility and resourcefulness of ordinary people.
Claudia Eggart
Nowadays, at wholesale hubs like the 7th Km Market or at the Dordoi Bazaar, goods arrive via cargo companies. Supply chains have become more complex, with prices and accessibility being ever more volatile in times of pandemics and wars.
Dordoi’s extensive reach also makes trade networks highly sensitive to shifts in tariffs, exchange rates and economic conditions in its main commercial partner countries, which include but are not confined to Russia, Kazakhstan and China.
Against this backdrop of volatility, a central question has guided my research: how have local entrepreneurs managed to keep their businesses running, and with them the market itself, despite recurring crises and long standing predictions of the markets’ decline?
‘Made in Kyrgyzstan’
One such moment of crisis came with Kyrgyzstan’s accession to the Eurasian Economic Union (EAEU) in 2015. The Russian-led bloc, comprising Russia, Kazakhstan, Belarus, Armenia and Kyrgyzstan, was designed to create a common market allowing for the free movement of goods, people and information. For Kyrgyzstan, membership meant aligning external import tariffs with EAEU rules.
This shift disrupted existing low tariff arrangements with China – the source of roughly three quarters of goods sold at Dordoi. Within a year, Damira Doolotaliyeva, the market’s trade union leader, reported a turnover drop of at least 80%. Some media outlets went so far as to warn that the collapse of Dordoi would amount to a humanitarian catastrophe.
It was during this period of uncertainty that Ainura, then in her early 30s, rented her first container. She still recalls the anxiety among Dordoi’s traders at the time. “But what choice did I have?” she asks.
I had left my husband, sold my parents’ house in southern Kyrgyzstan and moved to Bishkek with my two small children and my mother.
The first years were difficult for her. “There were no customers,” she recalls. “Every day I prayed that I would sell just a few pieces. I had debts to repay, and I knew that a single wrong decision, a delayed delivery, or an unpaid order could push me into bankruptcy.”
After around three years, she began to breathe more easily. By 2018, Ainura had built a stable client base among wholesale traders from Russia and Kazakhstan, who valued her selection of imported underwear from Turkey. As her business grew, she invested in a small garment workshop, bringing her mother and other female relatives into the enterprise, following a pattern common across the rapidly expanding “Made in Kyrgyzstan” garment sector.
The sector flourished on the back of low tariffs on imported raw materials and an abundant supply of skilled, low-cost labour. Long associated with cheap, low-quality goods it increasingly emerged as a key pillar of the national economy after Kyrgyzstan joined the EAEU.
Just as Ainura’s business was gaining momentum, the pandemic struck. Yet contrary to expectations that trade would collapse under lockdown conditions, many samoposhiv (translates to ‘self sewn’) producers fared unexpectedly well and even reported record sales during the pandemic. Once mobility restrictions were introduced, orders came in large volumes through WhatsApp or Telegram, thus reflecting a broader global turn toward digital platforms and e-commerce.
During my fieldwork in 2022, one woman even remarked, half jokingly, “Oh if only there was still a pandemic!” Many argued that locally produced garments now compete in style and quality with global brands such as Zara or Max Mara.
For Ainura, it meant her Telegram channel grew from 30 to 3,000 followers within days, and orders followed just as fast. She invested her entire savings in raw materials and worked at full capacity to meet the surge in demand.
Ainura’s story also speaks to the skill and willingness to take risks that characterise many of the women entrepreneurs I have met over the years.
She drew my attention to something else as well: the financial independence that Dordoi made possible was, for many, a means of leaving abusive relationships and rebuilding their lives.
Claudia Eggart
While she asked me to keep the intimate details of her own experience private, she encouraged me to write about a different dimension of the bazaar: that, despite its hardships, it can be an empowering space where women earn the resources needed to support themselves and their children.
A whole world in miniature
Since emerging amid the socio-economic and political upheaval of the early 1990s, Dordoi has prospered by occupying the space between major economic spheres – most notably China, Russia and Turkey.
This position has created an opportunity structure in which traders profit from differences in availability, regulations and prices across borders. These geopolitical distinctions are mapped onto the market itself through sections known as Europe and China. Yet these labels signify less about geography than about value. Evropa (Europe) is home to traders selling higher-end goods, often, though not exclusively, textiles labelled “Made in Turkey.” The contrast reflects a broader hierarchy of value.
Evropa evokes quality and higher prices, while Kitai (China) refers to the world of shirpotreb: inexpensive, mass-produced consumer goods distributed at scale by Chinese wholesalers and Kyrgyz retailers.
But these categories are far from fixed. Zoja, one of the most memorable market characters whose age is impossible to guess, told me:
The bazaar is a miniature version of the world we live in, and Kitai has long surpassed Evropa.
As we walk down the bazaar’s central pathway she weaves nonchalantly left and right signalling towards different market sections and their role in the wider web of market relations. I am struggling to keep pace as she moves through the bazaar’s aisles with the ease of someone who is both entirely at home and slightly above the place, greeting vendors here and there while barely slowing her stride. Her hair was immaculately blow dried, her nails freshly done, a trace of expensive perfume enveloped me as we walked to her container.
Zoja’s container is unlike most others. It sits in a secluded corner of Dordoi, where entrances are hidden behind heavy curtains that block the view from passing eyes. The effect is stunning as it creates a surprising sense of intimacy amid the bazaar’s constant bustle.
Located in the very centre, this row is widely understood as the place “where real money is made” – an observation uttered in a wistful tone when speaking with those whose business is in more remote areas, and reluctantly confirmed by those who were lucky enough to sit in the thick of it.
Like its owner, the container is meticulously curated. Everything appears carefully chosen, elegant and expensive.
Claudia Eggart
As I settle onto a comfortable chaise longue, I remark on the unusually refined interior. Zoja smiles faintly and asks whether markets like Dordoi exist in Germany. Surely, she muses, shops in Europe must be even more luxurious than hers? Then, rather unexpectedly, she says with an almost tender undertone: “But you know, I wouldn’t like to give up my dvatsattonnyk.” Dvatsattonnyk, translates to “20-tonner”, but it actually refers to the 20ft measure of the standard shipping container, not its weight.
I asked Zoja if she knew how she became successful? Did she have an instinct for future trends? But the question itself immediately marked me as an outsider. “Only someone new to this business would call it luck or intuition,” Zoja pushed back.
I have worked hard, thought big and planned long term. Thanks to this, my family has good cars, nice houses and we can live well in Kyrgyzstan. But it is not easy to get there.
Since gaining independence in 1991, Kyrgyzstan has experienced repeated political upheavals, including popular uprisings, changes of government and periods of ethnic violence. These episodes, combined with recurring economic crises, have created an environment of persistent uncertainty for businesses and households alike.
Against this background, Zoja came to the conclusion that “only a container of my own could secure a stable income”. Dordoi’s containers are a funny thing. More than trading spaces, they function as assets in their own right.
Depending on location, they are traded for well over US$150,000 (£118,000), generating income not only through trade but through subletting as well. By 2023, prime containers fetched as much as US$250,000, and monthly rents reached US$3,000. By April 2026, prices had fallen to between US$80,000 and $150,000. Traders link this drop to the wider effects of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. When demand from Russia slows, Dordoi feels it quickly. This shows how volatile the business really is.
Just like in other urban environments, inequalities at Dordoi are stark. While entrepreneurs like Zoja spend sums comparable to the price of a detached house in a desirable district of Bishkek, many struggle to afford rents in the market’s less profitable corners. But these inequalities have produced their own adaptations. Location is everything. Some containers are shared between several entrepreneurs, while others move repeatedly in search of better-connected rows and higher footfall.
Claudia Eggart
One trader told me her family sold their home during the pandemic to buy a container and rebuild their business. Others spent years working abroad, often in Russia, saving enough to secure a place in Dordoi’s dense commercial network. Despite all insecurities, Dordoi, as Ainura put it, “gives us hope, hope that we can build something here”.
Government modernisation drive
That prevailing sense of hope has recently been unsettled. In April 2026, President Sadyr Japarov summoned Askar Salymbekov to deliver a public reprimand: the market’s iconic “container empire” had failed to modernise.
Salymbekov, 71, is the man who had bought the land and put the first containers to build what has turned into the largest retail hub in Central Asia. Questioning whether the long-serving owner had grown “old and stingy,” Japarov argued that the bazaar should have long ago been redeveloped into a sleek complex like the ones he had seen in “Dubai or Istanbul”.
While his claim that years spent labouring in cramped container shops can take a toll on traders’ health is not unfounded, challenging Salymbekov strikes at a delicate nerve. As the founder of one of Kyrgyzstan’s most vibrant economic engines, he is considered something akin to a national hero. Besides, in a society where deference to elders is the norm, such remarks carry immense weight, if not risk.
Japarov’s ultimatum arrived against the backdrop of a booming economy. Kyrgyzstan recorded a staggering real GDP growth rate of 11.1% in 2025.
However, western analysts have been sceptical about this surge and warn that the growth is fuelled by complicity in Russia’s efforts to evade sanctions, and caution that such rates are unsustainable.
Regardless, the current government sees this moment as a pivotal opportunity to shed the image of a poor, landlocked, mountainous nation and reposition itself as a central node in China’s Belt and Road Initiative.
As several gigantic warehouse complexes are planned through co-funding from the Silk Road Fund, Japarov’s vision of transforming Dordoi into a semi-digitalised, futuristic retail hub begins to look less like mere ostentation and more like an ambitious but not impossible strategy.
Long live Dordoi!
At Dordoi today, future and past collide. While the market clings to archaic traditions, like burning juniper to ward off bad spirits, it is simultaneously being reshaped by digital platforms.
A new generation of baiery (Russian for buyers) no longer rents physical containers; instead, they act as intermediaries, sourcing goods from Dordoi to sell them via Instagram, or Russian-led online marketplaces like Ozon or Wildberries.
Claudia Eggart
Aiza, one such baier, explains the appeal of this model: “Before, costumers from Russia and Kazakhstan came to us, but since the pandemic they prefer to buy online.”
Yet, even this digital evolution remains tethered to the physical bazaar; without walking the floors to find and select goods, e-commerce cannot function. So Dordoi, for the time being, maintains its unique position as “the region’s largest showroom,” – a metaphor many state with pride.
This hybrid reality challenges the view of bazaars as mere relics of a transitional era. Critics often dismiss their informality, particularly regarding taxation and intellectual property, as a failure to modernise.
But Dordoi traders also remind me that the distinction between the informal and formal economy is rather ambiguous and hardly unique to Central Asia, or “do multinational businesses in Germany pay as much taxes as they should?” as some asked.
The issue is not whether informal markets fit a western ideal of order. It is what their survival strategies tell us about making a living amid capitalist crises and geopolitical ruptures.
In this sense, Ainura’s story, like many others I encountered during years of research at Dordoi, are not exceptional. They point to the broader principle of endurance through adaptation.
Traders continually recalibrate to shifting regulations, fluctuating trade routes, changing consumer demand and periodic economic shocks. In doing so, they provide what a formal economy often cannot – services, work, credit and practical forms of support that extend far beyond the act of buying and selling.
But Dordoi matters for something more interesting than its survival economies. Its significance lies in its capacity to coordinate economic life across a vast network of traders, suppliers, transporters and customers while at the same time, every container offers a glimpse into the ways in which ordinary people produce a sense of conviviality and stability in a world increasingly hostile to both.
I was on my way out when Ainura called after me. I turned back and she said: “We really like to work here… We love Dordoi.”
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