Wanderlust Heaven!

My final hours in Osh the Great were fairly calm. I exchanged some US$ for Uzbeki sum, one of the world’s most ridiculous currencies. The largest bill is worth about US$0.70, so if you hand over a Ben Franklin you get a stack of bills held together by an elastic. Imagined walking around with my pockets bulging in Tashkent, and vowed to figure out a way to look inconspicuous. One pro: no issues with making change from large bills…

I caught up on emails, and installed some Windows Vista updates, which seem to be coming a little too frequently for me. And as I’ve written before, I’m never quite sure what all these updates actually do – some are security fixes, others who knows. The only benefit is that sometimes I see a huge chunk of my hard drive freed up – are some of these updates cleaning up and rationalizing Vista’s use of my hard drive?

Had my final meal in Kyrgyzstan at the ‘Rich Men Café’ on the outskirts of town. This is the sort of place that the world needs more of – attractive waitresses, good sound system, and top-notch food and drink. I had a plate of eggs with red caviar (black was out of stock), delicious and for under US$2. Beers were cold and cheap. Had some perch, then some chicken with garlic and cheese sauce – terrific. And late at night, after downing some vodka, one couple got up and slowed danced…kitschy but I loved it. I felt like asking my waitress for a dance but this was the Fergana Valley and I might have been shot for my impertinence…

So Osh the Great was a decent enough place for a couple nights. Some aspects were pretty weak, if a bit cute – dial-up Internet (remember your old U.S. Robotics 56k modem?), lack of water/brownish water, power cuts when it rained, difficulty in making international phone calls (they use IP/Internet phone mostly here, even in the central telephone office – doesn’t always work that well). So that’s my excuse for not phoning home…

All that said, as you may recall I was here in large part to cross the nearby frontier, at the town of Dostuk, and enter Uzbekistan. Now I was ready to make that move, long-awaited and not without tribulation.

Before going to bed that night, I managed to catch Obama’s Germany speech on CNNi. Felt like watching history being made, and it provided quite a contrast to the current political realities (imagine Bush giving a speech in Europe – hah). To me, Obama helped make himself appear more statesmanlike and presidential…but I also feared how it would play at home to the hillbillies who would be easily persuaded that Obama was an internationalist and not someone in tune with ordinary Americans.

Got up early on Friday and got ready to head to the border. I was slightly anxious about this border crossing, as you can probably detect from my writing. I was concerned because:
-the Uzbeki government doesn’t like the U.S. government – we denounced the Uzbeki government’s Andijon brutality in 2005 and they kicked us out of the country (we had an airbase and some NGOs)
-it was a Friday, and if I couldn’t get across, I’d have to wait till Monday – at least I was fairly certain it wasn’t a holiday of any sort
-I had neglected to create my usual bogus air ticket ‘proving’ future departure from Uzbekistan, so if the border guards asked me for this, I’d be lacking. I did look up flight information to Kiev and scrawl the info on a piece of paper, just to have something to show
-getting from the border to Tashkent might not be that straightforward

Why was I so keen to go to Uzbekistan, anyway? When I was a kid I read a lot about the ancient Silk Road and the cities along the way – cities like Kashgar, Samarkand, and Bukara – and about the exploits of Tamerlane, whose capital was Samarkand. When the FSU imploded in 1991, Uzbekistan got the lion’s share of these historical treasures and I’d always wanted to see ‘em. And when I was working at Monitor, I had a colleague named Anna who was a Jew from Tashkent – she told me some colorful stories of the place. But she also cautioned me about/against visiting – I thought about going there around 2000, but she told me I would ‘definitely get robbed.’ That didn’t sound like fun, and I was also short on time, so I put it off. Now things had changed, and I’d not heard any issues about violence, etc. – at least nothing like I’d heard from bloggers about Bishkek!

Took a cab to the border, about 10 km from Osh. Just before the border, I exchanged my remaining Kyrgyz som for Uzbeki sum – and got a fat pile of notes. A fellow hanging around offered me a (shared) taxi ride all the way to Tashkent. Sounded too good to be true…and I don’t take first offers anyway. I said no thanks and took care of the money exchange. He kept hanging around…I pondered my options, which were to get in a shared taxi or marshrutka on the Uzbeki side, ride to infamous Andijon, and then change to another taxi or marshrutka to Tashkent. Likely total cost: about US$15-20. Like torture factor, given the heat, security, etc.: 8 on a 1-10 scale.

I hung around too, waiting for the border to open at 9 a.m. I felt about as well-prepared as I did when I crossed over from Laos into Vietnam – unsure of the administrative procedures, need for bribes, transport on the other side, etc. I wasn’t super-anxious, as this was a major border, unlike Nam Xeo in Laos/Vietnam, but it promised to be a long day.

I watched the taxi guy load someone’s suitcase into the trunk of his taxi. Perhaps this guy was for real. He asked me again if I wanted to go with him…I asked the price…he said 25,000 Uzbeki sum, which was a bit under US$20. I asked him a few more questions, I asked the randoms hanging around if he was a good guy, they said yes, so I gave in. I felt like I’d done enough thinking and due diligence, and if this guy could reduce the hassles of getting to Tashkent (at such a good price) I had no good reason, other than my usual suspicion, to say no.

The guy was Uzbek, and named Jasu. Reminded me of crazy taxi driver Wasu in Goa…I hoped Jasu wasn’t quite as insane or it would be a long drive. He found more passengers – two Russians and a Chinese Uighur from Xinjiang named something like Heyerla who was living in Tashkent. Good mix of peoples…5 total in the car now, which was the limit. I told Jasu I wanted the front seat, and got it – so no replay of the Bishkek-Osh shared taxi hell that I’d experienced a few days earlier. US$20 to go all the way to Tashkent, sitting in comfort – it really did seem too good to be true. Do you readers sense any foreshadowing here?

I put my pack in the trunk, and at 9 a.m. got in the line at the frontier. A guard outside the building checked my passport, and was surprised to see someone from ‘C-sha,’ ‘U.S.A.’ in Russian. One thing I like around here: everyone shakes your hand and says ‘Salam,’ guards and cops included. A bit of intro and pleasantry before getting down to biznis – I’ve always got time for that. Went inside and there things got hairy.

Meanwhile, Jasu and his car were also crossing, and out of view. I was a bit concerned about him taking off with my stuff – hence I’d recorded his license plate info on my Treo, just in case. I jockeyed for position in a crowd of about 30 locals who clearly were more skilled at this than I was. Where was the concierge???

I finally got to the front rank in the line – the queue was crazy and there was no clear front-runner. I handed over my fat blue passport…the guard eventually deigned to take it…he spent what seemed like eternity reviewing it. Then he got up and left the office, and was replaced by another fellow. My passport was shunted aside on the desk. I sweated.

Jasu showed up and took stock. He proved very helpful – he got the new official to pick up my passport and carry on…a notebook was produced and my data recorded therein – I think it was a special notebook for American troublemakers, none of the locals got in that book. Next thing I knew Jasu had my stamped passport and I had to move to the Customs area, where Jasu got me the required two forms, in English, which I filled out and got stamped. Then we were through, and Jasu directed me to his waiting car a ways off, while he helped the Chinese guy get through.

The process took a good hour, and if I didn’t have Jasu (who the guards obviously knew and trusted) I might still be there. I was thankful I had signed up with him on the other side of the border.

We started up and drove. Five or six hours to Tashkent, not too bad. Went through endless cotton fields – Uzbekistan is the #2 producer in the world, helped in large part by the water from the Aral Sea, which is now a shadow of its former self. Faces looked very different – Uzbekis are Turkic people, and they have different eyes, faces, and body types than the Kyrgyz. It was hot now – this country is flat, unlike Kyrgyzstan, and the sun bakes it in summer.

I soon found Uzbekistan to be a green country in more ways than one. The country’s police and security forces are everywhere – this is a police state. The cops wear a dark green uniform, hence the ‘green country.’ We were stopped at every checkpoint and motioned to the side of the road, Jasu had to take and show our passports and his docs. We always got through, but it was weird and aggravating – even after clearing the border, I felt like I was constantly getting vetted inside the country. I’ve never had that feeling before, not in Burma or in Russia.

The towns we drove through (including Andijon) were colorful – huge watermelons for sale everywhere, men in kafta (skullcaps). Jasu was playing local music on the radio – chanting and humming. We periodically had to stop and show our documents, but otherwise made good time. Jasu drove like a maniac, but there wasn’t that much traffic and I was cool with things. At one point we stopped and Jasu put on his kafta and went into a small mosque to pray. I just took a leak and got some water.

In the Uzbek language, Uzbekistan is written like this: O’zbekiston. Looks a bit Irish. The Uzbekis are slowly shifting from Cyrillic to Latin, so you see signs in both alphabets here.

We got into Tashkent around 4 p.m., with a one hour time diff (earlier). Jasu was turning around that same night and driving back to Osh. Fun. We dropped off Heyerla and then headed for my hotel. It quickly became clear that Jasu didn’t know where it was – I had a map and showed him. But that didn’t help much – we had to stop and check the map numerous times and I started getting pissed off. Finally, at my urging, we asked a traffic cop (who probably would have fined Jasu if I wasn’t in the car) and we got pointed in the right direction. So often it’s like this – a relatively smooth journey, but at the end an exclamation point of exasperation. Is this what telecoms people mean when they say ‘the last mile?’

Checked into the Hotel Orzu, which a Spaniard in Bishkek had recommended to me. Comfortable room, with aircon, shower and TV. Unpacked and switched on the TV – Lord of the Rings (Part 1 – The Fellowship of the Ring) was playing. In Russian, but I know the book and movie so well I could have provided the dialogue. I’m not a TV freak, but I sat there and watched for the last hour. I wanted to check out Tashkent and do a few things, but Tolkien trumps all…

Tashkent seemed a pleasant city upon walking around for a couple hours. Wide boulevards, not crowded, clean enough. Then again, I’ve spent a lot of time in India so perhaps nearly anything appears clean and peaceful to me. The city is ancient, and was a major stop on the Silk Road. But a huge earthquake leveled the city in 1966, and the rebuilding effort was a major effort, and propaganda initiative, for the USSR. There’s still a bit of old city to the northeast, around Chorsu Bazaar, but much of the city is new and modern.

I got a local SIM card, and didn’t even need to provide my passport. Made photocopies of my guidebook map (it was across two pages in the book so tearing out the pages would have been messy) and my passport/visa – now the underlying nature of Tashkent, anticipated by me, became more clear. The passport copy got stuck in the photocopy machine, so it took two tries and I had to insist on being given the first, bad copy – I dislike the idea of my passport information sitting in the trashcan. Then the power went out, and/or the machine blew – and I had to hunt down another place to do the map copy.

Sent some texts to overseas friends. Harsh rang me up from Bangalore – he’s in the midst of a major life change, his wife is pregnant, they’re moving to Boston, and he’s likely to change jobs. Wow. Ken gave me a call too – he was meeting with the head strategist for Russian mobile giant MTS – I had asked Ken what he thought about investing in MTS, as it seems poised for serious growth in the CIS (Commonwealth of Independent States).

Went for a beer at Ye Olde Chelsea Arms, a pleasant woody place. They quote prices in Euros so that got a bit ridiculous. Later that night I went out to the Broadway area, and hit some bars there – FM Bar and another (Akhmatman?). Pretty good fun. Eventually checked out the other well-known venues in town – Sky Bar, SMI, and Diplomat-S. The latter was rocking – quiet outside, but inside the dance floor was mobbed. I chatted with a guy from Cameroon who told me not to piss off the security in the bar, as they wouldn’t hesitate to break heads. Good advice. Between these bars I generally used ‘local taxis,’ i.e. regular cars that stop for you when you have your hand out…then you negotiate a price. Decent system, although I still prefer regular taxis with meters, which you just don’t find in these countries.

Next day I did some sight-seeing. Took the Tashkent Metro to Chorsu Bazaar, to the north of the city. The metro is not to the scale of Moscow, for instance, but is useful and clean. Very sleepy – more than enough personnel in there, so you get personal service. I had attendants coming up to me and asking me if I needed help – you won’t get that in many places!

Found the Chorsu Bazaar stop easily enough and got off. And quickly found myself in the midst of perhaps the most extensive and coolest bazaar I’ve ever seen. I’ve yet to visit Damascus and other Middle Eastern hotspots so will reserve judgement till then, but will say that Chorsu was well worth the visit. Sure, there are the usual crappy clothing booths and knickknack kiosks, but the fresh fruit and food aisles were unbelievable, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such good-looking fruit anywhere, in such amounts. It was like looking at a monster still life picture from one of the Old Masters. And while wandering around the place, I thought about my diet, which I think is generally a bit light in the fruit department. I get enough vegetables, but for whatever reason I tend towards meat, dairy and breads, must be in the DNA, my father is like that as well. One issue with fruit is cleanliness – you need to be careful with nearly everything except bananas and mangos. So that’s my excuse, take it or leave it.

I decided on the spot to make a life-change and embrace fresh fruit. I bought a couple peaches and washed them off with my bottled water. They were delicious. Bought a handful of pickles, also excellent. Got some pears, some grapes – finished those off too. Probably hadn’t eaten so much it since sitting shiva for my mother, so many people brought fruit baskets that I ate fruit nonstop for days – and had diarrhea as a result. I wondered if history would repeat itself…but I couldn’t stop eating this incredible fruit, with the juices covering my face and hands it was an almost auto-erotic experience…9 1/2 Weeks in Tashkent???

Chorsu, besides its offerings, was also well-organized and seemingly pretty clean, and great for people-watching. An Uzbek version of Boston’s Fanueil Hall?

One issue I have with many bazaars is that they’re chaotic, and often filthy – wandering around gets old after a few minutes. But here I spent at least three hours, and wasn’t annoyed or put off at all. Maybe I need to revisit my mindset regarding these markets…

As I wrote earlier in this post, Uzbekistan is a flat, fertile place, unlike Kyrgyzstan, and the locals aren’t nomads, they grow things. And Chorsu is where a lot of it ends up, evidently. Really very impressive.

After filling my belly, and walking right by the kebab vendors (my usual stop in most markets), I found a place to get a haircut. This might be another adventure in living. The guy didn’t speak English but I managed to tell him my origins and that I came from New York, which seemed to impress him. Not many Americans in Uzbekistan – that won’t be news to you. So the barber went right to work on me, and gave me his ‘A-game’ – he cut every stray hair on my head and neck and gave me the best haircut I’ve had outside Japan. I tipped him well (but not too well – I don’t want to upset the nature of things).

Left the bazaar, finally, and headed to the History Museum. Got in…and immediately felt momentous churnings in my lower intestines. Wonderful. Asked about the toilet, was directed there – no paper, and I hadn’t brought any. Wonderful. The revenge of the fruit was showing up more quickly than I had imagined possible. I didn’t feel like I was ready for the emergency hand-water procedure, so decided to put off toilet use until absolutely necessary. Which was soon enough – I was on the 2nd floor of the museum, reading about national hero Amir Timur (Tamerlane to you and I) when a moment of truth arrived. I managed to get out of the museum in record time – the matrons were surprised that I blew off the 3rd floor, where the teachings of the deeply esteemed First President of Uzbekistan Islam Karimov are enshrined – but I indicated gastric distress and they understood.

I didn’t get out of Hotel Orzu for hours. I wasn’t gravely ill, I just had a disagreement with the bazaar fruit and was paying the price. Wasn’t sure if I hadn’t adequately washed the fruit – that might have been the issue. Or it might have been a different hygienic issue, or even just my body protesting at the introduction of so much fruit, a relatively unknown category. In any event, this reinforced my general aversion to eating fresh fruit, unfortunately. Cooked vegetables and a few select fruits are evidently the way I need to go…

Felt better that afternoon and went out exploring. I took a couple Immodium to help prevent further surprises.

My guidebook calls Tashkent ‘gritty’ but I disagree, at least with regard to the city proper. I’m sure the outskirts are like that in Russia, endless apartment blocks and desertia. But the city center is livable and not bad-looking, and it’s groomed a hell of a lot more than, say, Bishkek is. It is hot as hell this time of year, but that helps keep the weaker tourists away and that’s a reasonable cost-benefit for me.

Had a late lunch at a Korean place. Lots of Koreans living here, for some reason. Had a great dish of bibimbap…and wondered why I had so rarely been eating Korean food. Probably because Korean restaurants aren’t great for solo travelers, they’re often set up with the barbecue cooker at the table and eating Korean is a fairly social event. But bibimbap doesn’t require such elaborate measures and I should really be checking out Korean joints more often…

Went back to the hotel, still feeling a bit weak. Over the ensuing few days I’d have to pay attention to my GI tract, but eventually recovered. Learned a couple lessons from the experience, namely that my system isn’t bulletproof despite all the travels, and to avoid (or at the very least extensively wash) fresh fruits.

It was now Saturday night. Went back to the Chelsea pub, it was pretty dead so just had a couple pricey Carlsbergs there, shared weird photos on cameraphones with the bartenders (I had a stoned Mona Lisa, a bartender had a video showing a black guy stretching his mouth like a comicbook scene) and got some laughs, and moved on.

Exchanged texts with Radik in Bishkek, he was going to the disco with his sister and a couple foreigners. He wrote that I was popular and greatly missed at Radison in Bishkek – that warmed my curmudgeonly old heart.

Walked to disco Club 25, which was supposedly one of the best in town. Bought a ticket (10,000 sum – not that cheap) and peeked inside. It was only 10 p.m., still pretty dead. Walked across the street to a cellar place called Bierhaus, which I’d walked by earlier. This place proved a little gem – I got a seat at the bar and was served by a cute waitress who spoke some English and recommended the unfiltered beer and some cheese and chicken snacks, and had no attitude, unlike the haughty Club 25.

Spent a couple hours there – the waitress was good fun, and the beer production manager showed up and sat next to me. He spoke little English, so the waitress translated – he turned out to be a Tartar, the first one I’ve met. He had just been in Turkmenistan, where he said (I am skeptical, mind you) that you can buy 40 liters of petrol for US$1. True or not, his beer was terrific – I had 5 before stumbling back to Club 25. Promised myself I’d show up again at Bierhaus – they also have wifi, a good drawing point for me.

Went in. Fairly crowded now, loud music and extensive strobes. Went to the bar to get a drink – stood there for a while. Was starting to wonder if I’m getting too old for bigbox discos – like Chris Rock says, you don’t want to be the old guy in the club. I didn’t seem to be much older than other people, so wasn’t self-conscious – it was more a matter of having fun or not. Waiting for drinks: not fun.

While waiting I made eye contact with a woman lucky enough to have a seat there at the bar. I asked her what she was drinking. She said ‘Orgasm.’ I said that I’ve had those before, or something similarly clever. She said ‘I like the name’ and smiled. Suddenly waiting for a drink didn’t seem so bad.

Eventually got served – got a vodka tonic. Went over by the dance floor and attempted to blend in. The music was actually very good and soon I felt in the mood. This was fun. Every now and then I glanced over to the woman at the bar, who seemed popular – surrounded by 3-4 local men. I thought about asking her to dance, but didn’t want to get mixed up in anything – there’s apparently a mafia/jeunesse doree presence here and they can badly screw up your holiday.

After a while the woman came over to the dance floor, and stood next to me. We chatted for a while, I was about to ask her to dance but she beat me to it. Didn’t bother me one bit. And pretty soon we were very into the beat – in a Greco-Roman clinch and doing a bit of grinding to the latest Russian pop hits. This was unexpected…and fun. If the mafia were going to get me tonight, I was going out in style…

After a half hour of so her friend came over – she wanted to go. But I got Katrina’s phone number, and promised to ring her the next day. I quite liked her – at least from a lens of drunken mayhem – and wanted to see more.

Slept well that night. The next morning, I asked to change rooms – I was in a room with twin beds, and wanted a king – both for comfort and in case I got lucky. Tempting the fates? Perhaps…

Went to the vokzal (train station), where I bought a ticket to Samarkand. The station is newish and beautiful – and nearly empty, unlike those in India, China, Russia, etc. Had to register with OVIR (Office of Visas and Passports) to be able to buy a ticket there. Whatever, it didn’t bother me. I sat in the OVIR office while a green man took out a notebook, opened to a fresh page, took out a ruler and pen, and ruled lines on the page. It was like being in 3rd grade again. Finally he finished and let me go. I got the ticket – for US$9 – and left.

In the metro, I was stopped by a greenie. The guidebook warns that this is inevitable if you use the metro, so have your papers in order. I did – and handed them over. The guy was so amused by my passport and its contents that I nearly missed the train – these cops/agents are like little boys, but with guns. Anyway, despite their omnipresence they’re far less intimidating than in Russia.

Uzbekistan is the ‘stan country’ that has probably been the most nationalistic – replacing scripts, kicking Russians out, and changing names of streets etc. No Lenin statues here, no Sovietskaya streets. There are still plenty of Russians here – perhaps 10% of the population – probably those with real skills, long family backgrounds, etc. And Uzbekistan has, like nearly all countries, invented and embellished its ‘heros’ – Tamerlane is an obvious one, he was a major world figure and conqueror, sure, but I’m not too sure he’s in a league with Chinggis Khan and Alexander. Anyway, he’s the man here in Uzbekistan so you better not forget it.

Went to Mustaqillik Maydoni, the newish center of town where there’s a brand new Senate building where the usual rubber-stamping takes place, and various buildings and monuments. The WW2 monument, the Crying Mother, commemorates the 400,000 Uzbeks who died in that war. All the names are listed on moving plaques and it’s quite something.

Had lunch at the brilliant Tre Bochki, Three Barrels, which sits along a canal and has a German beer recipe from 1514, supposedly unchanged. I had a couple half-liter unfiltered beers, and three plates of various snacks – delicious, and total damage US$10. I think a place like this would be huge in the States, the snacks alone (herring on bread, pickle & cheese plate, beet salad) are so much better and less arterty-clogging than the potato skins/nachos/fried mozzarella stick crap you find in the homeland…

Some advice from this fine establishment:

Like I’ve mentioned, I saw cops everywhere. Slightly annoying/heavy presence. Once I had to stop myself from toying with one of them – I wanted to gawk at him, then run away as fast as I could and see what happened. That would have been gravely unwise, and I didn’t follow through – but in a parallel universe I did and I’m still in prison there. It is true that I have an authority problem – as an adult (now, finally), I detest being told what to do by others, and dislike being monitored by stupid, insolent public employees. So there.

Went back to Bierhaus, where I got onto their wireless network and did a few computer thingies. Had a couple more beers there – rendering myself unable to go and do the Tashkent Hash House Harriers event later that day. Anyway, it sounded relatively lame for a Hash – mostly walkers, mostly families, and the cost only 1,000 sum – for sodas and transport. Very unHashlike. I stayed away – probably a good idea considering the 37 degree heat.

Had dinner at Turkish joint Efendi that night – excellent kebab plates, for a song. Listened to a few new podcasts while waiting for my food. Called Katrina and made a date for the next night, my last in Tashkent before heading to Samarkand. Then went back to the hotel and crashed.

Next day, took care of a few errands. Wanted to book a flight to Ukraine after my time in Uzbekistan, so went to the Uzbekistan Airways (massive) local office. Not the most efficient place, despite its seemingly modern look and feel. Had to shift lines a couple times before getting to an English-speaking agent. At one point there was a guy in front of me with an Israeli passport – probably an Uzbeki Jew who got out years ago. Made a booking to fly to Kiev on August 18, a couple days earlier than I wanted (my visa here expires August 20), but there aren’t Tashkent-Kiev flights daily so the 18th was close enough. I wanted to pay with credit card – but only had my Visa in hand, and they just take Mastercard. Had to return to my hotel, then back again with that card – noticed that one customer, a cute woman, had been dealing with an agent for at least an hour now. Ugh.

Paying was torture, I had to see two different agents, then the credit card machine was down. Finally a technician got it running, and I was finished. Total time there – nearly two hours. Oh well.

BTW, my local SIM card lets me surf the web, and it’s nearly free. I had to figure out how to configure it, but it wasn’t hard. Very useful when I just want to see if a reply has come through. Didn’t expect this feature in Uzbekistan.

Had a superb lunch at Bistro, an Italian place with a rocking Roquefort salad and nice mushroom pasta. Tashkent was surprising me in more ways than one…

Went to Amir Timur square, where there’s a huge statue of the man:

Someone removed Timur’s ‘long staff’, but left the cannonballs intact:

Don’t worry, I didn’t figure this out on my own, it’s a local joke…

Went into Mir shopping mall nearby, found a store that had pretty good singlets and bought a couple, mine were either lost or falling apart. In this heat you need some light shirts, the only issue is that it’s a Muslim country so outside Tashkent and/or when visiting religious monuments you should really wear something with sleeves. Still, singlets are great when you’re carrying your pack and moving around.

Took a cab to Khast Imam, the nation’s religious authority center. A few madrasahs and admin buildings there, the real draw is what’s purportedly the world’s oldest existing Koran, dating from 20 years after Mohammed’s death. Wow. The book itself is huge, it must weight 100 pounds, and is written on lambskin (no condom jokes, now). Impressive. Not many tourists there, just me and a Muslim family in traditional dress.

The complex:

On the topic of dress – it’s quite endearing here. Many women wear simply but elegant sundresses, and even the more conservative traditional robe-like dresses are cool. Some head-scarves but not too many. The men dress mostly like Westerners, so it’s the women who really stand out (like always).

Spent a couple hours chilling at Hotel Orzu. Watched LOTR Part 2 (The Two Towers). It occurred to me that Dick Cheney is actually Grima Wormtongue…

Met Katrina that night at a Syrian restaurant. Ate a lot, more than I usually do during a date – the food was terrific, and authentic. Katrina works for the US Embassy here as a translator and a psychologist of sorts – I suspect some embellishment but whatever, she seems accomplished and switched-on. Most nights she teaches tae bo to rich local women. And she’s a single mom with a young daughter, she got divorced a few years ago. We had a good chat and had some laughs. And that’s all I’m saying right now…

Caught the train to Samarkand next morning – was deathly tired. In my compartment were some local women, a Tartar fellow who spoke excellent English (his university major), and a Korean lass. There was a group of 24 Koreans on a package trip, I had to laugh as the ‘captain’ collected all their passports and tickets and dealt with the (flabbergasted) train ticket collector. East Asians really love to travel in these groups – I find them hilarious, but occasionally annoying as they overwhelm most systems they encounter.

The Tartar fellow, Yavdat, was super-friendly, and told me a story about the grave of Tamerlane, in Samarkand. On June 21, 1941, a Soviet scientist/archeologist opened the tomb – and verified that Tamerlane was tall, lame, etc. He also saw an inscription warning that whoever opened the tomb would be defeated by an enemy more powerful than me (Tamerlane). The very next day, the Nazis invaded. Quite a story – didn’t quite pan out, but close enough, huh?

The train ride was four hours – during much of it, we watched a Russian comedy show in which an Uzbek dwarf, a famous comedian in this part of the world, did a Napoleon routine, for one. Very funny, even though I couldn’t understand most of the dialogue. Made fun of the French, Napoleon’s size, etc. The Russians really do know how to take the piss with other peoples – they have a deep sense of humor and despite language barriers you really see this.

Got into Samarkand – the hotel had sent a driver. Checked into my place, a little B&B/hotel called Antica, very nice. Had a ‘welcome tea,’ along with 2 German lasses named Ina and Christina – I momentarily fantasized a ménage a trois in which I mixed up their names and they didn’t even mind. Walked over to Tamerlane’s grave, right near my hotel – how cool is that, I’m sleeping 50 meters from Tamerlane’s grave. A few shots of that tomb:

Walked around town – bought some Russian-made Immodium at an apteka (pharmacy). Owner/pharmacist was curious about me – not many Americans here, remember? He asked my name, I told him – he replied ‘Michael Jackson?’ I said ‘Nyet – Michael Jordan!’ He seemed to like that. I walked on.

Went to renowned local restaurant Karambek, where I had a beer and a couple superb shashliks. There’s a counter where the raw meat on skewers sits, you just point and they take care of the grilling. I probably had too much – the converse of my Chorsu fruit blowout. The walk back to Antica was long, but great for digesting the pound of meat I’d just inhaled. Bought a Coke at a little shop – the guy there asked me where I was from. Turns out he has a bro in NYC. Common story here – people are curious and friendly, like America/Americans, and often know someone there. From Samarkand to NYC – small world, baby.
Changed US$ to sum at Hotel President. The counter guy quoted me a bad rate, 1250 sum per dollar, I asked if I could do any better, and he said there was a national bank counter just outside the hotel. Went there, the rate was 1325 and that was more like it. Later I found a small shop where the owner flashed a thick wad of Franklins at me and quoted a rate of 1380 – better and better. But that’s black market and you gotta count every single bill – I might try this guy later on.

In all, a great and memorable day of travel – woke up with company, easy train ride in which I made some acquaintances and had some laughs, checked into a cool guesthouse, met some attractive European women, saw a historical sight (Tamerlane’s tomb), ate and drank merrily. My only errands were changing $ and getting some water and toilet paper – not complicated. Pleasure/errand ratio was very high…

Took a nap that afternoon. Had made very tentative plans to go out for drinks with the German girls that night. Got up and practiced yoga for an hour, first time in a couple weeks. Got rid of the soreness in my feet and legs. Went out to the courtyard, hung out for a bit – no sign of the Germans. Was hungry, and thirsty, so went out to check things out around town. Walked by the famed Registan, Samarkand’s calling card. It wasn’t lit brilliantly at night, but the deep colors of the domes could still be seen. Lots of people hanging around, relaxing after the hot day. Impressive setting and sight – I’d be back next morning for a thorough look and tour around. I was glad to be in Uzbekistan, and in Samarkand, a place I’ve wanted to visit for such a long time.

Went to look for a place to eat and drink – I’ll pick up this thread next entry, right now I’ve been at this for 3 hours and I’m getting blog fatigue. You probably are too. I’m now back on my usual posting sked, which is a relief to me – but at the same time, these places I’m visiting are so odd and endearing that my posts are long as hell. Time for a beer. Over and out.

Feels like I just blasted out the last entry, and here I am again.  In Russia and Kyrgyzstan it’s been hard to keep to a normal sked…probably because of the unpredictable yet unrelenting consumption of vodka in these lands.  Anyway, this post will do it for Kyrgyzstan…feels like I’m pumping out a project proposal, I wrote most of this starting at 11 p.m. on a Monday night in Karakol, eastern Kyrgyzstan.  Welcome to my world…

Left Bishkek via marshrutka (minivan), which they pack pretty full but less so than in Mongolia, say.  It was pretty much one person per seat, plus baggage wherever it fit.  The ride to the lakeshore resort town of Cholpon-Ata took about 5 hours.  Nice scenery once we hit Lake Issyk-Kol, probably the country’s premier attraction (along with its endless mountain panoramas).  The lake is ringed by the Tien Shan (Heavenly Gate) Mountains and is the world’s 2^nd largest alpine lake after Titicaca, which is of course our favorite lake by name alone.    

Went by lots of honey vendors – they call honey ‘med’ here, which I assume has something to do with ‘mead,’ honey brew.  I once had a glass of mead in Vilnius, Lithuania, and didn’t find it that appealing.  I’m told it takes a few glasses (or flagons) before you get a taste for it…

Also went by plenty of yurts selling koumiss.  I held off for the time being…I had a feeling I’d be consuming weird liquids again before long.

The ride itself wasn’t that much fun, to be frank.  I was in the 2^nd to last row, and opened the window to let in some air.  There were a few local lads in the last row, behind me, and after a few minutes they asked me to close the window.  The fellow right behind me was trying to snooze and the wind evidently was keeping him awake.  Just my luck. 

It got hot quickly – no one seemed to be bothered but me.  After some time I cracked the window – and after 15 minutes the guy pulled it shut.  For the rest of the ride we had this tug-of-war…at one point I really felt like turning and belting him, but he had his 2 buddies and I know well enough not to start trouble in places like this.  So I generally sweated, low grade, until the prick came to his stop and disembarked.  Then I pulled open the window – the chick across the way from me smiled when I did so. 

Got to Cholpon-Ata’s bus station – basically, just a little lot.  Tried to orient myself and find Hotel Apai, the place the family in Bishkek had set me up with (the daughter’s friend/boyfriend’s family owns it, I think).  Finally saw a distinctive alpine roof and windows which precisely resembled the hotel business card I’d gotten in Bishkek.  Headed that way, and got there in a few minutes.  It was pretty warm out, and I wanted to drop my stuff and head right to the beach for a swim.

But no…weirdness ensued.  The manager seemed a bit confused by my presence; I finally helped her understand I was Michael the American sent by the Djumasheve’s in Bishkek.  She motioned me upstairs to a huge room with 5 beds and said ‘800 som.’  I’d been told by Anisa in Bishkek that this was the price – not that cheap, but OK.  I asked the manager (or tried to ask her) if the entire huge setup (it was actually two rooms, with ensuite) was all for me – I wasn’t keen to dorm.  She then got on her mobile and asked me to wait a minute.  Eventually she handed me the mobile – it was Anisa’s friend, who speaks fluent English.  He told me that the hotel actually didn’t have room for me, but that they’d find me a room at a family home nearby.  Whoa, Nelly.

I wasn’t too sure what the fuck was going on…I’d been diligent in Bishkek about having them call and ensure the hotel had room for me.  And at first that looked OK, even though the room was large enough for a big family.  Then the reversal…I wasn’t all that kind to Anisa’s friend, and told him I’d probably be best off using my guidebook and finding something from there, at least those establishments would be used to hosting foreigners.  Hard to tell how he felt about that, but I told him I’d be OK and we ended the call.  Then I left Hotel Apai, hopefully never to darken its doors again.

Now, of course, I’d cut myself completely loose and was on my own.  I’m used to that state of being, but it was hot out and my pack felt heavy.  I took a peek at my book, settled on a place called ‘Green Home Stay,’ and headed that way. 

Cholpon-Ata is much larger, or to be precise much longer, than the guidebook map indicates.  The main drag, Sovietskaya – give me a break, will you – is a few km long and I was at the wrong end of it, something not immediately evident from the map.  Lonely Planet frequent readers will wince on reading this.  The walk was torture…nowhere near my St. Petersburg marathon, but still a hard slog.  I finally drew somewhat near, and saw a Tourist Information Office that looked close to Green Home Stay on my map.  The sign was in English…I went in, hoping for a bit of help.  The two women there did not speak English, but I was sweaty and they looked bored.  A match made in heaven.  They motioned me to sit…I helped them understand I wanted them to ring Green Home Stay and check on availability.  They rang…and spoke to someone…and eventually (10 minutes later – I was wondering what the bejesus they were on about) they said OK.  Good news.

I got up to head there – one of the two women was kind and went along with me to ensure I found it.  We walked for 5 or so minutes and there loomed Green Home Stay – a very green house set just off the main road.  She pointed me there, and went back to the office to await her next victim.

I went to the gate…I rang the buzzer…and waited.  No one came.  I did it again.  Nada.  I repeated, and occasionally yelled greetings in Russian, for 15 minutes, all the while a light rain falling (so light it didn’t cut the heat, I was still sweating).  I was very close to returning in a huff to the Tourist Info Office when a relaxed dude emerged from the house and walked to the gate, smiling.  He was so relaxed that he took the time to open the trunk of his Merc parked in the driveway and get something…only then did he open the gate.  We did our intros (his name was utterly unpronounceable) and talked a bit – I asked for 2 nights, he said OK, 400 som a night.  Decent.  He showed me the room – twin beds, a bit small, but doable for 2 nights.  He showed me the separate toilet and shower.  OK.  While I was setting in and letting the sweat settle, he stopped in and gave me some fruit from his garden.  Nice gesture.  He certainly seemed very proud of his property – he took the time to show me a particular tree in the garden – I think an apricot tree – on which he had grafted on a lime tree branch.  I’m no biologist, and maybe I misunderstood what he was saying/showing me, but I’m going with that story for now.

I showered and felt much better.  The annoying ride, and the Hotel Apai incident, were receding from memory.  Food and beer would complete the scene.  I walked a few minutes over to the Green Pub, renowned for its shashlik and beer selection.  Green Pub, but no English menu. Still, I knew what I wanted, kuritsa (chicken) shashlik, and they soon brought out two healthy skewers, with bread, onions, and beer.  Heaven.  I was now beginning to appreciate the advice the Djumasheves had given me, i.e. to visit Cholpon-Ata en route to Karakol at the eastern end of the lake.  I might bitch and moan in the moment, but thankfully I have a good experience filter which eventually separates the crap from the bliss.  And I can be an easy man to satisfy…

Walked down to the beach.  The town, on the northern side of the lake, is known for its white sand beaches, and vacationers come from Russia, Kazakhstan, and around to sunbathe and swim there.  You’re literally thousands of km’s from the ocean, so this is it baby.  Russians at the beach – utterly alien and hilarious.  Russian men, generally with large guts, favor sunbathing while standing.  Vendors walk around shouting ‘Rihba, piva’ (fish, beer).  There was a camel on the beach, kids could ride it for 200 som per 10 minutes.  In some ways it wasn’t that different from beaches favored by Westerners…people were having fun and relaxing.  But, as I’ve felt before, I was fully aware that this was Russia’s backyard and former province…and I could understand why they get pissed when we try to elbow in.  Plus, the Kyrgyz really do seem to get along with Russians, both ‘local Russians’ and ‘tourist Russians.’  It’s really quite something.

I put off swimming till the next day, it was already 5 p.m. or so and I was beat.  Went back to the homestay, took a good nap.  Got up, took a long stroll (sans backpack – much better) down Sovietskaya, looking for something to eat.  Settled on a little café selling plov, had a plate of that and a beer.  Wasn’t sure if I wanted anything else – I could have been happy catching up on my reading that night – but walked around a bit more, and right near my homestay I found Café Nurzat (Cyrillic: Hyp3at), an outdoors place with a DJ/singer and a bunch of tables.  Not that busy – it was only Wednesday night.  But what attracted me was the group of cute lasses dancing – the staff, taking advantage of downtime.  I walked through the gate and sat at a table.  The music was very loud, but it was pretty good – a mix of Turkish, Russian, Kazakh, and god knows what else.  Exotic, at the very least.

A cute waitress came over and took my order, and soon brought over my favorite Russian beer, Baltika 7.  I drank for a while, watching the dancing ladies.  Pretty soon my waitress (who had been dancing between orders) came over and I understood that she wanted me to join them.  I motioned to my beer and indicated that I would after a few more gulps.  She returned to the dance floor, seemingly placated.  I wanted a bit more booze in me before testing my moves.

Meanwhile, at the next table over, three locals were hitting the vodka very hard.  One of the guys was far gone…he came over to me and warmly greeted me, slobbering a bit in my ear.  I think he eventually understood that I didn’t speak much Russian and was an American tourist…but for the rest of the night he kept coming over and talking to me.  It was actually quite funny and not annoying at all, but my waitress tried to run interference and keep him from bothering me.  At one point the guy wrote his mobile # and gave it to me – god knows what he wanted me to do with it, he didn’t understand a word of English.  But he was friendly and I appreciated that.

And the aforesaid waitress did more than that…she came over again and this time got me on the dance floor, along with 5 of her co-workers.  The drunk guy also joined us and I tried to mirror their alien floor moves, adding a few of my own.  I’m a decent dancer (good for a Jew, anyway) and after a few drinks I can almost always hold my own. 

After a couple songs I was sweaty, and my beer beckoned, so I returned to my table.  After 5 minutes the cutie waitress came over and tried to get me back on the floor.  I again motioned to my beer and indicated ‘soon.’  And this pattern kept up for the next couple hours.  I played the beery rake, and looked pretty good in comparison to the drunken locals next door.  I had fun dancing with the girls…but always went back to my table and cooled off, usually until the waitress came over and invited me back.  Just to be even-handed about matters, and to avoid being a jerk, a couple times I went onto the dance floor ‘uninvited,’ which seemed to delight the waitresses. 

Around 11:30 or so, the table behind me filled up with locals.  One of them noticed my foreignness (on the dance floor?) and invited me to join their table.  One of the guys had been there for a while, he probably told his buddy that I was a tourist. 

Had a drink with these 3 guys – Ruslan, who spoke fluent English, Max, his robust buddy, and Azarmat, who had brilliant green-blue eyes – perhaps a descendant of Alexander the Great (or just some Russian).  Talant and I had a good chat, and he invited me out the next night.  He made some noises about ‘finding a girl for me.’  We exchanged mobile #s and made some plans.  Eventually it passed midnight or so, the DJ packed up, and I said goodbye to the lads and the girls and went home.   A lot more fun than I’d expected when I got up from my nap…

I thought a bit about my (for the most part) solo travels and the pros/cons of that state of being.  Sometimes you don’t feel that welcome sitting alone at a table, and sometimes you might not meet as many people (at least couples) as when you’re traveling as a couple or in a small group – you don’t have an opposite number to help you be sociable.  I have zero complaints, I’ve met more than my fair share of people (travelers and locals) during my wanderings, but you probably get my point.  The flip side is that I’m completely free to go to any place I wish, and do pretty much what I want when I’m there.  I can hang out in seedy bars all night…I can meet someone at the beach at 3 a.m…etc.  There are some real pros, methinks, with regards to meeting new people when you’re alone.  At least in this part of the world, when you’re solo, you don’t tend to stay that way.  Russians, and their ‘cousins’ here, seem incredibly welcoming of the solo person.  At Café Nurzat, for example, I never sat there alone for more than 5 minutes without someone coming over or inviting me to join their table.  I think that’s terrific – sometimes (as most of you know) I can be crusty and prefer my privacy, but if I’m in public I’m almost always amenable to meeting people and sharing their fun.

The world is such a fascinating and unpredictable place.  I’m daily surprised by the randomness of life…perhaps my imagination is impoverished and my eyes aren’t open wide enough, but I doubt that’s the case.

Slept well that night, but had to get up to expel the beer and vodka.  The night air was surprisingly cold…and damp…and it was very dark.  I had to get out my Petzl headlight and run through the grass to get to the outhouse.  For some reason I was reminded of camping in Maine…even in the summer the nights are chilly and the air’s heavy.

Next day, got up and went to the beach.  It was already crowded by 9 a.m., lots of vacationers.  The lake, as I wrote earlier, is ringed by mountains, and the view is breathtaking – I hope I don’t use that term lightly, I don’t think I do:

The water was cold, but after a couple minutes it felt refreshing enough.  The locals weren’t whinging, so I didn’t.  A guy walked along the shore with a python, offering photos with his reptile.  There was a parasailing operation in action.  The fish vendors prowled the beach blankets.  All of it good…except for the usual depressing case of the white folks wanting to get darker and the darker people taking pains to avoid tanning.  Most of those pasty Russians would never get anything but burned, but they tried anyway. 

Found a place called Dolphin Café.  Sat down and ordered a beer.  A girl came over and joined me, her family owns the place and she speaks decent English.  I had a bowl of pelmeni (dumpling) soup, which was OK but the lamb scent got to me and put me off.  At places like this, the smells of animal meat tend to get on everything…the bottled water even smells like lamb (well, the bottles do, anyway).  In Malapascua, in the Philippines, I recall that the bottled water and beer stank like fish.  They bring everything in by boat, and I assume those boats double as fishing boats.  Hmmm…

Eventually returned to the home stay.  Walked by Café Nurzat – the girls were already there, and one waved to me.  Good memory…or maybe I am that memorable.

Visited the regional museum, which had nothing posted in English.  The usual photos of General Frunze and former President Akayev, who was deposed in the 2005 ‘Tulip Revolution’ (sounds like they’re running out of names for these uprisings) and who has the world’s largest eyebrows.  Check it out:

He fled by copter to Moscow and now teaches philosophy there.  There are always second acts…

Went to an Internet café to catch up on emails, was falling behind.  The cost was crazy – not only an hourly cost, but also a per-megabyte cost.  And it’s not just for downloads, they count everything you look at, so the cost mounts.  I was there for 45 minutes and paid US$5-6 – a lot for this part of the planet.  Of course, Uzbekistan might be even worse…at least in Kyrgyzstan, they have no problem with openness and there aren’t any weird firewalls.

There are some ancient (5^th century B.C.-ish) petroglyphs on boulders in the field above the town, I wanted to see these so walked over there.  Relied on my Lonely Planet map/description of the route, and was soon lost.  Of course, I could have paid a taxi driver US$2-3 to take me there, but I’m too cheap.  In my defense, I did want some exercise, so let me use that excuse.  Anyway, I was soon amongst endless boulders but nothing was signposted or marked, and locating the petroglyphs looked impossible.  I saw no one around to ask.  I began walking back to town, and then I saw a young girl.  I asked her ‘gdye petroglyph?’  She didn’t catch me.  I used my hands to indicate markings on rocks, she got that and pointed me to the west.  I said ‘thank you’ (by now she knew I wasn’t Russian) and she replied ‘no problem.’  I love it.

Soon ran into a local lad, he provided further guidance, and eventually I saw some strangely dressed people – Germans.  Bingo.  The area is a national park of sorts, and there are small markers explaining various petroglyphs (put there by pre-Kyrgyz people), but only one was impressive, the rest were small and/or faint.  Still, they’re old – and with the rains and winters here, it’s incredible they still exist at all.  Worth the torture to get there, methinks.

Texted Ruslan about meeting up.  He called…after some confusion we decided to meet in front of Nurzat.  Easy for me.  Went to the Green Pub again for a late lunch.  Got BBQ fish, which was excellent, and some salad and beer.  Watched the Russian version of ‘Law and Order’ while I munched and gulped.  Went back to the home stay and napped for a couple hours.  Kyrgyzstan seems to make me nap – not a half-bad thing.

The bedsheets here are weird, BTW.  They have an opening, which I soon figured out is where you stuff the duvet, so that the sheet covers it and keeps it clean.  You always have to do this step yourself – not a big deal, but it just confused me till I sat down and worked it out.

Went out with Ruslan that night.  Started at Café Elita, an upstairs place with loud music and dancing.  We had an ugly amount of vodka, there, and afterward back at Nurzat.  My favorite waitress was there, Ruslan was trying to score her for me.  Eventually his buddy Azarmat showed up too, and we kept drinking vodka.  I can’t recall the end of the night…or whether I did any dancing…or whether I was overly frisky with my waitress.  None of that remains in the memory banks.  Ugh.

What unfortunately did stay with me:  I woke up in the middle of the night, lying on the bed in my little room, and I had to vomit immediately.  I sat right up, bolted for the door, and scored only 50%.  In other words, I made a mess both outside and inside the room.  And I was still drunk, and barely able to comprehend, much less address, my new situation. 

What I did:  I grabbed a surplus bed sheet from the dresser, and used that to wipe off the floor.  It wouldn’t have been that bad, but the floor was covered with a carpet (cheap, but still), so I had some work to do to swab things up.  I took the sheet to the shower outside and washed it off, but it still looked and smelled just awful.  I looked at my backpack – I had sprayed the very bottom of it, not badly but enough to warrant a thorough washing, so I took that to the shower and washed it off.  I hosed down the ‘material’ that I had deposited on the lawn, that dispersed fairly easily. 

So my remaining concerns were:

-Further cleaning of the carpet/the bedsheet/defumigation of the room, to get away with my crime (more on that in a minute)

-The drying of my backpack – I had planned to leave for Karakol this coming afternoon, but now I’d have to stick around and let the pack dry (might need further washing, too) – not a big deal, I had considered staying one more day, but not under duress

I went back to bed – it was now around 7 a.m., I had been up for an hour or so dealing with the mess.  I slept till Ruslan rang around 9 a.m., I said a few mouthfuls and went back to sleep.  Next I knew, there was a knock on the door, the owner wanted to show the room to a couple travelers.  It was now 11 a.m., and he thought I was taking off.  Ugh.  The two guys, a Brit and a Chinese, looked at the room and thought it too small.  Whew.  Not sure if they got a whiff, but I think they wanted something larger for the price.  I then told the owner, in that case, I’d stick around another night.  He was fine with that, and I had bought myself more time to set things right. 

I considered telling him what I’d done, but didn’t think he’d take it well – he seemed a fairly hard guy.  So I decided to remain cowardly and do my best to reverse the damage.  I spent the rest of the morning, surreptitiously, cleaning the room with soda water and deodorant (don’t ask), and sneaking to the shower to rinse things off.  My backpack did require another washing, I found more detritus on it.  Hallelujah.  I felt like a complete ass and cursed myself for not watching my vodka intake, the shit sneaks up on you and then you’re helpless.     

People were around, so I had to watch my step.  The family that owns the home stay was running around, and a few of them (and friends?) were hanging out in the communal outdoors dining area, eating and drinking.  It was only a Friday morning, but Russians don’t need much of an excuse to kick back and drink.

By 1 p.m. or so I felt like I’d done a thorough, if amateur, job, and lit some Indian incense to get rid of the smell.  I was also liberal in applying my aftershave to the carpet, in the hopes of holding off the entrenched smell as long as possible.  I went and showered, exhausted and annoyed with myself.  It’s fine to let yourself go and see where you wind up, but I am getting a bit old for idiocy like this.

Put on some fresh clothes, and felt very much like sleeping the rest of the day.  Went back in the room, and in a minute someone was behind me in the doorway.  Nadia was her name, she was somehow related to the family here and she asked me if I wanted to join them for a few drinks.  Perfect.  I hadn’t even considered daring to fill my stomach with anything yet today…now another heavy session loomed.  I very much wanted to demur, but in the context it would have been rude.  I said OK, and came over in a couple minutes. 

The group was Nadia, Yulia (the owner’s wife – the owner is Kyrgyz, I think, and Yulia’s Russian), Irina (I think a family friend?), and Alexei, I think the owner’s/Yulia’s son.  Eventually it became evident that Nadia and Alexei were an item, perhaps married.  All very confusing, and my head was pounding.  But everyone was affable, and Nadia was able to translate for all of us. 

The table:  shots of vodka, slices of kalbasa and cheese.  Relentless.  Somehow my stomach held its new contents, but I was concerned.  Meanwhile, it was a strange but fun group.  Nadia was super-friendly…Yulia was the usual matronly earthy Russian mama…Irina was the middle-aged woman without a man in her life, but eagerly seeking…Alexei was perhaps one of the most physically frightening people I’ve ever seen, he had a long scar on his left cheek, a badly mangled finger(s), and crusty/scabbed areas all over his arms.  Prison?  Car accident?  Drugs?  Check, check, check, if you ask me. 

Irina was interested in me, that quickly became obvious.  She wanted to know my age, my ideal woman (I said Asia – ‘exotica erotica’ – Yulia laughed at that), etc.  The shots flowed, we drank local Davidoff vodka and I probably had 10-12 over a couple hours?  Who’s counting?  I don’t even like vodka, but I am willing to take one for the home team…

I was having an unexpectedly good time, despite the memory and challenge of the vomit session very much on my mind.  I think I was relaxed enough, though, because the gang seemed to find me quite entertaining.  A cheapo karaoke machine was brought over, and we sang a few songs.  A far cry from the comprehensive machines/listings in the Phils and Japan, but good enough for a laugh.  The vodka shots did not stop.

We wandered down to the lake, joined by another family member, Maya, who spoke decent English and ensured that Yulia and Irina could communicate with me.  Nadia and Alexei had disappeared.  I liked Nadia, but was glad Alexei was gone, the guy looked like he was capable of the gravest of crimes and to be seated next to him at a major league vodka session wasn’t what I needed today.   I had been a bit too close to pulling a John Bonham, and now I was back for a second round.  For some reason these things keep happening to me – back to my dimestore philosophy bit earlier in this posting about being solo in this part of the world…

En route to the beach, Irina grabbed my arm and talked my ear off, with Maya occasionally bothering to translate.  I smiled a lot and tried hard not to vomit.

The usual theater at the beach was in full play…fish and beer for sale…python man walking around…fatties letting it all hang out.  We went in and got used to the chill…Irina was within 2 meters of me at all times.  She came over and gave me a kiss – I returned it, but with closed mouth and with a ‘good friends’ look on my face.  I think she eventually got the drift.  Very fun lady, but not attractive and not my type.  Status:  drinking buddy.

After 20 minutes we got out.  Yulia and Irina wasted no time ordered fish and beers for all of us.  Did I mention that Russians like drinking?

Eventually went back home.  The owner was hanging out, we talked for a while.  Turns out he’s a cop in town, and a former boxer.  Good fucking thing I didn’t spill the beans (like that metaphor?) about my dirty deed.  Good enough guy – he thought that Sylvester Stallone was governor of California.  Some confusion about Rambo (which I initially brought up, joking that I was an American spy in Kyrgyzstan) vs. Terminator.  I set him straight. 

He asked me to move rooms, a Russian family had just arrived and they needed the two beds in my little room.  Uh-oh.  Good thing I had been so diligent in cleaning it, otherwise I’d have been boned.  I said, sure, and went to move my stuff – to a room in the main house, upstairs.  The only issue really remaining was the dirty bedsheet – I stuffed it in a plastic bag and moved that along with my other things, the sheet was a lost cause and a dead giveaway, I had to ditch it somehow. 

The move went fine, I was soon ensconced in a room upstairs with 3 beds, and was happy to be away from my old room, for obvious reasons.  The cleaning lady went to work on my old room, vacuuming etc., and didn’t seem to find anything amiss.  Whew.  She finished, didn’t say anything about a cheap missing bedsheet, and the new family moved in.  Did I mention that odd things keep happening to me?  One thing I have learned is that you have to stay on top of your problems, because in many places you don’t know what the next minute will bring (e.g., unexpected change of rooms) and trouble can mount and overwhelm you.  More dimestore philosophy…

Went back to chatting with the owner.  He said a few things in Russian and made a motion with his arms which led me to believe he was screwing two of the women there, not quite sure but he had an evil chuckle which I’ll take as confirmation.  I chuckled too and tried not to vomit.  In the previous 20 hours or so I’d probably downed 25 shots of vodka, perhaps more, and 5-7 beers.  And my stomach was almost empty of food, so my body was running on grain alcohol.  Is this winning?

A bit later Deniss, the owner’s son (one of them, at least), came over and told me that 3 of his ‘best friends’ would be staying in the same room with me that night.  Yeah.  I was in no mood to dorm, but in no position to say no, despite having given the owner’s daughter (I think) 500 som, more than the usual 400.  She didn’t bring any change and I didn’t request any, and considered the extra 100 som payment for my bedsheet.  I can rationalize anything…

Had no choice but to take it easy that night.  Went out to walk around – I brought the soiled bedsheet with me, in an opaque plastic bag.  Tossed it in a bin not too close to the home stay – evidence disposed of. 

Had a single stick of chicken shashlik at a café, couldn’t stomach any more than that.  Slowly sipped a beer with the chicken.  Then over to Nurzat, third straight night, semi-fearful of the reaction from the staff re the previous night’s mayhem.  I was glad to see that they were again welcoming and weren’t horrified by my presence.  Perhaps I wasn’t that bad, and had been a happy drunk (I almost always am, but do get a bit frisky).  I later asked the one waitress who speaks English and she said I was fine, drunk but not badly behaved.  Shucks.

I was starting to think I’d get away with my deed.  I had a couple more beers at Nurzat, sadly my fave waitress was working in the attached shop and only showed her face once.  She giggled when she saw me…I suspect I was pawing her the previous night, or at least Ruslan was propositioning her on my behalf.  Speaking of Ruslan, we hadn’t spoken after his a.m. call and I was very happy to let that slide.  He’s a decent guy but I found him a bit sleazy and not longtime friend material.  So there.  I imagine he feels the same about me…

At Nurzat for the last time…not much dancing, at least not much by the fun staff.  Instead, a couple Russian women were on the floor – Russians really can be so exuberant, such a cold façade at times but they really can cut loose, and these two were.  One came over and asked me to dance – didn’t care/mind that I was a foreigner.  I wasn’t that attracted to her, but that was for the best – I had to behave tonight.  So we danced a couple songs, then I sat again and let my body continue recovering.

The music was terrific, as usual – exotic mix.  I really should try to get my hands on a mixed CD while here, gotta find someone to put one together for me.  Maybe in Osh…

By the way, a couple posts back I included a photo of a hot dog vendor in Russia called ‘Stardog.’  I wasn’t sure about the final Cyrillic letter, how a backward ‘s’ translated to ‘g’.  Now have figured that out.  There are 3 or so letters in Cyrillic that, when written in lower-case script (not typed), are very different from the regular letter.  For example, the letter ‘T’ (which is just like the Roman ‘T’), when you hand-write its lower-case version, is often written as ‘m.’  Weird.  Similarly, the Russian character for ‘G’ has as its written lower-case a backward ‘s’.  Make sense?  No big deal.  I just like solving these mysteries…

Went back to my new room around midnight, in much better shape than the previous night.  Felt reasonably sure of not repeating my feat.  Was about to settle into bed when my 3 roomies showed.  They had told me they’d be out all night, was hoping they’d come back at 8 a.m., when I’d be getting up.  I had wondered what they’d do all night, there aren’t any late-night places that I saw in town.  But Russians are resourceful and I imagined they’d be drinking on the beach or something similar.  But now they were back, already, and I was tortured.

They settled down fairly quickly.  One guy had to sleep on the floor.  Another chatted on his mobile with some chick for 45 minutes, until I nearly beat him.  Didn’t sleep that well, lots of snoring and the bed was lumpy.  Ah, the life.  Was looking forward to moving on to Karakol the next morning – would likely have much more privacy, and would get even farther from the scene of my crime.

Got up…packed…said bye to everyone.  The owner wasn’t around – fine by me.  I gave my metal water bottle to one of Ruslan’s friends, a nice guy who speaks decent English.  He and the late-night mobile chatter are ‘operators’ with Mobicom, one of the mobile companies.  What do ‘operators’ do these days, anyway?  I guess they still assist with connecting calls, but I can’t recall the last time I dealt with such a creature…

The family in my old room hadn’t said anything about a smell, at least not that I had heard.  I walked over to the minibus station and there was a vehicle to Karakol, a seat waiting there which I took straightaway.  We took off on the 2-3-hour ride to Karakol.

The driver was eager, as most are, to fill up the minivan, and he kept stopping and bringing more people in.  Eventually it got ugly – my legs were crunched together and I feared for my unborn children.  I suffered in silence, my stomach holding up pretty well.  I was over the worst of the vodka hangover…

Nice views of the lake and mountains as we went along.  Eventually some people got out and we were back to a manageable number of passengers again.  No stupidity with windows up and down this time…although by the end, when we neared Karakol, the front seat was full of old biddies with fried hair who kept the window up.  I was hot but didn’t do anything, I waited it out. 

Checked into Neofit Guesthouse, mentioned in my guidebook.  Got my own large room with toilet and shower, hurrah.  Very nice place – rooms are clean, plus the inner courtyard is a traveler’s bonding paradise – haven’t seem many places so conducive to sitting around a table sharing tales (and beers).  Immediately met Andreas the Austrian, who had ridden his Suzuki motorcycle from Austria; a cool Dutch couple; a young Frenchman with a thing for Apple computers and iPods; and an Israeli traveler.  I’d hang out with these folks for the next 2-3 days.

Karakol is the staging area for mountain and lake treks.  But I only had 3 days, I wanted to head to Osh and then to Uzbekistan and not lose days on my Uzbeki visa, so hard to come by (see previous entry).  So I lacked time for a lengthy trek…plus I had cut my toe, somehow, and it was painful.  So I decided to use my time to 1) see the town, which is modest, 2) catch up on my blog, which I’m doing, and 3) do some day trips.  And that’s what I’ve been up to since arriving in Karakol.

First thing I did upon checking in was to re-wash my backpack and pretty much everything in/around it, as a final de-puking measure.  The sun was shining and things would dry quickly.  Then went to Café Arzu to try a dish called breizol, it’s mentioned in my guidebook and is a ‘beef crepe’ fried in egg batter, and inside are vegetables.  Ordered that from the friendly lad waiter named Azarmat, who came over and sat at my table, eager to practice his English.  Here’s Azarmat:

And here’s the breizol, which turned out to be superb, probably one of the most unusual and tasty of the many foods I’ve tried around the world:

Check out the recipe online, it must be there, and probably isn’t hard to whip up.  I’ll be glad to try your recipe…

Went back to the guesthouse, the gang was still hanging around the courtyard. Some had recently returned from mountain treks and were busy washing and drying their gear.  A middle-aged guy walked into the courtyard, turned out to be Parco, the Spanish doctor I’d met the previous Saturday night at the infamous Golden Bull in Bishkek.  Random, yet normal.  We caught up and made some plans to eat/drink that night.  Neofit really is a great place, it’s perfect for us ‘flashpackers,’ not grungy, but still quite communal.

Did some sight-seeing.  Lovely wooden Russian cathedral:

Also saw a Chinese mosque, apparently build without nails by a Chinese artisan and 20 helpers.  Not particularly awesome, but worth a gander.

Went to the Tourist Info Office, very helpful – spoke English, friendly, informative.  Stocked up on water and toilet paper.  Went with Parco to the Internet café, caught up on emails.  Had dinner with him at a tavern nearby.  Returned to Neofit and had drinks in the courtyard with the gang there.  Had a good time, but eventually the conversation morphed into annoying traveler braggadocio, and I crept off to bed.  Was planning to get up around 6:30 a.m. to visit the Sunday animal market, so wanted to cram in a bit of rest.

Woke up at 4:30 a.m., for some reason.  Decided to use the time to catch up on my blog, and wrote the previous entry, which may well have been my longest posting yet – 18 pages or thereabouts. 

Around 7 a.m. we all got together and went to the animal market, which is one of the largest in Asia.  Apparently Kashgar’s market is much larger and more impressive, but this was pretty interesting.  A few shots:

They also have a section for used cars, a la the Bishkek car bazaar.  What I found most interesting is that while most of the animals sold were sheep/lamb, and some cows and horses, there was a completely segregated section for pigs.  These are unclean for Muslims, but there’s a sizeable Russian (Christian) population, and all the pig sellers were Russians selling pigs/piglets out of their trunks or cages to other Russians.  That was attention-grabbing, at least for me…

Went back to the guesthouse.  Spent the next couple hours polishing off the blog posting, then went back to Café Arzu for another round of breizol.  Like consuming a delicious brick of food…I am getting a little pudgy over here.

That afternoon, went to the Nikolai Przewalski Memorial/Museum 7 km north of town.  Azarmat from Café Arzu was kind enough to walk me to the bus stop – I’d been tipping him, and evidently no one else bothers, so he took to me (naturally).  He got me on the local bus, which is only 10 som (about 30 cents), but which gets unbelievably packed.  A lot like Indian public transport, third class.  I made sure no one was fiddling with my pockets – good thing I had my daypack with me, and my pants were Velcro/zip. 

Found my stop, got off and was finally able to breathe.  Wouldn’t be doing that again.  Walked up to the memorial.  Przewalski was the Russian Lewis & Clark, all by himself, he played a major role in opening the far east (Mongolia, Tibet, Central Asia) to tsarist Russia and he’s a real hero there, and even seemingly in Kyrgyzstan.  He died in Karakol around 1890 or so, and is buried here.  The museum has English captions, a first for me in Kyrgyzstan and perhaps a bit of evidence that they’re starting to understand tourism.  Hope so.  In many ways this country is getting there…no problem getting cash (some ATMs offer both dollars and som – very helpful), the phones work, the electricity supply is decent, the Internet is unrestricted (if slow), and the police don’t bother foreigners.  I doubt Uzbekistan will be as user-friendly…

Hitch-hiked back to Karakol, just held my arm out and a guy stopped and let me in.  Normal practice here.  Went to the Internet café with my laptop, and they had an Ethernet plug I could use.  Cool.  Posted the blog…paid some bills…checked emails…got stuff done.  First time in this country that I’ve been able to use my own computer online.  Caught up on podcasts too – I want to know what’s going on in the larger world.  I realize that I haven’t read a newspaper since I was in Mongolia – and those were crappy English weeklies.  Have been on the web, but I’m old-fashioned news junkie and love to read the paper every day.  I guess I haven’t consciously missed reading a daily paper here, or even a weekly mag like Time – you just don’t see these publications, at least not outside a 5-star hotel.  And I do feel like I have a bit more time on my hands, now that I’m not spending an hour reading the paper or a magazine.  Still, I’m looking forward to getting back in the swing of things…I feel a lot less informed about current events these days. 

Got an email from a college fraternity brother – he’s now the Guatemalan Ambassador to Canada.  Terrific news. 

Went that night to Salam Aleikum resto with Andreas the German and Yoni the Israeli.  This place was recommended by the family in Bishkek.  Had to walk a ways to the outskirts of Karakol to get there, but no problem.  Nice enough place, it’s styled as a huge yurt with the roof open to the sky.  Two waitresses were working – one was a very attractive Kyrgyz lass, the other a cute Russian.  Very friendly.  Pretty good food, I had borscht and a stew.  Shot the shit with the lads, we all had our travel stories.  Then headed out and went back to the Internet café to check a few things.

Saw a Yahoo!News headline:  Bolivia coca farmers planting rice.  Wow. 

Walked back to the guesthouse.  Walked by a café that seemed to have something going on upstairs, maybe a little disco.  Thought of checking it out, but decided to head home and chill.  Had a few things to do the next day and I could always check it out the following night.

Slept OK.  Got up and took a cab to the Jeti Oghuz Canyon, 25 km from Karakol. Felt the need to do some hiking, even with my toe bothering me.  Had the cabbie drop me in the so-called Valley of Flowers, which didn’t have many flowers (May is the season), but which was beautiful nonetheless.  A few shots:

Then walked out of the valley, back towards the local village.  An older woman was walking the same way, she was evidently getting her exercise – and had covered her head with a kerchief, to soak the sweat or to keep the sun away. 

Saw another impressive feature, a red-rock formation called Broken Heart that reminded me a bit of Ayers Rock and the Olgas in the Aussie outback. 

Walked on, by a Soviet-era sanatorium that looks totally decrepit and sad these days.  You couldn’t pay me to stay there.

Walked by yurts selling koumiss, and carts selling honey.  The old woman was still nearby, I was impressed.  I had stopped often to take photos, but she was making good progress and was nearly matching my speed. 

Eventually got out of the valley and onto the flat road to the village.  Walked for an hour, then came across a Tata SUV at the side of the road – a local guy was filling the radiator with river water and he and his companion offered me a ride (for a price) back into town.  Good deal – I got in and we drove off.  The price was much better than the morning cab’s, so I was happy. 

Had lunch again at Arzu, breizol and a salad.  This time it didn’t sit that well and I’ve been a bit off the past day.  Gotta get it out of my system ASAP, as I’m in a minivan to Bishkek tomorrow midday, then right after that in another vehicle – either minivan or shared taxi – all the way to Osh.  Total travel time – around 20 hours.  Fun fun fun.

Did my final rounds in Karakol.  Had dinner at a highly-rated place called Kench Café – pretty good food.  Had a drink at Salam Aleikum, ogled the cute waitresses, talked with them a bit.  And the manager there told me that the place is affiliated with Radison in Bishkek – makes sense, now I understand why the family recommended it.  I imagine they attempted to explain the link, but it was lost in translation. 

Went to the Internet café, got my hotel in Osh booked, worked on a booking in Tashkent for next weekend, extended my travel insurance, and tried to avoid checking my finances.  Then returned to the guesthouse and started getting ready to head to Bishkek/Osh.  Good little stint here in Karakol – wouldn’t mind returning one day and doing some heavy trekking around here, the mountains are really stunning and I love the relaxed vibe (and breizol).  Life is long, I might be back.

On Tuesday morning I got up early, packed, and walked over to the Internet café to check email.  Called the Hotel Orzu in Tashkent…hadn’t heard back from them on my email, so decided to short-cut things.  Got an English speaker on the phone and confirmed my room.

Called Marnely in Cebu and checked on her.  Her dad just had a stomach operation, but he seems to be doing fairly well now.  As for Marnely and I…that requires a bit more thinking.

Got a few hundred dollars from the ATM.  Uzbekistan may pose a challenge in terms of getting cash, so I’m bringing a lot in.  Of course, some of my bills are creased or ‘old’ and will probably be rejected by the banknote perfectionists there…

Checked out of Neofit.  Said bye to Ludmilla, the only one of the staff seemingly able to smile and provide helpful information.  She pointed me toward the right minibus station (Karakol seems to have 4-5 different places to catch these, depending on your destination) and I walked there.

I had to go back to Bishkek in order to get to my final (Kyrgyz) destination, the country’s second city, Osh.  I found a marshrutka (minivan) and got on board.  Operation Osh was underway.  There was some confusion about the van’s endpoint – Bishkek or another town en route, Balykchy…eventually it seemed Bishkek, so I felt alright.  Chatted with a guy sitting near me, he was traveling with his wife and child.  Very nice fellow – gave me some of their soda, and let me take their picture – absolutely classic:

We got going.  This was one of the better minivans, I had my own seat, none of this ‘seat-sharing.’  I was on the right side, so had superb lake views as we were heading west on the lake’s south shore.  The south shore is more wild and more impressive than the north – really something to behold.  Here’s what I mean:

Slept a bit, mostly looked out the window.  I had my book, ‘The Master and Margarita,’ by Bulgakov, with me, but the ride was far too bumpy to do any reading.  Which was fine with me.

Eventually got to the town of Bokonbayevo…there it became clear that I indeed had to shift minivans, so did that and it was OK.  My seat was less comfortable, but I still had the views.

Pulled into Bishkek around 7:30 p.m.  Noticed on my handphone that Radik had texted me – eerie timing, as I was only a couple km from Radison at this point.  But I wasn’t staying in Bishkek, just passing through.  I felt badly about not going over to Radison to say hi/bye to the Djumasheves, but I wanted to continue on to Osh and had to locate my next vehicle – another minivan, or perhaps a shared taxi.  So I replied and just said I was going now to Osh and wouldn’t be stopping in Bishkek.  Which was technically true…

Wandered around – couldn’t find any minivans to Osh, turns out they start from Osh Bazaar, a taxi ride away.  I wasn’t in the mood to go to another station, so looked now for shared taxis – i.e., a few passengers join together to share a cab.  Not far away I found these…drivers came up and hailed me.  I asked one the price per seat – he said 1,200 som.  About what I expected…I motioned him aside and offered 1,000.  He would only come down to 1,100, petrol is pretty high here, and I was too tired to fight.  Plus I suspect that even though we were out of earshot of his fellow drivers, they’re acting collectively to maintain a certain price point.  So I said OK.  I’d be saving on a hotel room that night, so I wasn’t incredibly price-sensitive.

In hindsight, I should have been pickier.  I wasn’t in a huge hurry – the drive to Osh is 12-16 hours and it was only around 8 p.m., so I would arrive before noon Wednesday.  Checkin time at hotels is noon or 1 p.m., so no real need to get in much before then.  The issues:

1 – the front passenger seat was already taken.  Granted, this is the ‘death seat’ and Kyrgyz drive like maniacs, but this seat is also by far the most comfortable.

2 – I had a rear side/main seat, but my window was busted, putting me at the mercy of everyone else.

3 – there were 3 of us in the backseat of this small model Merc…normal practice, but one of my two fellow rear-passengers was a large mammal, much like myself.  Very cramped.

Within a few km I was already unhappy.  I was warm, crammed in there, hungry and thirsty.  Despite all my travels, I still have so much to learn…  The woman sitting in the front passenger seat spoke some English so made it clear to the driver that I’d been keen for water and something to eat soon.  She was half-Uzbek and was traveling to see her Uzbek mother in Fergana. 

The big local next to me was not particularly friendly…he kept staring at me like I was behind bars in a zoo.  The woman on his other side was dumpy and silent.  The driver was a young guy.  I didn’t feel amongst good friends.

The big guy and I were both displeased at having to share the small space in back.  He seemed to know the woman on his other side, so instead of pushing her over, he jockeyed with me.  Fun.  Eventually we bonded a bit…we were motioned over by the cops twice, the first time the driver complied, the second time he just gunned it.  I voiced-over a police siren sound and that cracked everyone up.  After that the big guy (who had never put out his hand and introduced himself – almost unheard of here) was warmer and we at least tried to communicate and share some laughs.

We stopped at one point – I took a leak and got some water and snacks.  We were there for an hour…turned out our driver wanted to link up with his friend, driving another car, and travel together as a convoy.  Very good idea…but waiting so long for car #2 to show annoyed me, the main reason I took a shared taxi was speed, it can make Osh in 12 hours vs. 15 or more for a minivan.  Now that advantage was vanishing…and even the supposed comfort advantage of a taxi was non-existent.  I was ruing my decision.

The English speaker in front helped me understand what was happening.  I was hoping she’d prove cool and an ally for me.  But that wasn’t to be – she turned out to be a real prima donna, I hope not indicative of Uzbeki people.  I had asked (begged) her to keep her window slightly open to give me some fresh air, but soon after we got on the ‘highway’ to Osh, which ascends, she complained it was cold and shut the window.  Now I was warm and on the verge of sweating.  I got the driver to crack his window, but this was an ongoing battle and I was pissed off.  Really should have gone with a minivan.

Asian people (I realize here I’m lumping together approximately half of the world’s population and taking major liberties in generalizing…but I’m comfortable doing that) can be so odd about things like weather and getting around.  Women carry umbrellas to ward off the slightest sun…people (the Kyrgyz are terrible here) keep their windows up when in vehicles, not seeming to want any fresh air or cool breeze…the slightest chill brings out blankets and heavy clothing…and god forbid people (at least those with any discretionary income) actually walk more than 50 meters, nope, that’s low-class and you simply must take a cab.  I like most aspects of life out here, but these are my peeves.  My guilty pleasure?  Breizol…

Went through a few long tunnels – wondered which other country/NGO paid for these.  Certainly not Kyrgyzstan.  Remembered reading about a horrible story in which a car or truck stalled in a Kyrgyz tunnel – by the time people understood their predicament, 4-5 people had died from carbon monoxide fumes from the trucks in the tunnel.  Silently prayed that we’d sail right through – and we did.

Had an Ambien pill in my pocket – now popped that.  Tried to snooze a bit, it was now 10 p.m. or so.  But it was so cramped, and warm, that I didn’t slumber much.  Then we stopped – for dinner, as it turned out.  I was very woozy from the pill and was stumbling around – I’ve had this happen before, usually when I take a pill and before I lay down.  It’s sort of funny how out of it you get before you pass out. 

We went into a café, which was full of people like us.  Ate some mediocre shorpo (meat soup), some bread, and a bit of tea.  The big guy said something to me and then asked for 2 cups of something, which turned out to be vodka.  Hallelujah.  Choked mine down in two gulps, promising these would be my final vodka shots in Kyrgyzstan.  I made a note to read up on the potential biokinetic interaction between Ambien and vodka when/if I reached Osh…

The English speaker had stayed in the car, and when we returned to it/her we saw she was covered in clothing and blankets.  Give me a break.  It was about 16-18 Celsius, a bit under room temp but far from cold.  I wrote her off and crammed myself into the back seat, sighing/groaning.  Really should have taken a minivan.

Kyrgyz cars are like this:  spotlessly maintained, looking years younger than their manufacture date, but with a few defects.  The windshield is usually cracked, and some door and window handles are broken/missing.  I put this down to the difficulty in getting a new windshied for many makes, and probably the same thing for the door/window handles.  It’s easy to get a bucket of water and wash a car…much harder/more $ to deal with the other issues.

A very long night, dear readers.  I got about 12 minutes of sleep.  The windows were usually all closed, and it was warm.  The big guy hadn’t managed to shrink since we first met.  A few times the driver cracked his window…but only to light up and fill the car with cigarette smoke.  I felt like pulling out my Leatherman knife, holding it to his throat, and forcing him to open the window – in fact, all windows.  But I came up with a better, Gandhian approach.

As I’ve mentioned in many of my entries since entering Mongolia more than 2 months ago, the food in this part of the world is heavy (lamb meat/fat, dumplings, bread, cheese, salami/kalbasa) and makes me incredibly gassy.  So I often find myself farting or just between farts.  This can be embarrassing and requires close management, but now I was able to turn it to my advantage.  When the driver lit a fresh cigarette, and had cracked the window, I let a silent one rip and that seemed to get everyone’s attention.  Some conversation ensued…I pretended to sleep and look innocent.  Not sure if they pinned it on me…but the driver’s window stayed open, in fact he opened it further, and he had the English speaker crack hers too.  For the rest of the ride, when those windows went up, I acted aromatically and it worked like a charm.  Solving problems elegantly – that’s what I’m all about.

Around 5 a.m. or so, we reached the town of Ozgon, where in 1990 there were a few nights of very bloody Kyrgyz-Uzbek violence.  This area is nearly half Uzbek and is the result of Stalin’s gerrymandering…things have been calmish since then, but you never know.

More weirdness – the dumpy woman got out and was gone, and then the remaining 3 passengers, joined by a new fellow, had to change cars.  We got into a VW station wagon, which was roomier in the back.  And it wasn’t that long before we arrived in Osh.  Total journey was about 12 hours – very little of it comfortable or fun.  I said bye to the big guy, who really wasn’t that bad (just too big), and the English speaker. 

Found a taxi – needed to get to my guesthouse, called Tes.  Tes is an agricultural support organization/charity which helps Kyrgyz farmers ramp up their productivity.  They set up a small guesthouse to augment their finances, and I’d heard great things about it. 

My taxi driver had a mouth full of gold teeth, and a rather empty head.  I thought he understood the street address I gave him, but he took me to a random street where Tes most assuredly was not.  I looked in my guidebook and told him it was very near to Delfin Public Pool.  He drove some more, then stopped on the town’s main bridge.  He motioned me out, we walked over the bridge and he pointed down to a huge pool.  Delfin Pool.  Right.  But how was I to know precisely where Tes Guesthouse was?  I had been in Osh for 10 minutes…

Finally my brain roared into action and I called the guesthouse, which then told the cabbie where it is.  Not easy to find, in the cabbie’s defense, but he was still not that competent.  We finally got there and I brought my pack into the building.

It was only 8 a.m., too early for checkin, but they gave me a very nice breakfast and I chilled for an hour.  Then decided to use the time productively (I guess I still don’t really know how to relax) and see the town’s sights – if I got that out of the way, I’d be able to catch up on the blog and really take it easy.

Osh is an ancient town – ‘older than Rome,’ local say.  Not long ago they celebrated what they said was the town’s 3,000-year anniversary.  Perhaps…but little remains of those times.  Osh is Kyrgyzstan’s second-largest city, but it feels like a big town and quite Soviet, still.  I think the largest Lenin statue I’ve seen yet is still standing in a prominent position across from the municipal building.  Not an impressive place, Osh – I’d been told 2 days/nights would be more than enough, and that was sounding right.  I was only here to see the place, very briefly, then pass into Uzbekistan.  In a sense, just like my overall Kyrgyzstan plan…though Kyrgyzstan had proven a minor bonanza, open, friendly, with beautiful landscapes and other benefits.

Osh really just has one major attraction:  Solomon’s Throne, a small mountain inside the city which you can climb (stairs) in 20 minutes or so.  At the top:  a tiny mosque (Dom Babur’s), and nice views of the Fergana Valley.  There are a few mediocre museums at the foot of the mountain, but really the rock itself is what you come to see.  Here it is:

The other things I found interesting in Osh were the bazaars, which were extensive and had some unusual foods and items for sale (and lots of junk, of course), and the teahouses (chaikhanas), which were all over the place and which were great for people-watching and chilling.  These places serve beer, shashlik, salads, other food, and lots of tea.  Well worth a visit or three.

Osh is a world away from Bishkek or Karakol.  The Fergana Valley is ancient, conservative, and in many ways locked in time.  Many women here wear head scarves…you see a fair few mosques, unlike up north/west…the bazaars are everywhere – not many formal supermarkets, and in every way it feels traditional and clannish.  You don’t see that many Russians here…you do see many people here who are Asian but don’t look Kyrgyz – they have west or south Asian features, including some kinky hair.  I wondered what the Uzbeks would look like.  Seeing all this, I was glad to I’d come to Osh, the look and feel alone is far more intriguing than Solomon’s Throne or any other sight.

Tes Guesthouse was terrific too.  My room – not cheap, but worth it – had aircon, attached bathroom, and cable TV.  Had not had a room with that trifecta since the Philippines in May.  The only real issue:  the town’s water was shut off, probably till evening.  I was not particularly clean, having sweated in the taxi all night.  And I didn’t get any cleaner climbing Solomon’s Throne or walking in the bazaars, where I bought some decent handkerchiefs.  The staff at the guesthouse brought a large bucket of water, which I used to wash off a la the old bucket shower system in Ladakh…OK, but not super-effective or satisfying.  I prayed that the town’s water would come back on that night…apparently this is a major ongoing problem in Osh, at least in summer.

After my bucket shower, I lay in bed watching cable.  Without a doubt, the cable/satellite in Osh is the most diverse I’ve ever seen.  Hundreds of channels, from virtually every country imaginable.  I watched:

-a few rounds of the 2^nd Ali-Frazier heavyweight bout, from the early 70s, on one of the ESPN channels

-the iran music channel – the ‘iran beauty channel’ didn’t work

-a Russian channel with an advert about a slimming tool which goes on your waist and vibrates the fat away

-the 24-hour wedding channel (Russian, methinks)

-god tv – crazy preachers – and there were dozens of other (nearly all were US-based, of course) religious preacher channels spouting madness

-the Kurdistan news channel

-a show about the forsaken Jews of Ethiopia and how some Jews for Jesus-type outfit is saving them

-Polish soap operas

Really quite fascinating.  I’m not a TV person and go months without watching TV, even if I have it in my room.  But it had been months and I’d also been starved of news here in the FSU, so watched a lot on the tube, particularly BBC World and CNN International.  Was glad they picked up Radovan Karadzic in Belgrade – loved the full beard and crazy hair he grew to avoid capture.  One more homicidal maniac in custody.

Took a nap.  Did a bit of exercise.  Tried to call my father but couldn’t connect – not sure why not.  Some cute assistants at the telephone place tried to help me, but to no avail.  Went to a chaikhana for some beer, tea and kebabs.  I was solo, they put me at a table with 3 locals.  Not easy to communicate – but it was fun to try.  These 3 guys were the real deal, with beards and round Muslim caps, sipping tea and eating flatbread for hours.  No one there dying of stress…

Went back to Tes and watched a bit more TV, then went to sleep.  Got up the next morning, refreshed and recovered from the hellride.  Had a huge breakfast, a long hot shower (the water is OK for now), and sat down to type this entry.  Not much else to do today, will send some emails and pack my stuff again, tomorrow morning I head to Uzbekistan.  We’ll see how that goes…I plan to take a cab to the border, 10 km from Osh, cross the border – I hope without incident/bribery, get in some vehicle to Andijan (the major eastern Uzbek city), and then connect to Tashkent.  Will be a long day – but I will be armed with lots of different currencies, the proper paperwork, and a playful attitude. 

I’ll have up to a month in Uzbekistan.  Not sure what the Internet situation will be, in terms of connection speed and access to the full range of sites.  There may be some firewall in place, and it might interfere with my blog, given my comments about the president and Uzbekistan in general.  So don’t be surprised if you don’t hear from me for a few weeks, I’ll do my best but it may be that my blog access is blocked while in Uzbekistan, in which case I’ll just store up my entries until the next country, probably Ukraine but perhaps Turkey.  Then I’ll unleash the floodgates and you’ll have some reading to catch up on.

Kyrgyzstan has been a relevation in some ways – it’s a place that’s still stuck between its Soviet past and a fully democratic/market-oriented future, but at least it feels open and it’s slowly getting there.  The people have been mostly warm and welcoming, the scenery fantastic, and the mood hopeful.  I came mostly to get my hands on an Uzbek visa, but I’ve had a good time in this country and who knows – I might be back someday.  Over and out.