In which I drive a car

June 24, 2013

A few days ago, the boys (Nursultan and his cousin Akhmat) had asked me if I could drive a car and if I could drive a stick shift. They had wanted to know all about what kind of car I drove, and I think they were a little disappointed to learn that I drive a ten year old, two-door Toyota. Yesterday afternoon, as I was planning my final lessons, the boys and Rakhat came into my room.

“So… the boys say that you can drive a car?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you can drive a stick shift?”

“Yes.”

“So…. Could you drive us to Turt Kul this evening? My mother’s having a party for her granddaughter’s first birthday, and Altynbek’s only just now leaving Bishkek. If you can drive us to Turt Kul, he’ll meet us there and drive us back.”

“OK – sure!”

“And you’re sure you can drive a stick shift?”

“Definitely!”

I love driving. Driving is one of those things that I always miss when I’m living overseas, and that’s not only due to the fact that I’m far less likely to become motion sick as the driver than as the passenger. I really just enjoy driving. And I far prefer driving a stick to an automatic. With a stick you’re far more in tune with your car – and you have much more control over your acceleration. (Believe me, if your car has a wimpy little four-cylinder engine like mine, you need as much control over your acceleration as you can get!)

Anyway, I was very excited about the opportunity to drive – especially since I’ve long wanted the experience of driving in Kyrgyzstan. Of course, I’m not licensed to drive in Kyrgyzstan, and the traffic police here are known for shaking down perfectly legal drivers for as many soms as they can get… Then there’s that interesting off-road detour alongside the road-work on the way out of the valley to the main road. I was looking forward to driving, but I admit that I was a little apprehensive as well.

I had changed out of my lounging-around-the-house t-shirt and shorts and into a nice going-to-a-party blouse and skirt, which of course caused everyone to ask me if I’d be able to drive in a skirt. Seriously. They asked if I should be wearing pants in order to drive. Haha, no I think I’ll be fine. Altynbek’s mother, Nurel, Rakhat and I loaded into the car and set off for Turt Kul.

It went off without a hitch. All that off-road driving I’ve done in the back woods of Georgia (in two-door Toyotas and other vehicles not designed for such things) certainly prepared me for driving the off-the-road stretch in a twenty year old Audi. Along the way we picked up two local hitchhikers, both of whom were hoofing their way to the main road in order to catch a marshrutka to Bishkek. They each did quite a double-take when they got into the car and realized that I was the driver. We also got obvious double-takes from pretty much every car we passed along the way. Obvious foreign chick driving a car full of locals, WTF? Haha.

As we were off-roading our way towards the main road, I had noticed that the gas gauge was really, really low. After we had dropped our hitchhikers off at the bus stop, I mentioned this to Rakhat as I didn’t know if she was aware of how low on fuel we were or not. Apparently she hadn’t been. Knowing that the nearest gas station was in Turt Kul (our destination) we began looking for any private homes or small stores selling бензин (gasoline).

As we drove, Rakhat and Altynbek’s mother peppered me with questions about my driving experience. They seemed quite impressed by the fact that I had been driving a stick shift since the age of 15 and therefore had been driving for 19 years. (Yes, I am that old.)

Eventually, in the second village we came to – as the car was running on fumes – we passed a home with a cardboard sign propped up outside which read ‘БЕНЗИН’ and I pulled over. Rakhat went inside and returned with a boy about 12 years old carrying two 2-liter bottles filled with gasoline and a funnel. Money changed hands, and the gas was funneled into our tank. A couple of locals walked by during this process, noticed me sitting in the driver’s seat, and cracked up like it was the funniest thing they’d ever seen. Once the four liters were funneled into the tank, we had plenty of gas to make it into Turt Kul without incident.

(Altynbek’s mother was apparently very impressed by my driving skills and history, telling everyone at the party about said skills and the fact that I’d been driving since I was 15. She told this to pretty much everyone as they arrived, to the point that I actually felt kind of embarrassed.)

The party was for the first birthday of Rakhat’s niece. Rakhat’s sister lives in Russia, and her two children live with their grandmother in Turt Kul. The party was held at Rakhat’s mother’s house, the same place where the forty-day memorial service had been held just a few days before. (And much of the food consisted of leftovers from the previous event.) This was a much smaller affair (only close family, close friends, and me) and much livelier – including games for the children and vodka for the adults. (As Altynbek joined us there, I was unable to use the excuse of being the driver in order to abstain.)

As always, we had a table of boorsook, other fried breads, rolls, salads, and candies, followed by beshbarmak and quite a few shots of vodka. After the party was over, we loaded into the car (this time with me as a passenger in the back seat). We swung through a gas station to fill up the tank for real, and then returned to Toguz Bulak.

In which we did not go to Osh

May 16, 2013

After a breakfast at Fatboy’s and taking photos of a mama dog and her adorable puppies sadly living in a storm drain, we gathered up our things and set off to find a taxi to Osh. This is where our troubles started.

Sad dogs? Best part of the day.

Our first taxi driver was supposed to take us to Osh Bazaar, the place where one goes to arrange taxis to Osh. However, he said that he didn’t understand why tourists always got taxis from Osh Bazaar when it was better to get them from the Eastern Bus Station. We foolishly allowed him to convince us to go to the bus station instead of the bazaar. At the bus station we negotiated a taxi – towards the upper end of the expected price range, but still within the range we had been quoted by CBT. That taxi driver was quite friendly, and as we set out he told us that he quite often drives one particular American fellow (David Stewart from Las Vegas, whom he was quite disappointed we didn’t know) to Osh and various other places. Had we actually ridden with this fellow things probably would have been fine.

Unfortunately, after we’d driven about ten minutes from the bus station, the driver stopped the car and said he had to go and tell his wife that he was going to Osh. He was gone for about 15 minutes. When he came back, he had an older man with him. He told us that actually we would be riding to Osh with this man and in his car – instead of with him – but for the same price that we had already negotiated. Um, ok. We figured that perhaps his wife, fed up with whatever shenanigans David Stewart had gotten him into, had told him something along the lines of ‘No way in hell are you popping off to Osh with a group of foreigners.’ Who knows.

We got into the other car, a Toyota station wagon. While the first driver had been quite talkative, this fellow did not say anything to us at all. The first part of the drive (from Bishkek to the tunnel through the pass at the top of the Susamir mountains) went fairly quickly, although the driver was on the phone with someone just about every five minutes, and speaking in Kyrgyz so we weren’t able to determine the nature of these frequent calls. I wondered if perhaps he was checking in with his wife or something.

The tunnel at the top of the pass is fairly long and not ventilated. Drivers must roll up their windows to prevent themselves from being poisoned from the exhaust fans of other vehicles. If livestock are being herded through the pass (and through the tunnel) the tunnel must be closed to motorized traffic in order to allow them to pass through safely. We arrived at the mouth of the tunnel, and then had to wait at least 45 minutes while horses, cows, and sheep were herded through.

Approaching the tunnel

Despite being at the top of a snowy mountain pass it was hot and uncomfortable – and when you’re doing a 10 hour drive, 45 minute delays are not welcome. Also, by this time B, whose stomach had been feeling off in the morning, was starting to feel quite sick. Eventually we were allowed through the tunnel, and then had to navigate past/through the livestock that had just been herded through the tunnel as we wound our way down into the Susamir valley below.

When we reached the valley, we pulled into a gas station… at which point things began to get very strange. While we were filling up, a Mercedes crammed full of people (a man, two women, and several children) pulled in next to us, and its driver and our driver exchanged fist-shaking gestures, although we couldn’t determine if these were angry/rude gestures, or if they were done in jest. Also, after reaching the gas station, our driver no longer felt the need to be on the phone every five minutes. We set out from the gas station down the long, flat valley. This was the part of the drive that normal drivers use to make up the time they lost on the narrow, winding mountain roads, and most vehicles drive this stretch as quickly as they can. However, instead of speeding (as our driver had done throughout the winding mountain roads) our driver crawled along at speeds of 30-40kph. WTF? Narrow, winding roads, crazy high speeds; long, flat, safe stretch, 30-40kph.

Eventually he pulled over to the side of the road, and we realized that the Mercedes from the gas station had pulled over behind us and popped its hood. It became clear that the drivers not only knew each other, but that they knew each other quite well. It was also clear that the Mercedes was having some sort of engine and/or transmission problem. It was billowing black smoke from its tailpipe and from what I could gather from communication between the two drivers, it could not go any higher than third gear. Keep in mind that our driver was still essentially pretending that he did not have a car full of foreigners, as he just pretended that we didn’t exist, so we were left trying to piece together the mystery of this Mercedes.

Two assholes and a Mercedes

We got back into our respective cars and poked along at 40-50kph all the way to the rest-stop area at the beginning of the next mountainous section. This should have been a 30-40 minute drive, but it took us two hours. When we got to the rest area, we realized that we had been traveling for five hours and had barely made it a third of the way! At that rate, we wouldn’t be arriving in Osh until some time around 2am, without anywhere arranged to stay the night. (We had expected to get in around 7-8pm, when it was still daylight and when people in hotel lobbies were still awake.) At that point, poor B had become violently ill with the Kyrgyz Stomach Bug. He sat in the bushes near the river, being ill, while N, A and I ate.

Our "driver" (left) and his Mercedes-driving friend

From watching the interactions of our driver and the people in the other car, it seemed that the other car held our driver’s wife and children in addition to the wife and children of the driver of the Mercedes. It seemed that instead of a professional taxi driver, we were simply funding the vacation of the two drivers and their families. This wouldn’t have been a problem if he’d been a good driver, but the extra several hours that his slow crawl so that the Mercedes could keep up had added to our trip was really starting to piss us off. We decided that since we really didn’t want to get into Osh after midnight, we would get out of the taxi at Jalalabad instead. We told the driver, who did not seem to mind.

 When we got back into the car, the Mercedes was long gone. Apparently whatever problem it had been having had been repaired. This was when things got really horrific. Our driver felt the need to first catch up with and then keep pace with the Mercedes. Now I drive a Toyota, and I love my Toyota – but I know that there is no way in hell it can handle as good as a Mercedes. Unfortunately, our driver seemed to have no qualms when it came to attempting to out-perform a now fully-functional Mercedes on narrow, winding mountain roads. First he raced at 120-140kmh to catch up with the Mercedes, and then for the rest of our ride they jockeyed with one another for the lead position.

Now this was far from our first rodeo. We’d all taxied all over Kyrgyzstan before, including from Bishkek to Osh and back. We were used to the insane driving habits of the average Kyrgyz taxi driver. Flying around curves at insane speeds? Passing uphill on a blind curve? No problem! That kind of thing is par for the course around here. But never before had I felt that my driver was completely incompetent. The professional taxi drivers who make this trip multiple times a week know these roads like the backs of their hands. They know when it’s reasonably safe to do what. And it was clear that this guy had no freakin’ clue. Never before had any of us been so absolutely terrified in a car in Kyrgyzstan. I was hanging onto the oh-shit handle for dear life, saying nophysicalharmnophysicalharmnophysicalharm over and over with a few SWEETMARYMOTHEROFCHRISTs thrown in as we squealed through fucking hand-brake turns, tires and brakes screaming as the car flew perilously close to sheer drop-offs atop the Naryn River reservoirs.

Eventually, after we’d wound our way through the most dangerous part of the driver, the cars stopped at another rest-stop area – and the drivers suggested in complete seriousness that we all have some vodka. They said that it was OK for them to drink now, since the most dangerous part of the drive was over. We flatly told them no. I went off and puked, having become quite car-sick, and N and I decided that if they had anything alcoholic to drink whatsoever, we weren’t leaving the rest area, no matter the lack of transport. They were insane enough sober. Luckily they decided not to imbibe.

After getting back in the car, we decided to call CBT to see if we could arrange to stay in Arslanbob instead, as it was even closer to us than Jalalabad. Luckily N and A were healthy enough to deal with phones and maps and such, as I was car-sick and B was incredibly sick. CBT, of course, is wonderful, and we were able to arrange a homestay in Arslanbob (we had one reserved, but starting from the following evening) as well as transport from Bazar-Korgon. We had our driver drop us in Bazar-Korgon (where the asshole tried to overcharge us, despite the fact that we were paying the full trip-to-Osh rate despite having only gone 2/3 of the distance).

After removing ourselves from our “taxi” in Bazar-Korgon at around 9pm, we called CBT to let them know we had arrived, at which point we had to wait about 45 minutes for our car to Arslanbob to arrive. During this time B continued to be violently ill – although the only “toilet” nearby was an abandoned building in which people shat on the floor. N and I were both feeling queasy, and we were all relieved that our driver from Bazar-Korgon to Arslanbob was highly competent – and even more relieved to arrive at our wonderful CBT homestay.

Adventures on the far side of Issyk Kul

May 7, 2008

Bright and early last Thursday morning, Fulbright K, Young B and I took a taxi to the airport to pick up SB (who works at the American Home in Vladimir where I used to teach) and her friend Sasha. Apparently, SB had been on the way to the train station when she bumped into her friend. Being a rather spontaneous type, as soon as she learned that SB was going to Kyrgyzstan, Sasha decided to buy a plane ticket there and then and join her! We picked them up and had our driver take us to the Western Bus Station, where we caught a marshrutka to Karakol. The good thing about the marshrutka was that it was only 250soms ($7) per person. The bad thing was that it was terribly cramped. Not as cramped as the inner-city marshrutki, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable. I was seated next to a window (a requirement to help prevent motion sickness), but every time we went over a bump (and this is Kyrgyzstan, so believe me, there were many of them!) I was slammed into the side of the marshrutka. By the time we arrived in Karakol – six hours later – my right shoulder was thoroughly bruised.

We arrived in Karakol in mid-afternoon, only to find that the weather was miserably overcast and dreary. Additionally, while there are parts of Karakol full of cute little slavic-style cottages, much of the city is filled with low-quality Soviet era architecture. Under the dreary skies, the city looked thoroughly bleak and desolate. We made our way to our homestay (as usual, arranged by CBT), where we were hosted by a wonderful Russian family and their adorable kitten. After unloading our possessions, we decided to return to the center of the city to see what sights there were.

Our initial goal was the Dungan Mosque. Dungans are ethnic Chinese Muslims, and many of them live in Kyrgyzstan. The Dungan Mosque is unique in that it looks to all the world like a Buddhist temple, not a mosque. Apparently it was also constructed without the use of nails. We had hoped to see the mosque and then make our way to the city’s Russian Orthodox cathedral, but that was not to be. While we had a map of Karakol, it was a little vague, so we began asking people for directions. While we found the people of Karakol extremely willing to give us directions, we soon learned that, for the most part, they were exceedingly terrible at it. We wandered the city for nearly two hours, getting thoroughly lost, before finally stumbling upon the mosque. (Sadly, it turned out that we were on the correct road before we began asking for directions!) I must say that I was rather disappointed with the mosque. Having seen quite a few mosques in Kyrgyzstan, not to mention numerous Buddhist temples in Korea, it really wasn’t *that* impressive – and definitely not worth the effort we expended in order to find it!

Dungan Mosque, Karakol

While we were exploring the mosque, a strong wind suddenly whipped up, blowing dust so hard that it stung our faces, and chilling us rather thoroughly. At that point, we decided to head back to our homestay. We discussed with our host alternatives for the rest of our stay, and she arranged a driver for us for the following day to take us to Altyn Arashan, a high mountain valley in which mineral hot springs are located. Early the next morning – a bright, sunny and utterly gorgeous morning, by the way – our driver, Victor, arrived in a rather frighteningly marvelous Soviet era jeep.

Awesome transport.

We packed ourselves into the jeep (this time it was my left shoulder that was pressed against the side of the vehicle, so I was able to even out my bruises!) and began our two-hour trek high up into the mountains. The “road” to Altyn Arashan was steep in many places, and in many places it wasn’t really worth being called a road at all; it was simply a rock-strewn track through the mountains. We stopped at least four times along the way, so that Victor could refill the radiator and allow the engine to cool!

"Road"

Cooling the engine

The instant we arrived at the Altyn Arashan valley, we knew our trip had been worth it. The scenery was spectacular, and reminded us all of The Sound of Music.

Paradise!

We arrived at the Altyn Arashan hot springs and were greeted by two friendly dogs and five adorable little puppies. (There were also two cats and a horse...) We talked to the caretakers and were given a tour of the facilities, then got down to the business of basking in the hot springs. Oddly enough, the hot springs are pumped into different concrete sheds – not exactly your typical spa relaxation venue – located next to the river. Each shed contains water of a different temperature and containing different minerals. The idea is to relax in one shed, run to the river to freeze, then run to the next shed. B and I skipped the running into the frigid river part – although the other girls did run into the river – insanity!

Concrete sheds, housing the springs

They weren't exactly luxurious, but the water was wonderfully warm.

Sasha and SB brave the cold waters...

After relaxing in the hot springs, picnicking along the shore of the river, and playing with the puppies, it was time to return to Karakol. Victor decided to adopt one of the puppies for his daughter, so we had it for company on our way back down into Karakol – although the poor thing got quite motion sick!

The next day we arranged, through our host, for a driver to take us to the shore of Issyk-Kul to visit the Przhevalski museum and monument, and from there to Jeti-Oguz to see several famous rock formations and to visit the Valley of the Flowers. That morning was quite overcast, and we were worried that our day would be rained on. Unlike the awesome yet uncomfortable and rather ancient Soviet jeep from the previous day, we were treated to a luxurious and incredibly pimped-out minivan. Our driver, Dima, had the most absurd mullet ever:

(Oddly enough, he works as a barber when he isn’t driving tourists about!)

First we went to the Przhevalski museum and monument. Przhevalski was the Russian general who thoroughly explored Central Asia for the Russians, and in the process discovered numerous species of animals, such as the Marco Polo Sheep and the Przhevalski Horse. The museum contained stuffed and mounted specimens of many of his discoveries, which was a little creepy. Behind the museum is a monument to Przhevalski, as well as his grave, as he died of typhus in Karakol.

Monument to Przhevalski

From the Przhevalski museum, we drove to Jeti-Oguz. Our first stop was the Broken Heart rock formation.

It does look vaguely like a broken heart...

From there we drove to the Seven Bulls rock formation – which to us didn’t look like bulls at all. Also, each of us counted more than seven, although we all had different totals.

Bulls? Really?

Our next destination was the Valley of the Flowers. According to our guidebooks, starting in May, the valley is filled with flowers and is quite a sight to see. Well, while we were there in May, apparently early May isn’t exactly the time for flowers. While there were some flowers, there weren’t many. We were told that late May and June are the times to go.

Beautiful valley, not many flowers.

We had been wandering around the valley feeling a little disappointed, when we noticed a yurt on the opposite side of the river. While photographing the yurt, it disgorged some young men, who saddled up a horse and rode across the river to us. Sasha immediately asked if she could ride their horse. In the end, they agreed to round up horses for all of us to ride for an hour in the valley. Unfortunately, I was not very comfortable on “my” horse. I felt as though either the back of the saddle was higher than the front, or perhaps the horse’s hind-quarters were higher that its front. Plus, my stirrups – even though shortened as far as they would go – were simply too long. Any time I went faster than a walk I felt as though I would topple out of the saddle. Meanwhile, the horse Sasha got was beautiful, sleek and well trained. They even showed her how to make it rear on command!

Me on my horse of the day...

This horse was incredible; I wish I could've ridden it!

After our hour of riding, Dima suggested stopping at one of the valley’s yurts (he knew the owners) for lunch. For a small fee, we were treated to incredible hospitality and a lovely meal of freshly killed sheep.

Family yurts in the valley

Fulbright K and I inside a yurt

Our yurt hostess and two of her three daughters

After lunch, we drove out of the valley and stopped at a small store where I bought some tan. It tasted like it had gone a little bad, but I figured it’s fermented already, how bad can it be? I drank about a fourth of the bottle before deciding that I should probably pour the rest of it out. That decision would come back to haunt me later.

We then drove to another valley which gave us access to a ski-base. The idea was to ascend to the top of the ski-slopes for a killer view – although as the ski lifts weren’t running, we didn’t exactly make it to the top. B and I made it about a fourth of the way, while the others made it a good halfway. Even though we didn’t make it to the top, we had some pleasant views – especially since the skies had cleared by then!

View from the slopes

B, Fulbright K and I were the first down from the mountainous ski slope, and while we were waiting for Sara and SB, I decided to go pet a grey horse that was tethered nearby. Now, unlike dogs and cats, most horses aren’t all that into being petted. In contrast, this horse was incredibly friendly, rubbing up on me and nuzzling me and enjoying the attention... and then I noticed that he had a giant erection! Now, I’ve spent a lot of time around horses, and I know that male horses have a habit of stretching their penises out periodically... This wasn’t just a stretch, this was an erection. It was a little creepy. Especially when he kept looking at me with this hang-dog expression, as if to say, “Are you *sure* you’re not a mare?”

After leaving the ski-base, we returned to our homestay, where I spent the entire evening running back and forth between my bed and the bathroom and feeling thoroughly miserable, no doubt as a result of the bad tan. I decided that I was off tan forever (a decision which lasted all of three days, but that’s a story for another post!).

The next morning we got up at the crack of dawn to go to the Al Bazaar, the local animal market, held every Sunday from 5am to 10am. The market was an incredible experience, full of cows, horses and fat-tailed sheep. Additionally, it’s located right next to the Auto Bazaar – home to Ladas of every color. Sadly, I learned that a male horse goes for about $1000 (females are more expensive), and ancient and colorful Ladas go for about $1300. I won’t be buying either. I did take lots of photos though!

Уй means cow in Kyrgyz.

Horse for sale!

Fat tailed sheep!!!

Orange Lada, $1300

I *really* wanted to buy this one.

Our final stop in Karakol was the Russian Orthodox cathedral, which we didn’t make it to on our first day. I’ve seen innumerable Orthodox cathedrals in my travels, but I’ve yet to grow tired of onion domes.

After that, it was time to leave. Fulbright K, B and I were returning to Bishkek, while SB and Sasha were continuing on in search of further adventures. Since there were only three of us returning to Bishkek, we decided to get a taxi for both speed and comfort. Granted, it cost 500soms/person (twice as much as the marshrutka), but it was comfortable, and only took five hours as opposed to six.

A Free Ride

April 22, 2008

Saturday afternoon, despite the beginnings of a head cold, I decided that the day was too beautiful to spend indoors. I walked south along towards Sovietskaya, in the direction of Park Pobedy in order to see what I could find. Along my way, I took some more Lada pics, a shot of the vet clinic where I got Luball spayed, and a nice shot of an alleyway, just west of Sovietskaya.

This is my vet clinic.

It's located in the basement of this building.

More Lada goodness :-)

And they do come in colors other than green and orange...

One thing I love about Bishkek is that when you get a block off of a main street,
it's like you're in a rural village.

When I reached Park Pobedy, I decided to continue following Sovietskaya (or whatever name the street takes on at that point) southwards, past the park. Just after I passed the southern boundary of Park Pobedy, I crossed Sovietskaya and entered a grassy area, filled with sheep.

Sheep!

More sheep! (It was kind of garbagy, but unlike the cow in Naryn, they were at least eating the grass from around the trash.)

These guys weren't shy!

You can see how close I was to the edge of the city.

Soon I became aware of the sound of some kind of heavy machinery, and as such, I was not too surprised when I emerged at the edge of a huge quarry of some kind. I walked along the edge of the quarry for some ways, although the depth of the quarry coupled with the high mountains rising in the distance gave me a rather uncertain feeling of vertigo.

I'd just finished reading Q is for Quarry, so I found this super unnerving.

I turned away from the quarry, and wandered eastward until I was stopped by an empty and thoroughly uninspiring canal, which is allegedly the “Southern Big Chuy Canal.”

Big empy ass canal.

The mountains behind the canal were pretty, though.

I decided to follow the canal back towards the city. Eventually, I found a small footbridge, and in the distance I saw a ferris wheel. It occurred to me that, safety notwithstanding, I might be able to get a decent picture from atop said ferris wheel, so off I marched in that direction. Eventually I came across a small (and seemingly permanent) carnival. I hadn’t brought much money with me, but as it was only 20soms for a whirl on the wheel, I decided to give it a go.

That concrete thingy is a footbridge of sorts. You can see the ferris wheel in the distance.

A much closer look

The mountains as seen from atop the ferris wheel

The carnival from above

Inside the wheel

On the downslope

After disembarking and all...

The “carnival” was home to a small collection of rather decrepit, albeit functioning, rides, and a beer and shashlik tent. I was feeling rather hungry and wishing I’d brought along enough dough for some shashlik, when I noticed a horse and pony next to the beer/shashlik tent. For a meager fee, one could be led around on either equine – a totally boring sort of ride; I wasn’t interested. However, the horse was gorgeous and the pony was adorable. I snapped a quick distance shot of the horse, as one of its handlers was on it, and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.

Then I wandered over to where the pony was tethered and grazing. Before whipping out my camera, I thought I’d befriend the little thing – he was SO cute and tiny, in the Shetland-pony style. Unfortunately, before I could get around to photographing this cute gem of horsehood, one of the horse-handlers approached me and started encouraging me to take a ride on the large horse. The following conversation occurred in Russian.

“Come on, ride this horse. That one’s too small.”

“I don’t need to, thanks.”

“Oh, come on. You should try everything at least once.”

“I’ve ridden horses many times, I don’t need to be led around like a child.”

“For you, it’s free.”

Ahh, those magic words. “Oh, okay. Why not.”

So I hopped up on this rather large Palomino, and while I at least got to hold the reins (unlike others I’d seen, clutching tightly to the pommel), the handler still held the reins near the bit. He asked me when and where I’d ridden before, and I told him that when I was little, my family had horses.

“Do you know how to go fast?”

“Of course!”

Then things got a little odd. The next thing I knew, this guy was on the horse behind me, with his arms wrapped around me. On the plus side, I had full control of the reins. On the minus side, he was a little too close for comfort, if you know what I mean. We rode around the field behind the carnival, cantering at top speeds. That was one powerful horse – and I never would have guessed from the way it had been just placidly being led around. The horse seemed quite thrilled to be allowed to do something other than just plod about, and was racing about with its ears pricked forward and its neck arched. I would love to have gotten a shot of it like that, instead of the one I took. Unfortunately, the dude riding behind me was much more interested in me than in riding the horse. (He's not the one sitting on the horse in the picture above, by the way.) I’ve got to start lying and telling people that I’m married or at least that I have a boyfriend. Not that this guy was all that old – he was 36, which is a completely acceptable dating age for me, what with me being 29 and all – but despite his relative youth, he had a mouthful of gold teeth and looked more like 46 than 36… sadly, he was not attractive at all. He tried to convince me to come out with him later than night but I declined. He told me that we should get together some weekend and ride out into the mountains while the flowers were in bloom, just the two of us. As nice as that sounds, the rest of my weekend didn’t exactly leave me feeling as though going off into the Blue with Random Kyrgyz Dudes was a particularly good idea (that’ll be dealt with more in the next post). I did give him my phone number (why did I do that??), although you know me well enough to know that I won’t answer when he calls. I wanted to get a picture of him with the horse, but there were actual paying customers waiting when we returned to the carnival, and I didn’t want to encourage him. I didn’t even get any shots of the cute little pony either, such was my hurry to be gone.

More Pictures and some Car Lust

April 16, 2008

Tan (тан) is the most wonderful beverage in the world. The best way to describe it, however, makes it sound rather awful: it's like watery, carbonated buttermilk. Trust me, though, it's delicious. Buy it if you ever get the chance. The above bottle of tan is dill-flavored. I was worried it would be disgusting, but it's even more delicious than regular tan. I've been downing at least a liter a day. Awesomeness.

This gigantic statue of Frunze (wikipedia entry) is located just across the street from the Bishkek train station. He sits atop an eerily anatomically correct horse. You can't tell from this shot, though.

Bishkek train station - obviously taken facing the sun, sorry.

More train station. Too bad the Kyrgyz train system is so... truncated.

I want to buy an old green or orange Lada or Moskvich.
I've been stalking them around the city.

Moskvich #1

Still Moskvich #1

Moskvich #2

More Moskvich #2

A Lada. I think.

Lada #2 ("parallel parked" a good car's width from the curb)

Yum, more Lada.