Not at my best in Bishkek, Part 1

June 17, 2013

I had to go to Bishkek this past weekend to collect my passport with its extended visa from The London School. On the previous weekend I had told Rakhat and Altynbek my plans to spend Friday, Saturday, and Sunday in Bishkek and I had asked them how I could get from Toguz Bulak to Bishkek. I was told that there would be plenty of marshrutki and that as such it wouldn’t be a problem. I don’t know about “plenty” as I’ve only ever seen one or two marshrutki in Toguz Bulak, but I was reassured that they didn’t seem to think that it would be difficult for me to find transport.

I really began to look forward to my trip to Bishkek. I began fantasizing about Fatboy’s and Cyclone and Georgian food and rabbit, and basically anything that I might be able to eat which didn’t contain sheep. I had other plans too, including getting the long lens on my camera fixed, buying a new Coolpix to replace the one I’d ruined (the purpose of the Coolpix was to take video for my grad school independent study project since my DSLR doesn’t take video; I’d ruined it a week prior by accidentally dumping a bottle of Coke onto it and needed to get a new one), meeting up with various people, buying maxipads and tampons (yes, I was still bleeding at this point) as well as some new underwear, and taking a minimum of three long, hot showers.

But this is Kyrgyzstan, and I should know by now that there’s not much point in making concrete plans. Kyrgyzstan sees your plans, and raises you a laugh in the face.

On Wednesday, Rakhat told me that the entire family had decided that they, too, would go to Bishkek as most of Altynbek’s relatives (and a couple of Rakhat’s) live there… and they’d bring a sheep with them to slaughter. And of course I must attend the sheep slaughtering festivities because all of Altynbek’s family members were so looking forward to meeting me. My dreams of a sheep-free weekend went down in a boiling pot of mutton. They didn’t understand why I wanted to stay in a hostel, when I could just stay with them at the home of one of Altynbek’s relatives… my dream of a sheep-free weekend had already died, but I was not letting go of my dream of hot showers and sit-down toilets. I told them that I had already reserved my bed at the hostel and that I therefore had to stay there. Not really a logical argument, but I stuck to it. (I’m glad I did, as the relatives’ homes that I visited were on the outskirts of the city and did not have running water or sit down toilets.)

I asked them what time we’d be leaving on Friday morning. This was important as I needed to be at The London School no later than 6pm to pick up my passport, and the drive from Toguz-Bulak to Bishkek takes a minimum of three and a half hours. I was told that we’d be leaving around 10am, as Rakhat had some things she needed to do at the school in the morning. I’d have preferred to be on the road earlier, but leaving at 10am would still give me plenty of time to pick up my passport and knock some items off of my to-do list.

Friday morning I was up, dressed, packed, and ready to go by 8:30am. Over breakfast, Rakhat asked me if I was going to the school. Why would I be going to the school? It was Friday, and I don’t teach classes on Fridays. It turned out that this Friday was a ten year school reunion at the Myrzamambetov School, and all of the teachers (including me and Rakhat) were expected to attend. “But we’re going to Bishkek!” I was suddenly feeling a bit panicked, envisioning a combination of drunken American high school reunions and six hour long Kyrgyz feasts. “Oh, don’t worry,” I was told, “It will only take a couple of hours, then we can leave.” A couple of hours? Seriously? Arrrrgh. We didn’t leave Toguz Bulak until nearly 1pm, at which point I was feeling thoroughly stressed about whether or not I’d get to The London School before 6pm.

(As an aside, the ten year reunion involved the former students reuniting not only with each other, but with their former teachers as well. They also got to meet the new teachers, hired since their graduation, and quite a few of the current students who had turned out for the event. They took a tour of the school, watched a short video about the school, and listened to a speech by the director. This was apparently followed by dining and dancing, but luckily we left at that point, as we very much needed to get on the road.)

The road into Toguz Bulak from the main road along the southern shore of Lake Issyk-Kul into the village is being paved, and as such it is closed. Or perhaps I should write “closed.” It’s the only way in and out of this part of the valley other than a very lengthy detour. As such, no one heading in or out is bothering with the detour; they’re just off-roading alongside the roadwork instead.

Rakhat, Altynbek, the three kids and I loaded into the car – a twenty or so year old four-door Audi, the trunk of which was packed to the brim with everything we might possibly need in Bishkek, including satchels full of the boorsook we made the other day and a live sheep. The poor thing bleated from the trunk all the way to Bishkek. It was cold and rainy when we squished ourselves into the car, so they cranked up the heat before we began our off-roading adventure to reach the main road. Now those of you who suffer from motion sickness should already be cringing: cramped quarters, no ventilation, heat, and a bouncy, winding road? That’s a sure recipe for motion sickness right there. Now, I’d taken my homeopathic motion sickness meds (I can’t take even the “non-drowsy” Dramamine as it knocks me out cold for a good 8 hours if not longer) so I didn’t vomit, although I did develop that nasty dizzy feeling that accompanies motion sickness. As such, I did not feel too great by the time we reached the main road. Combine that with three more hours squished into the hot, unventilated back seat with a screaming toddler while stressing about whether or not I’d make it to The London School in time to pick up my passport and you have the prefect recipe for a migraine. Yay.

We arrived in Bishkek around 3:30pm, but instead of going to the hostel to drop me off, our first destination was the home of one of Altynbek’s brothers who lives in the north-eastern part of Bishkek, over by Dordoi (in fact, his wife works at Dordoi). For those of you who don’t know the geography of Bishkek, let’s just say that this is a long way from The London School. I mentioned that I really needed to get to The London School soon and was told, “It’s ok; you’ll have plenty of time. We’re just stopping for tea; this’ll only take about an hour.” My headache cranked up a couple more notches. It wasn’t yet a migraine, but I was pretty certain that it was heading in that direction. After “tea” (which was, of course, a full meal) I was finally delivered to my hostel, where I arrived at 5:30pm.

I popped two Excedrin and called The London School to explain that I’d only just gotten into Bishkek and that I was on my way to get my passport. The person whom I was meeting agreed to wait for me. I ran down to Sovietskaya and caught a taxi.

“What? You haven’t left for the village yet?” asked the taxi driver. Yes, I had been driven to The London School by this very taxi driver before, and had talked to him about what I was doing in Kyrgyzstan. I explained to him that I had been out in the village for a month and was just in town for the weekend. The previous time I’d ridden with this fellow, he’d seemed the friendly, avuncular type (although as I’m sure my mother would point out, he is now in my ‘datable age bracket’), but this time I got the standard ‘Are you married?’ question. I answered with “No, but I have a boyfriend back in the US” – and the response? “Well he’s there and you’re here… we should get to know each other a little better.” Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Really? I haven’t showered in a week, I’ve been in a hot car all afternoon, and I’m all squinty from my headache and you’re hitting on me? After I tell you I have a boyfriend? I was so not in the mood for this at all.

By the time I got to The London School, the migraine and the Excedrin were doing full battle, and the Excedrin was losing. I reclaimed my passport and tried to have a sensible chat with the folks there (although I’m sure I failed). Then I went to the grocery store in the VEFA Center in order to purchase some juice, a coke, maxipads, and soft toilet paper. I sat in the courtyard at VEFA drinking my coke and swallowing two more Excedrin in the hopes that my headache might go away. It didn’t, but for a while the Excedrin had the upper hand in the battle.

I took a taxi back into the center. When this fellow asked me if I was married, I answered yes. “Oh, how many children do you have?” “None.” “Why not?” “I don’t want any children.” “What? A woman who doesn’t have children isn’t a real woman, and a wife who doesn’t give birth isn’t a real wife. If a wife doesn’t immediately become pregnant, a Kyrgyz man will divorce her.” I was not in the mood for this either.

My next stop was TSUM in order to buy a replacement Coolpix. I told the guys at one of the camera-kiosks that I needed the cheapest camera they had that could take video – and they sold me the exact same model of Coolpix that I had ruined the week before, only in pink.

I then wandered along Kievskaya, looking for a place known as Dom Byta that I’d been told would probably be able to repair my DSLR's long lens. At that point it was after 8pm on a Friday, and I didn’t expect Dom Byta to be open, I just wanted to locate it and discern what time it might open the following morning. I knew roughly where it was, but I couldn’t locate it – and my attempts at doing so were hampered by the fact that I was in full migraine-aura mode. The Excedrin was still keeping most of the pain at bay, but I was having a fairly difficult time seeing straight.

I gave up on my quest for Dom Byta and stumbled over to Fatboy’s for some non-sheep dinner (which I admit I did not enjoy given how I felt). I then made my way back to the hostel where I took a long, hot shower (which alas, I also did not enjoy) before collapsing onto my bed, taking one of my three remaining Imitrex, and promptly passing out.

Arrival in Toguz-Bulak

May 28, 2013

This morning I awoke quite early, as I had to be at the London School with all of my possessions (which have grown to include a computer, a shyrdak, and a bucket). The taxi driver who drove me to the London School wanted to know where I was from, how old I was, if I was married, if I was a lesbian, if I had a boyfriend, and if I was a virgin. In that order. Great. Welcome to Kyrgyzstan.

I met the London School’s director and her driver at the school and we set off for Toguz-Bulak. We only stopped once along the way, at the rest area at Kholodnie Vodi – not much there other than some kiosks selling snacks, and of course a cold water spring from whence the tiny village gets its name. There was also an incredibly sweet little black dog there. If I had been in my own transport (and going to my own home), I would have taken her with me. I felt pretty terrible leaving her behind.

When we arrived at the village of Toguz-Bulak, our first stop was the Myrzamambetov Public School, where my classes would be held. All of the school’s students and teachers – and apparently a couple of parents – had turned up to meet me and to listen to the London School’s director give a presentation on who I was and why I had come to their village. From the exterior, it was obvious that the school was of fairly new construction, but the interior was dimly lit and frigid, despite the warm, sunny day outside. I grew chilled as the director gave her presentation. Her presentation was entirely in Kyrgyz – a language in which I can only speak a few words – so I don’t know everything that was said. I do know that she included things like:

Don’t ask the American for money. Just because she is a foreigner does not mean that she is wealthy. She is a graduate school student and is poor.

Americans smile a lot. This does not mean that they are crazy or that they want to date you. This is just their way of being polite.

If you wish to do anything with the American, please schedule it with her in advance – don’t spring it on her at the last minute.

Please be punctual. Americans value punctuality.

(While no one asked me for money while I was in Toguz Bulak, I’m pretty sure most people didn’t pay any attention to any of the other ‘tips’ for dealing with The American.)

The Director of The London School gives her presentation
The person on the left is a Smiling American

By the time the presentation had finished, I was feeling thoroughly chilled inside the dark school-building, and was looking forward to returning to the warm outdoors. Alas: during the time of the presentation, the sky had clouded up, and the outdoors had grown rather chilly. I found myself thinking how glad I was that I’d brought fleece-lined leggings to accompany my sundresses!

We left the school and headed towards my host family’s house on the northern edge of the village. They live in a brand-new, two-story house (it was just completed this past November), yet as is true in many Kyrgyz villages, they had no indoor plumbing to speak of. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, a brand-new, two-story house with a pit squatter out back. And a yurt set up in the yard.

My home for the next month.

I met the family who were to be my hosts for the next month: Rakhat and her husband Altynbek, and their three children Nursultan (14), Nuraika (10) and Nurel (2.5). Rakhat teaches at the Myrzamambetov Public School as well – she is a teacher of chemistry and biology. Her husband is a farmer (they raise mostly sheep, but also some cattle, goats, and chickens) as well as the regional deputy who represents the three villages in the valley. We ate plov accompanied by boorsook and jam and copious quantities of tea, and then the London School’s director left.

The fried bread is called boorsook.
My room, complete with my shyrdak :-)

At that point I was feeling pretty exhausted and in need of a nap.

Two hours later, I awoke feeling refreshed and ready to explore my surroundings. I spent a little bit of time watching my hosts plow a small field, using a horse drawn plow. The horse was very compliant. I can just imagine the negative reaction if I attached a plow to the back of either of my horses in the US! They were plowing the field in preparation for planting wheat to feed their animals come wintertime.

Nursultan plows

After spending a little bit of time watching my hosts plow, I decided to go for a walk around the tiny and remote village. Toguz-Bulak is tiny – the size of many neighborhoods in the US – and very desolate: wide dirt streets, small cottages (many in various states of disrepair, although several even nicer than my hosts’ home, and all with pit toilets), livestock roaming free, and in the middle of a wide valley, lined on both the north and the south by tall mountains. From the western edge of the village, I could see two other villages of comparable size: Kul-Tor (where I was initially supposed to go) and one other village.

Main Street, Toguz Bulak
Nearly every village, no matter how small, has a monument to WWII. (The Soviet Union entered the war in 1941, thus the discrepancy with the starting date.)

Unfortunately, I managed to encounter not one but two Creepy Dudes, both in their forties, both quite drunk, and both way too interested in me. The second one actually followed me to my door. Unluckily for me, he turned out to be a childhood friend of Altynbek, and as such was invited in for tea. Aaaargh. Luckily, Rakhat and Altynbek only kept the drunk fellow around just long enough to be polite, then very forcefully sent him on his way. After he left, Rakhat said, “He’s actually a decent guy when he’s sober, but…” Yeah. I am all too familiar with that type, and let me tell you how not interested I am! I decided at that point to invent a fictional boyfriend to start telling people about. Toguz-Bulak is a small enough place that “fact” of whether or not I was single would probably spread very quickly.

After dinner, I sat down to plan my lesson for the following day. I knew that I would have three groups: high school, middle school, and elementary. What I didn’t know was what levels of English skills the students would have or whether or not any of them would speak Russian. I also didn’t know if the school had any materials available for me to use, or if the students even had textbooks. As such, I planned a lesson that was really simple: a personal introduction (including photos from home of my family, my house, and my pets), some basic vocabulary (translated into both Russian and Kyrgyz) and the song Hello, Goodbye by The Beatles. We’ll see how it goes!

Send Pepto.

August 17, 2008

Well, okay, you probably shouldn’t send me pepto, as by the time it got here I’d be back in the US. But I bet you can guess what happened. Yep, I had ANOTHER case of food poisoning or stomach flu or giardia or whatever the hell it is that I keep getting. This one wasn’t as severe as the previous three times, but it was made worse by the fact that I worked through it all. (Yes, this included running out in the middle of class…) Anyway, the week was pretty much a wash due to being ill and the fact that I had to work on Wednesday to make up for the day of work I missed because of being sick the previous week. Boo.

This weekend my friends and I had planned a super-cool trip to Song Kol, a high mountain lake which is supposedly one of the most beautiful places in Kyrgyzstan. Well, they went; I stayed here nursing my stomach. At least after four days of yogurt I’m back on solid foods again.

In a fit of boredom I did something I hadn’t done in a good three years: I dyed my hair. Blonde. And not a natural blonde, but a crazy bright yellow. And almost instantaneously I had creepy guys hitting on me through my window. In eight months of living here, I had NEVER had anyone bother me through my window before. Seriously, WTF is it with guys and blonde hair? Or with creepy drunken dudes thinking that a girl is going to give her phone number to a strange guy harassing her from the street, ripping a hole in her plastic window-covering and trying to steal her cat? I ended up having to sleep with my windows closed, which meant cutting out the ventilation from the cool night air. Sigh. Nobody ever fucked with me when I had black hair; there’s probably a lesson in this somewhere.

Yep, absurdity reigns.

Although there might be another explanation for the behaivour of those dudes... Yes, a full moon. And that little glowy spot is Venus.

En vino veritas

April 22, 2008

I am not going to tell the full story of what befell us on Saturday night, as the story itself isn’t really mine for the telling. My role was peripheral, and as such, my coverage of the events shall be as well.

My friends had decided to spend another evening out at the rock club Zeppelin; however, as we’d been there the night before, and as I was feeling decidedly head-coldy following my walk-n-ride, I decided to stay home. After a couple of hours sobbing my way through Battlestar Galactica reruns (in preparation for my attempt to acquire parts of season 4), followed by a few minutes of escapist mystery reading, the power went out. No surprise there; it’s been going out every evening around midnight. I figured that was a sign that I should go to bed. Not five minutes later, a loud ruckus from the courtyard convinced me that perhaps I should be out and about.

Let’s just say that a now former Kyrgyz friend of ours had imbibed way too much, causing him to turn into an angry, belligerent monster. And monsters have a tendency to attack. Four of us ended up holed up in K’s room, recovering while the fiend rampaged. Eventually said fiend passed out in the backseat of his car. Extra points go to Young B for excellent sneaking skills, even if he was lacking in locating-passed-out-monsters-in-cars skills, and for use of the word ‘jumpers’ in a tight spot. The night could have been disastrous. As it was, it was thoroughly unnerving and distressing, but we managed to find humor in a lot of it.

We continued to find humor in the morning, when we discovered that not only was the monster still hanging about, but he and our alleged night guard (who had done next to nothing to assist us the night before) were drinking Devyatki (a super strong beer) at 10am. Thanks a lot, guard. Way to do your job. By noon the two of them were completely hammered, and lurking at the café across the street, waiting for a certain member of our party to emerge. (In fact, when two of our group tried to leave, they ended up essentially chased into my apartment by ye olde monster. My apologies to them for the fact that I had not yet cleaned the litter boxes at that point. My apartment was a bit stinky.)

The four of us decided that we did not wish to be trapped inside all day. Unfortunately, there is only one entrance/exit to the school’s “compound” – and the monster and his drinking buddy were waiting in direct view of it. So, we decided to get a bit creative, and snuck out over the back wall.

K&A
A's arm, me, B
A&B
Jump, A!
A, K, & B After achieving our freedom, we bought a two-liter of tan and some plastic cups and headed to a nearby park to enjoy freedom and the company of the sane and sober.

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.

Women’s Day Paint Party

March 9, 2008

Saturday was Women's Day, which is a BIG DEAL in the former Soviet Union. While it was quite nice to get flowers and chocolate from my students, I could've done without the attendant drama (the unwanted attentions of the married man and the creepy twik guy, for example). Sigh. Why is it always the creepy and/or otherwise taken ones who are interested? Seriously, what gives? Ahh well.

My friends and I celebrated the holiday in a rather unorthodox fashion: we painted my kitchen/living room orange! Well, more of a bright peach, really. It's *exactly* the color I want to paint my kitchen in The Small Southern Town, and after seeing the results I'm even more convinced that this is the correct color choice.

Before.

Mixing the paint was an interesting affair. See, here in K-stan, you have to mix your paint yourself. There's no friendly Lowe's or Home Depot staff member to do it for you. We were rather worried as to how it would turn out. Luckily, it turned out beautifully.

Voila! My new kitchen/living room!

My Secret Admirer

February 17, 2008

At The London School, in honor of Valentine’s Day, we had a mailbox downstairs for valentines. Today, when the admin staff were going through the few valentines deposited within, they found one for me: a letter written in both English and Russian. I’m quite skeptical of this epistle, as it is unsigned and as it reads rather like a segment of Evgeny Onegin. I’m half convinced it’s a translation of a modified version of either Tatiana’s letter to Evgeny or vice versa, but as it’s been a good seven years since I last read Evgeny Onegin it might very well not be. I’m also slightly concerned that it might be from that creepy twik guy; while his English is nowhere near this good, he could very well have had help. Or an electronic translator. But as it is unsigned, it will remain a mystery. Anyway, the English version, complete with grammar and spelling errors for authenticity is as follows:

I write to the most charming girl on this world... Ah, what happiness that have this holiday. For the first time seems to me, I understand huge value of this holiday, because knowing that you beside I quail and can’t approach, and contrary to common sense, seeing you, at me language is braided and I lose gift of speech. Singing this letter I feel really worry and I feed hope, what perhaps you heart accept, my dreams devoid reason, perhaps in you the spark of hope for me (will small flame for me). But most likey to mine, unfortunately, having read, through will frown eyebrow and will throw my dreams in a garbage box, perhaps having read through indifference slightly only having raised spongos will smil. Only you such smil, from which since you here without mind. Annie, you are most charming, Annie you are most beautiful, Annie you are most attractive...

Valentine’s Day Musings

February 17, 2008

When I was 18 years old and in high school, I had what I considered to be a serious boyfriend. I was head over heels in love with this guy, and thought he was wonderful. It was pretty obvious to literally EVERYONE else that this was a bad idea, except for perhaps my one friend whom he managed to convince to become his surreptitious girlfriend. Yeah. He was a great catch. What were we thinking? She and I are both well rid of that asshole. (Er, no offense to him or any of his relatives who might very well be reading this.) Anyway, during my senior year of high school, when I was besotted with said asshole, two teachers (who were at the time former teachers of mine) took me aside on different occasions to tell me that my boyfriend was a bad apple and a bad influence, and advised me that perhaps I should consider finding someone different. At the time, I simply felt awkward and uncomfortable during those conversations, and of course, I thought they had no idea what they were talking about. Looking back, it is nice to think that they were able to see that I was in way over my head in a bad relationship and tried to help me out, instead of simply looking the other way.

I bring all this up because one of my students is reminding me a lot of my high school self these days. She is sixteen, incredibly smart, very motivated, and an excellent student – one of my best. And she is completely in love with her boyfriend. I can totally understand what she sees in him: he’s very attractive, and is sixteen as well, although he looks older. He’s incredibly smart and funny, and he’s got that bad-boy thing going on that so many girls fall for. To top it off, comes from a pretty well-off family, which in a country like Kyrgyzstan can definitely be added to the plus column when rating a potential suitor. Sounds like a great catch, huh? Well, he wears this shiny rhinestone belt-buckle, decorated with a marijuana leaf, and his dream is to go to Amsterdam to “smoke the ganja” as he says. He’s also a total punk in class – smart, but much more interested in showing off in front of everyone else, making lewd jokes and whatnot. Those are pretty typical teenage boy kind of behaviors, but... Today he came into class with a video on his cell phone which he and his friends had edited and set to music. The video was shot yesterday. It was a video of him and two friends beating the shit out of another boy. Granted, the other boy fought back (the student in question came to class with an obviously bruised and swollen jaw), but he was no match for three other boys in tandem. By the end of the video, the victim was on the ground while the three others (including my student) kicked and beat him repeatedly. This was the video that they’d taken the time to edit, set to music, and load onto their cell phones. Let’s just say it was incredibly disturbing. Plus he was proud of it. I did lecture him about his behavior, but he obviously took my admonishments as some kind of a joke. I’d love to take his girlfriend aside and suggest to her that he is a bad apple and a bad influence, and that perhaps she should consider finding someone different... but I know exactly how she would react.

Chechen Stalking and Сильный Секс

February 7, 2008

I.T. has befriended a Chechen woman who works at a small kiosk along Chui, the main drag downtown. Apparently she had been stopping there every day for various items, and the woman eventually struck up a conversation with her and invited her into the back part of the kiosk for tea. As they got to know one another, Ina learned that this woman (I'll call her Z) was acquainted with the president of the Kyrgyz Chechen Diaspora (I'll call him S). I.T. asked if perhaps it would be possible to meet with him, to interview him regarding the latest news out of Chechnya and his views on life here in the Central Asian diaspora of displaced Chechens. Z said that she would try to set up a meeting. I.T. thought I should come along too, claiming that my Russian was better than hers; it’s not – although that certainly wouldn’t deter me from tagging along on this interview!

Anyhow, during the course of their getting to know one another, Z asked I.T. if she had a boyfriend... and then, if she was a virgin. I.T’s answer to that question was the best I’ve ever heard: “No, I’m Norwegian.” She went on to explain that in Norway, as in many western countries, it’s normal for unmarried people to have had sex. Today, when I.T. and I popped by to see if a meeting with the mysterious S would be possible, was the first time Z had seen I.T. since the are-you-a-virgin conversation. She seemed very excited to see us.

She sat us down in the back of her kiosk and turned to I.T. in excitement. “I’ve found just the man for you! He is Arabic, and he wants сильный секс!” Now, for those of you who don’t know Russian, сильный секс translates literally into “strong sex” and I suppose would best be translated as “great sex.” (Additionally, it has a superfabulous bit of alliteration going on, what with it being pronounced seelny sex and all.) She went on to tell us that this man was from Iraq but lives in Bishkek. He has two wives, although one is sick and the other doesn’t want to have sex on account of already having had six of this man’s children! Additionally, she stressed that he is very clean and a super religious Muslim, and that of course means that he prays five times a day and that he washes before each time he prays. She also told us that this fellow is 35 (I.T. is 21, by the way), and is a university professor who teaches English, French and Arabic. He also apparently is a karate instructor, wealthy, six feet tall, 200lbs and (according to this woman) super hot. He’s looking for a young, attractive, clean, intelligent woman (not Kyrgyz; he seems a bit of a racist and doesn’t like how Kyrgyz women look; one of his wives is Russian, the other, Arabic) with whom he can have сильный секс. Additionally, if he likes this woman and enjoys the сильный секс, he is totally willing to marry her and make her wife number three. Z was completely convinced that I.T. was the one to make his dreams come true. (She even was willing to bet I.T. $100US that the сильный секс would be good, and coming from a Chechen refugee kiosk worker, that’s some serious dough!) Anyway, it took I.T. a good 45 minutes to convince Z that she didn’t want to have сильный секс with this random Iraqi, attractive though he may be. At this point, Z turned to me and asked if I had any young, single friends (I being apparently too old and all) who might be interested in having сильный секс with the Iraqi.

I immediately thought of A, although not entirely seriously. After showing Z a photograph of A on my camera, she insisted that I call her and try to convince her to come down to the kiosk in order to arrange a meeting with this dude. Ahh, the hilarity which ensued. In the end none of us was willing to meet up with the Iraqi for сильный секс, but at least our time spent with Z was jolly and convivial. Of course, we never did meet the mysterious S, as it turned out that he had just left for Chechnya, where he will be for the next month.

Friday Night Chinese

February 3, 2008

By Friday, I was feeling mostly better, and was left merely with a sore throat, a voice like an old crone, and a hacking cough. Yes, this was an improvement. Friday night some of the teachers, J (an American studying Russian at the London School), I.T. and I met at a Chinese restaurant in downtown Bishkek (located roughly behind the circus). J used to live in China and apparently speaks fluent Chinese. He had been to this restaurant several times before, and had managed to befriend all the staff. I.T. arrived first and was told there would be no tables available for at least an hour (the place *was* packed), but then J sweet-talked the employees into essentially kicking some people out of a table and giving it to us! Also, I have no idea how much food actually costs at this place, because J apparently got us a huge discount. Six of us shared numerous incredibly delicious dishes and had two to three beers a piece, and the total came to around 1300 soms. For the massive amounts of food and drink we got, that was unbelievably cheap.

Anyhow, when we first entered this restaurant, they were playing Chorny Glaza at top volume. For those of you who have heard the phenomenon that is Chorny Glaza, you know how addictive and wonderful and happy it is. The dance floor was packed with mainly middle aged Kyrgyz dancing away. There was also a small child, probably about two years old, dancing with a ginormous cat. The cat was about as big as she was, and totally placid. The still photo doesn’t do it justice at all.

Additionally, we all got to take turns dancing with various people, most of whom were nice, but some of whom were sleazy and/or drunk. Sadly, one creepy dude kept dancing with me and I.T. (or trying to anyway) and seemed to think it was totally appropriate to stick his hand up the backs of our respective shirts. Boo! Also, I was asked to slow dance with this crazy middle aged Kyrgyz woman. Um, okay.

Wednesday Weirdness

January 26, 2008

(I’ve been incommunicado for the past few days on account of the combination of sickness and power outages... But here’s my story of what happened this past Wednesday. I’ll try to update on the rest of the week when I feel better.)

We don’t teach classes on Wednesdays, and while I’ve spent the previous two Wednesdays busily engaged in lesson planning, I decided to actually *do* something with my mid-week break this time around.

I awoke promptly at 9am, not thanks to my alarm or my brilliant internal clock, but to the annoying chiming of my doorbell which whines a synthetic Beethoven at an obnoxious volume. After persistent ringing, I stumbled out of bed and peered through the peephole to find S., the school’s cleaning lady, with my freshly laundered clothes. (This is a service we have to pay for, but in my opinion, it’s well worth the money.) After she left, I managed to convince myself to go ahead and get dressed. The lure of the internet will do that.

After spending some quality time (not to mention soms) at the internet café, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and go buy a cell phone. The whole process was remarkably easy. (Additionally, I got to select my own number from a list of options. I ended up with 43-64-51 as my last six digits. Some people might note the significance of these numerical combinations, especially what with 6+4=10 and all. Yeah, old habits die hard.) It’s good to be vaguely wired again, even if it’s not via constant internet access.

A new teacher (he’s actually a student here on an internship, and will only be teaching for one month) arrived on Monday, so we decided to take him out for lunch to get to know him. We went to Fatboy’s (yes, I go there a lot, ok?) and hung out there for about an hour or so.

Before we left Fatboy’s, I.T. showed up. She and I decided to make our way to the Osh Bazaar to see what we could find. The journey there, in and of itself, is quite an adventure. Transport in the city of Bishkek consists mainly of marshrutki, or mini-buses. They are somewhere in between a mini-van and a regular van in size, so they are not very big. Additionally, they don’t seem to have any capacity limit outside of how many bodies can be crammed inside. When going to a popular destination – such as the Osh Bazaar – one should be prepared for conditions that make a tinned sardine’s life seem spacious.

The weather was absolutely frigid, and after wandering about the food section of the market for a while, we decided to take refuge in the one large, fancy(ish) indoor part of the bazaar. (For people who’ve been to Vladimir, Russia that section is like Dobryak was before they remodeled it and made it all fancy.) While inside, I managed to buy the most awesome woolen felt slippers ever for myself, as well as a pair of tiny slippers for M&A’s soon-to-be-baby. The proprietor of the stall where I purchased the slippers threw in a felt-covered papier-mache yurt for free – probably feeling guilty that I’d simply accepted his price offers without bargaining. I.T. and I also spent a long time chatting with a seller in one of the indoor stalls who used to be a Russian teacher. She invited us to come by on Sunday to meet her daughter, whom she claims speaks excellent English. I told her I would come, although as I am currently rather ill, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make it.

(M&A: I'll try and mail them soon, but given my hatred of post-Soviet post offices, I'm not sure how "soon" that will be!)

We left the cozy indoor part of the market and headed out to the clothing stalls. The people who run these places must be utterly miserable, spending all day outside in subzero temps with no heat whatsoever. While I.T. didn’t find what she’d come to the bazaar in search of – a dull yet warm sweater – I managed to come away with a fabulous green and yellow prayer rug. I’d love to hang it on my wall, but as my walls are concrete, I’ve currently got it draped over the side of my wardrobe.

After spending way too much time wandering about the Osh market in the miserable chill, we decided that what we really needed was a nice cup of tea to warm us up. We found a café on the bazaar grounds – indoors and only *slightly* warmer than the great outdoors – and ordered our tea. The interior of the café was thick with cigarette smoke, and cold enough that we could see our breath.

I.T. drinks tea.

Only two other tables in the joint were occupied: one, a man and three women, all exceedingly drunk; the other, a group of seven Kyrgyz men celebrating the birthday of one of their group.

Inevitably, the men began approaching us, one at a time to chat. One told us that he owned a nearby restaurant, gave us its name, and said he hoped we’d stop by. Another, the only young one in the group, shyly sat down and asked for my phone number (which I gave him – not sure if I’ll regret that or not). He told us that he lives in Almaty, in Kazakhstan, but that he often travels to Bishkek to work in the market. Then he returned to his friends.

When I’d taken my camera out to snap the photo of I.T. drinking her tea, the group asked me to take their picture as well. One of the members of the group said he was a photographer (as in for a living), but didn’t have a digital camera. After I took their picture, he asked if he could take the memory card to print out the picture, promising to return in ten minutes or less. You know how I covet my electronic goods, and I was not too thrilled by the prospect of lending some strange man my memory card, but he was persuasive... not to mention that his friends seemed very much to want him to return with photos. He returned with copies of the photo for all of the men, into which for some reason he had photoshopped the Taj Mahal into the background! And, of course, he returned the card to me.

I.T. and I were just beginning to contemplate getting on our merry way, when the waitress arrived at our table with three cups of coffee. At first we were quite confused, but then one of the men came over, said they were from him, and asked to join us. This was another creepy-old-dude of the mouth-of-gold-teeth variety. However, the warmth from our tea had worn off and the café was cold, so the coffee was welcome, even if the companionship was rather suspect. The photographer soon joined us. While Gold Teeth pumped I.T. for information on how she managed to get from Norway to Kyrgyzstan, the photographer quizzed me about my camera, then offered to buy it. When I turned him down, he asked if he could just borrow it, because it was so much nicer than his. Again, I turned him down, although I doubt he had expected me to agree. Besides, I totally understand camera envy.

Then Gold Teeth suggested cognac. Now, I am fully aware that cognac is pretty much an open door to drunken catastrophe, but for some reason (mainly because he went to great length to express to us the purity and quality of Bishkek Cognac) we agreed to one shot, stressing that by one shot we meant just that: ONE. And of course, instead of bringing us each one shot, the waitress brought out an entire bottle. We insisted again that we would only have one shot, and they didn’t press us. However, after our first shot, Gold Teeth made a nearly successful attempt to kiss I.T., although she quite forcefully pushed him away just in time. He didn’t seem too offended, although he did try to defend himself by claiming a kiss after a first shot is Kyrgyz tradition. Um, bullshit. At that point, we decided it was probably time to leave, and despite their attempts to bribe us into sticking around with more shots of cognac, we refused and ventured back out into the cold.

By this time, the sun had set and it was definitely well below 0F (and I mean 0F, which is -17C) outside. Just walking from the café to the nearest place to find a marshrutka van left us cold to the point of pain in our extremities. The marshrutka we took back to the city center was not crowded in the least. Unfortunately, the ones I needed to cart me from the center back to my apartment were all packed to the gills. I squished into one, but only made it about halfway home before desperately needing to get back my personal space and tumbling back out into the freezing night air.

When I finally approached my block, I noticed something eerily familiar: darkness. Yep, the power in my block was out again. Luckily, after Monday’s adventure, I managed to locate my superfabulous LED headlamp, so the next three and a half hours I spent at home were not spent in darkness. Additionally, the state-provided heat and hot water was not out, so my apartment was dark, but not cold – which was excellent, as I was in desperate need of a thaw. The power surged back into life at around 10:15, only to blink off a mere 45 minutes later. Sigh. But I’ll write more about out frequent power outages when I’m feeling a little better.

Gold Toothed Leer

January 16, 2008

BI was a little late meeting me on Sunday, as the snow had rather slowed down transport city-wide. I waited out on the sidewalk before deciding that it was cold and since he knew where I lived, I might as well wait inside. However, before common sense led me to that stellar decision, I had a rather interesting experience. When I emerged onto the snow-covered sidewalk, I saw a middle-aged man who appeared to be waiting either for a bus or for someone. Now lest anyone suggest otherwise, I did not so much as make eye contact with this fellow, and I most certainly didn’t smile at him. In fact, I’d taken very little notice of him until he began crossing the street, headed directly for me. At first I thought that he was simply crossing the street, but no. He grew nearer and nearer, and I steadfastly gazed down the street, as if scanning the bus numbers. Finally, there was no avoiding the man; he was totally up in my personal space. I bit back a rather rude чего? (kind of like rudely saying what the?) and instead gave him a look which I hoped conveyed that thought without me having to open my mouth and possibly expose that I was not a native of Bishkek. Instead of taking the hint and walking away (alas, they never do), he comically imitated my expression, leaned in and leered at me, showing a full set of gold teeth, and covering me with the stale stench of beer. I simply stared back. He then asked me where I was going. I told him firmly and in as best an angry devushka voice as I could muster, Я жду друга. (Now first off, I can’t for the life of me remember if one says жду друга or жду другу, but I suspect that’s somewhat beside the point.) See жду (zhdu) means 'I wait' and друг (droog) means a male friend; however, it can also be used to mean boyfriend. I hoped very much that my manner and tone of voice would convey to this man that I was indeed awaiting my boyfriend; he wouldn’t need to know any different. Luckily for me, he took it to mean just that, and with a shrug he stumbled off down the street. Shortly thereafter I decided to wait indoors. Seriously, I’m like catnip for crazy old dudes.