Jamal & Ermek’s Guesthouse, Issyk-kul
The small village of Ananyevo isn’t in any of the guidebooks and is just a spot on the map, but I’m here following a homestay tip left in the recommendations book at Nanchan’s in Bishkek. There is no telephone number, no email address, and only very simple instructions on how to find the place, but Adrian from Switzerland is adamant that staying with Jamal and Ermek shouldn’t be missed. So here I am.
The town isn’t much but a couple shops and a bazaar and I wander my way south searching for the brown fence that supposedly can’t be missed. After confirming that none of the neighboring streets have any brown fences I stand at the brownest one I can find and ring the bell.
“Da.”
“Uh, eta Jamal dom?” (Is this Jamal’s house?)
“Da.”
“Eta guesthouse?”
“Da, da.” Soon a chuckling woman comes out to greet me followed by a little girl who’s smiling ear to ear. Jamal is a matronly woman in her 50s and is all heart. In no time the table is covered with bread, jam, butter, cookies and my teacup is never empty. For the first hour she just seems shocked that I found the place and through broken English and basic Russian she tells me I’m the first tourist of the year.
Nine-year-old Alina doesn’t have a shy bone in her body and within minutes decides that if I’m going to stay here I’d better learn some Russian. How else is she supposed to talk to me? Out comes the notebook and soon I have a long list of antonyms and verbs and she’s drilling me on pronunciation. And she’s tough. I tell her I’ve never had a stricter teacher in my life and they both laugh. I get the feeling Alina is the entertainer of the family. I flash surprised glances at Jamal during Alina’s animated stories and the look she gives me says, “yeah I know, she’s a real character.” Faces always speak the same language.
When I start back home the duo are still tailing me and I’m starting to pick up some of her miming. The blond one finally asks what I’m doing in her town?
“You walk to the lake, you walk to the bazaar. What are you some kind of terrorist?” As she says this she starts shooting her imaginary gun around wildly. They both laugh for a while and I do too. I go halfway around the world and end up in a country ending with a “stan” only to be called a terrorist by a blond Russian twelve-year-old. I wonder what’s next?
Tags: Eurasia: Marco Polo-in' it, Kyrgyzstan
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