They say that a week is a long time in politics, but I am inclined to believe that it is even longer in Kyrgyzstan. This was especially true of my week-long holiday spent traversing around the Southern part of the country with Kelly (who hails from Texas), a fellow teacher from the London School in Bishkek.
We bundled ourselves into the shared taxi on a dreich Saturday morning for the twelve hour game of chicken that was the road to Osh - Kyrgyzstan’s second biggest city. En route we
stopped for a bite to eat in a small lake-side restaurant. Being vegetarian, I opted for the only non-meat option of fried eggs. After struggling somewhat with using the single fork that had been provided to hack up my heart attack on a plate, I requested a knife. The proprietor obliged me by giving a bloody cleaver a quick wipe on a rag and handing it to me. Not quite silver service, but close enough.
Eventually arriving in Osh, we discovered that there was no water in the entire city. Our hotel assured us that the water would return by the evening, and offered the puzzling explanation that every time it rains the government turns off the water to prevent flooding. Too tired to question, we repaired to our beds in order to get an early start the next day.
One of the oldest cities in Central Asia, Osh is thought to have been founded by King Solomon, hence the name of the great crag protruding from the city’s heart: Sulayman Mountain. We clambered to the summit where it is said the Prophet Mohammed once prayed, and took in the clear views of the city, the sun glinting off the occasional mosque and Orthodox church. Osh is also known as the home of the traditional kalpak – the slightly comical felt hat that instantly transforms one into a garden gnome, and is sported by older generations of Kyrgyz men. Accordingly we stocked up, not only to do our part for the local economy, but also to mask our increasingly dishevelled appearance.
On returning to our hotel, we asked if the water was back on. The rebarbative middle-aged attendant with hennaed hair grunted, “Nyet”. Did they have anywhere we could go to use the toilet? Pouting her head towards a door, she barked, “The foreigners want a toilet!” Promptly, two minions came scurrying out with large pails of river water in their hands, and escorted us to the rather malodorous facilities.
Later that evening, feeling very cold, we requested more blankets to supplement the paltry bed clothes we had been given. Despite being practically the only residents in the hotel, the attendant stubbornly refused to part with any sheets as “other guests might need them”. Wearing all our clothes in our rickety wooden beds and resembling homeless tramps huddled on benches, Kelly and I decided that it was time to move on.
Taking a shared taxi (the easiest method of transport in a land lacking in tarmac and timetables) north to Jalalabad the next morning, we were chauffeured by a man with a full se
t of gold teeth, and by all appearances, an appetite to match. He quizzed us non-stop the full two and a half hours it took to reach Jalalabad, with oddities like, “Do you have mushrooms in Scotland?” “Do you like watching cows?” He did not hesitate to tell Kelly that at twenty nine she was far too old for marriage, but that he would happily take her on. However, in order to be a good Kyrgyz wife, she must behave, or he would beat her with a horsewhip. When Kelly replied that actually she would beat him with it, he shook his head forlornly and mumbled that the marriage could never work. We made our getaway as quickly as we could.
Jalalabad was also sans basic sanitation, but it is known for its natural hot springs, which potentially offered salvation from our tramp-like state. At the spa the matronly woman on duty informed us that there were no towels or soap and shoved us into a room with baths partitioned off from each other. She pointed me towards a large tub slowly filling up with steaming water. Unsure quite what I should be doing, and afraid that if I took off my clothes I might be arrested for indecency, I shouted over the partition to Kelly, “Are you taking your clothes off?” “I’m already in!” was the response. Dutifully I slipped in and wondered at how much dirt one could accumulate whilst on the road. Post-soak we had the dilemma of nothing to dry ourselves off with. Luckily I had brought our supply of toilet paper, and after co-ordinating our movements by ducking round walls and open doors, I managed to give half of the sandpaper-esque roll to Kelly. It was not the most effective system of drying I have ever used, but it did offer some exfoliation as an added bonus.
After a few days strolling around the bazaars and parks, we felt the desire to go explore the snow-covered peaks that cradle the South of Kyrgyzstan. Despite the sound of its name, Arslanbob is a pretty mountain village right on the Uzbekistan border and home to some of the largest fruit and nut trees in the world. We were able to stay with a young family, who fed us and showed us around the area as part of the fledgling ‘community based tourism’ movement. Misha, the head of the family, arranged for us to go horse trekking along the small yet powerful river that gushed through the village. The flow was fuelled by two beautiful waterfalls, each adorned with cloth ‘wishes’ and ‘prayers’ from hopeful visitors. It was tempting to try to have a proper wash in them, but our horses continually bickered and couldn’t be left alone for fear that they would nip each other to death.
Misha then took us to visit his grandparents. His grandfather was one hundred years old and his grandmother eighty-six. He was husband number three for her, having been horrendously abused by the previously two unsuitable matches her parents chose for her. A rather sweet couple, the grandmother looked constantly startled with her large jam jar glasses tied on with a
piece of string, and they both had a penchant for dropping off during conversation. It was hard to reconcile them with the image of the story that they told. Misha’s grandfather had been sent to Berlin during the Second World War and served there for five years. While he was at the Front battling Nazis and avoiding Stalinist purges, Misha’s grandmother raised nineteen children alone. Six of her children had died, but her sister had also passed away leaving progeny, and she had taken them on as her own. After the end of the war, they continued with the farm, eking out a living from it, which they continue to do today with the help of their family. We left Arslanbob feeling a little humble, and ready to head back to Bishkek.
Our rickety old bus was held together by rust and dirt, and looked like Fred Flintstone should be at the helm. Rather pleased we had managed to secure the spacious back seats, we were joined by a one-eyed vagrant who plonked himself down beside us. Alas the already stifling air was made even more oppressive as he muttered constantly, breathing fumes that ought to have been declared a weapon of mass destruction. A few hours into the journey, just as we were wishing we had brought our chloroform with us, our bus spluttered to a standstill. Still some distance from the nearest town, we heaved a big sigh and squatted in resignation at the side of the road. We watched as the other passengers yelled and screamed at the two bus drivers, who seemed to have no idea how an engine worked. Giving up any hope of vehicular assistance, we were all about to attempt the long slog home, when help came in the most unexpected form. A bus full of Muslim imams pulled up and offered us a lift all the way to Bishkek. Alas, the only space they had for us was in a small ‘roof rack’ on the inside of the car. After scrambling up into it in a rather ungainly way, we were able to lie across it in relative comfort, noses not quite scraping off the top. We stopped several times so that the imams could do their ritual ablutions, and they insisted that they were not allowed to see us: we had to we had to wait for them to get out of the bus before we could come down from the roof rack and go up before they came back. Whether this was because we offended their beliefs or nostrils, I will never know.
Nine hours later we were dropped off outside our home at 3.30 am in the pouring rain. After a hot shower I stretched out wearily in bed, appreciative I didn't have to share with baggage.
We bundled ourselves into the shared taxi on a dreich Saturday morning for the twelve hour game of chicken that was the road to Osh - Kyrgyzstan’s second biggest city. En route we
stopped for a bite to eat in a small lake-side restaurant. Being vegetarian, I opted for the only non-meat option of fried eggs. After struggling somewhat with using the single fork that had been provided to hack up my heart attack on a plate, I requested a knife. The proprietor obliged me by giving a bloody cleaver a quick wipe on a rag and handing it to me. Not quite silver service, but close enough.Eventually arriving in Osh, we discovered that there was no water in the entire city. Our hotel assured us that the water would return by the evening, and offered the puzzling explanation that every time it rains the government turns off the water to prevent flooding. Too tired to question, we repaired to our beds in order to get an early start the next day.
One of the oldest cities in Central Asia, Osh is thought to have been founded by King Solomon, hence the name of the great crag protruding from the city’s heart: Sulayman Mountain. We clambered to the summit where it is said the Prophet Mohammed once prayed, and took in the clear views of the city, the sun glinting off the occasional mosque and Orthodox church. Osh is also known as the home of the traditional kalpak – the slightly comical felt hat that instantly transforms one into a garden gnome, and is sported by older generations of Kyrgyz men. Accordingly we stocked up, not only to do our part for the local economy, but also to mask our increasingly dishevelled appearance.
On returning to our hotel, we asked if the water was back on. The rebarbative middle-aged attendant with hennaed hair grunted, “Nyet”. Did they have anywhere we could go to use the toilet? Pouting her head towards a door, she barked, “The foreigners want a toilet!” Promptly, two minions came scurrying out with large pails of river water in their hands, and escorted us to the rather malodorous facilities.
Later that evening, feeling very cold, we requested more blankets to supplement the paltry bed clothes we had been given. Despite being practically the only residents in the hotel, the attendant stubbornly refused to part with any sheets as “other guests might need them”. Wearing all our clothes in our rickety wooden beds and resembling homeless tramps huddled on benches, Kelly and I decided that it was time to move on.
Taking a shared taxi (the easiest method of transport in a land lacking in tarmac and timetables) north to Jalalabad the next morning, we were chauffeured by a man with a full se
t of gold teeth, and by all appearances, an appetite to match. He quizzed us non-stop the full two and a half hours it took to reach Jalalabad, with oddities like, “Do you have mushrooms in Scotland?” “Do you like watching cows?” He did not hesitate to tell Kelly that at twenty nine she was far too old for marriage, but that he would happily take her on. However, in order to be a good Kyrgyz wife, she must behave, or he would beat her with a horsewhip. When Kelly replied that actually she would beat him with it, he shook his head forlornly and mumbled that the marriage could never work. We made our getaway as quickly as we could.Jalalabad was also sans basic sanitation, but it is known for its natural hot springs, which potentially offered salvation from our tramp-like state. At the spa the matronly woman on duty informed us that there were no towels or soap and shoved us into a room with baths partitioned off from each other. She pointed me towards a large tub slowly filling up with steaming water. Unsure quite what I should be doing, and afraid that if I took off my clothes I might be arrested for indecency, I shouted over the partition to Kelly, “Are you taking your clothes off?” “I’m already in!” was the response. Dutifully I slipped in and wondered at how much dirt one could accumulate whilst on the road. Post-soak we had the dilemma of nothing to dry ourselves off with. Luckily I had brought our supply of toilet paper, and after co-ordinating our movements by ducking round walls and open doors, I managed to give half of the sandpaper-esque roll to Kelly. It was not the most effective system of drying I have ever used, but it did offer some exfoliation as an added bonus.
After a few days strolling around the bazaars and parks, we felt the desire to go explore the snow-covered peaks that cradle the South of Kyrgyzstan. Despite the sound of its name, Arslanbob is a pretty mountain village right on the Uzbekistan border and home to some of the largest fruit and nut trees in the world. We were able to stay with a young family, who fed us and showed us around the area as part of the fledgling ‘community based tourism’ movement. Misha, the head of the family, arranged for us to go horse trekking along the small yet powerful river that gushed through the village. The flow was fuelled by two beautiful waterfalls, each adorned with cloth ‘wishes’ and ‘prayers’ from hopeful visitors. It was tempting to try to have a proper wash in them, but our horses continually bickered and couldn’t be left alone for fear that they would nip each other to death.
Misha then took us to visit his grandparents. His grandfather was one hundred years old and his grandmother eighty-six. He was husband number three for her, having been horrendously abused by the previously two unsuitable matches her parents chose for her. A rather sweet couple, the grandmother looked constantly startled with her large jam jar glasses tied on with a
piece of string, and they both had a penchant for dropping off during conversation. It was hard to reconcile them with the image of the story that they told. Misha’s grandfather had been sent to Berlin during the Second World War and served there for five years. While he was at the Front battling Nazis and avoiding Stalinist purges, Misha’s grandmother raised nineteen children alone. Six of her children had died, but her sister had also passed away leaving progeny, and she had taken them on as her own. After the end of the war, they continued with the farm, eking out a living from it, which they continue to do today with the help of their family. We left Arslanbob feeling a little humble, and ready to head back to Bishkek.Our rickety old bus was held together by rust and dirt, and looked like Fred Flintstone should be at the helm. Rather pleased we had managed to secure the spacious back seats, we were joined by a one-eyed vagrant who plonked himself down beside us. Alas the already stifling air was made even more oppressive as he muttered constantly, breathing fumes that ought to have been declared a weapon of mass destruction. A few hours into the journey, just as we were wishing we had brought our chloroform with us, our bus spluttered to a standstill. Still some distance from the nearest town, we heaved a big sigh and squatted in resignation at the side of the road. We watched as the other passengers yelled and screamed at the two bus drivers, who seemed to have no idea how an engine worked. Giving up any hope of vehicular assistance, we were all about to attempt the long slog home, when help came in the most unexpected form. A bus full of Muslim imams pulled up and offered us a lift all the way to Bishkek. Alas, the only space they had for us was in a small ‘roof rack’ on the inside of the car. After scrambling up into it in a rather ungainly way, we were able to lie across it in relative comfort, noses not quite scraping off the top. We stopped several times so that the imams could do their ritual ablutions, and they insisted that they were not allowed to see us: we had to we had to wait for them to get out of the bus before we could come down from the roof rack and go up before they came back. Whether this was because we offended their beliefs or nostrils, I will never know.
Nine hours later we were dropped off outside our home at 3.30 am in the pouring rain. After a hot shower I stretched out wearily in bed, appreciative I didn't have to share with baggage.
No comments:
Post a Comment