Valentine's Day at the Opera

Valentine’s Day is huge here…for those with significant others. So for the estimated 85-90% of those with partners (sample size: 32 students), it was a joyous occasion. For the rest, well doom and gloom. And as for me, I attended the opera, was stalked by a student, mistook a gorgeous Russian for a prostitute and easily could have had my head kicked in. All in all, a great day.

Fancy a bit of cultural enlightenment then?

I’m rather fond of the opera and had been eager to see ‘Carmen’ for quite some time. Although it plays here monthly, I jumped at the chance to see it the other night. I really needed some cultural nourishment.

Now I’m no connoisseur of opera, but I have been to a few in my time. This one was far from the best (though I did enjoy myself) and the opera house itself was in a pitiful state of disrepair on the inside with peeling paint, torn and fraying carpets, and bathrooms that obviously hadn’t been cleaned since the end of the Cold War. The hall was half-empty, which I’m told represented a good night, but at least my ticket was only around $3 – for the 3rd row, front and centre. The comical sight of a troupe of plump Kyrgyz singing in Russian was trumped only by people constantly nattering away on their mobiles and carrying on conversations around me. Oh, and the presence just two rows back of a student who may or may not be stalking me.

Not so nice on the inside

After my very first class, one of my students - a lovely young woman - kindly invited me to go away for the weekend to visit her family in the countryside, to a small town 4 hours away from Bishkek. Now, I generally have a strict policy of not mixing business with pleasure: I’ve learned my lesson. I’m willing to make allowances, but preferably a few months down the road closer to my departure date in case things go awry and there awkward moments later on. So I thanked her and said I’d see. And then she invited me again the following Friday. And again last Thursday. I’m running out of plausible excuses, though I’m coming tantalizingly close to telling her I’m gay. Honestly, I’m not very good at making excuses and I hardly know what to say. (Suggestions anyone?)

I’m generally quite open and honest with my students, and so I made no secret of my Valentine’s Day plans, even mocking the fact that I was going alone and looking forward to it. And then, there she was, just a couple of rows back. ‘Oh, what a surprise!’ she says. (Like hell, I’m thinking.)

Weaseling out of another sticky situation

I end this tale here, for now, because as things stand, we’re tentatively schedule to attend the opera this Saturday. She conned me into asking what I thought of Rigoletto. It happens to be my favourite, and me not thinking straight, said as much. Very conveniently, it’s playing Saturday. And would I like to go, she enquired. Well, uh, sure, yeah, I suppose, I responded. I’m thinking up excuses as we speak.

Afterwards, I headed to Metro, the premier ex-pat scene where the waitresses and barmaids have yet to master the art of mixing cocktails. I was almost as desperate for some football/soccer as I had been earlier for cultural enlightenment. But my attempts were foiled by a gaggle of drunken Scots (not necessarily a bad thing, mind) watching the France v Scotland Six Nations affair. So I pretended to look interested while quaffing a few beers. A wee while later, one of my colleagues turned up with his Kyrgyz girlfriend. They’d been to a wedding earlier and were already well and truly steamed at that point. We got talking and inevitably the talk quickly turned to the subject of prostitution, as it generally does in this day and age. After all, what else have young people got to talk about in such trying economic times?

The sad reality of life in these impoverished former Soviet republics is the preponderance of prostitutes that cavort in expat-heavy locales. The previous weekend, I went out with a few teachers to a nightclub called the Golden Bull, one of the handful of premier places for foreigners, where we don’t pay a cover charge. There was a heavy US military presence inside, and it was downright hysterical, whilst simultaneously tragic, watching the servicemen fawn all over scantily clad Kyrgyz prostitutes. I was actually hit on within minutes of my arrival…by a man. It seems like in Bishkek, the ‘do you speak German?’ chat-up line (can anyone verify where this comes from?) is banished in favour of ‘do you like skiing?’ Flattering, but no thanks.

Anyway, at Metro, as we discussed the subject of prostitution, my colleague’s girlfriend then proceeded to point out who was and who wasn’t a prostitute. She seemed far more amused by this than I was.

Up to this point, 100% of the women I’d suspected of being prostitutes were Kyrgyz. But sitting up at the bar, alone, was an absolutely stunning young Russian woman. I’d caught her looking at me (yes, yes, believe it) when I was up at the bar earlier getting drinks. Standards of dress here are far, far different from what many of us are accustomed to back home, as those of you with Eastern European experience can attest to. For most women, thigh-high boots are de rigueur on any night out, and in Bishkek at least, they seem to be the same for most of my students, no matter what the age. Well, even by Eastern European/Central Asian standards, this woman looked iffy and I questioned her status to my friend. Big mistake, for she then made her way over to find out the truth.

You know what you and me say about assuming things

A good 10 minutes later, my friend came back to report the good news: she wasn’t a prostitute at all and would I like to go and meet her? I’m utterly hopeless in such situations. All the same, sufficiently fuelled by a bit of Dutch courage, I sauntered over the bar where we were introduced. And things were going well for a while.

About 30 minutes into the conversation – not like I was keeping track of the time or anything – she had me flummoxed and I was grasping at straws to get myself untangled from the mess. Up to this point the conversation had been conducted in stuttering English with the odd Russian phrase thrown in for a laugh. But then:

Her: ‘Your friend, she is strange, why she ask me if I go with other men for money?’
Me: ‘Uh, huh? What do you mean?’
Her: ‘Your friend says so interesting things, it is bullshit though, I don’t why she says this things. She says you ask her if I go with men for money.’
Me: ‘What? She said that? I never said that?’
Her: ‘Yes, she said, she said.’

At this point, I made an epically tremendous recovery, one of my finer moments, though my choice of words could have been better. I’m generally not very good at thinking on the spot.

Me: ‘No, you don’t understand. My friend said you were a prostitute, not me, I said you weren’t, but she had to find out. I told her no, she didn’t need to. Besides, she’s very drunk and says stupid things.’

She seemed satisfied by this response. But even so, things gradually took an unpleasant turn, and once again, I was painfully reminded of a couple of experiences in Ukraine, where a meeting with a woman over coffee or a drink quickly turned into an interrogation about my income, whether I wanted children, where I wanted to live…of course, Milan Kundera did after all call love ‘a continual interrogation’. Now, not to go into too many details now, but my unflinching honesty, depending on your perspective, is either one of my greatest strengths or greatest weaknesses. It’s probably a sign that I’m not very good at flirting, but when a woman, in just about any circumstance, starts probing me with these types of questions, I never play along and I tend to offer up the gospel truth regarding my beliefs. Interpret that how you like.

The problem for me in situations like this is that my dry, sardonic wit (or, more like sarcasm and awful use of puns) rarely even works at the best of times with native speakers. So I’m already working with a handicap: when I have to grade my language to a very basic level, I struggle to flirt and offer up witticisms in broken English and smatterings of awful Russian. It’s a challenge to which I’m not very adept, and I’m far from a suave, smooth operator. So this appeared to be a futile endeavour. Though numbers were exchanged and we did talk late into the night, I doubt this one is going anywhere.

And almost my first brawl to boot

Next to the school, where all the teachers live, is a small nightclub. Upon arriving back around 3am, there was a massive brawl going on, which had spilled onto the street. There were at least 20 people going at it, half of them getting the living bejesus beaten out of them as they lay sprawled all over the pavement. I calmly sidestepped my way past the mess; I’d already been involved in enough sticky situations for one evening.

And now for some wilderness adventure

I’m not entirely sure what it says about Bishkek that after just two weeks here I was desperate to get out of the city for the day. The gritty griminess and dull monotony of the city was starting to get to me with ennui rapidly setting in, a sensation all too familiar amongst the teachers who have been here much longer than I. More vivid descriptions of the city to follow a bit later, but for now the details of my recent excursion into the alpine wilderness.

I was trying to get away from this…

…and this…

…for something more like this

Into the old great outdoors then

93% of Kyrgyzstan is covered by mountains so one doesn’t have to travel far to experience the rarefied country air. Ala Archa Canyon, our destination this past Sunday, is a mere 30 kilometers from Bishkek. Four of us ventured out – two other teachers (Kole and Nicola), and an anthropology graduate student (Karlien) – for an action-packed day of fun and mishaps.

Not being the world’s greatest outdoorsman, I was wholly ill-prepared. I don’t even own a proper pair of hiking boots, my shoes have zero traction and I had forgotten to bring any food. Excellent start. All were to lead to my downfall but it wasn’t I who suffered the most in the end. And at least it wasn’t very cold; the weather has been unseasonably mild since my arrival and Sunday was no exception, though there was still loads of snow.

Despite the scenery itself being stunning, the peaceful tranquility in and of itself wasn’t enough for such blood-thirsty thrill-seekers like ourselves. We wanted to find the alpine climber’s cemetery, honouring all those who had died in the area. After all, how often does one get to visit an alpine climber’s cemetery, and in Kyrgyzstan of all places? But getting to it required an arduous trek up the mountain and Nicola and I shared the same lousy footwear problem. So while Kole and Karlien faced little difficulty hiking up the hill, we slipped and slided our way up, if such a thing is possible. At various points we knew that what we were doing was ridiculous and that getting back down would prove to be the real problem. Regardless, we fool-hardily continued our upwards climb, and were eventually rewarded with the serenity of the cemetery.

Faces from the mountain past

There’s a certain sadness to visiting a climber’s cemetery. Inevitably, the majority of the bodies were never found, so what lies beneath is mere earth. But even more tragic is the story of the climber who, faced with the ultimate climber’s moral dilemma, cut his rope to save his climbing companions from plunging to their doom. For taking one for the team (what a ghastly way of putting it), he wasn’t allowed to be buried within the confines of the cemetery. Because the church deemed it an act of suicide, he was to be banished to outside the cemetery’s gates, in what was originally an unmarked grave. Apparently now it has a small memorial, but we were unable to locate it and pay our solemn respects.

Getting down wasn’t to prove as difficult as my original prolepsis, though it did feature a lot of scooting and sliding. Luckily, to this point I remained unscathed.

Back down in the relative safety of the valley floor, it was lunch time. At this point I was well and truly starving, feeling awfully woozy and was eagerly anticipating lunch.

But it wasn’t to be: the kitchen at the only hotel had no food so I had to quaff a pot of tea for sustenance. We still had a few hours to go and another mission to go on. My travelling companions offered me some of their lunch, which was very kind, but I foolishly turned them down. Why? Because I’m an idiot. Or, because I’d done it before so recently in what I thought were far more strenuous conditions, I thought I could do it again.

Briefly down memory lane. Or, haven’t I learned my lesson?

In September, my good buddy Jeff and I visited Petra. It was during Ramadan, so getting food and drink was always going to be a tricky proposition during daylight hours. Arriving from Israel on a Friday afternoon meant that public transport, as we were told by a very honest taxi driver, wasn’t running properly, and he kindly offered to take us to Petra for the low, low rate of 50 euros. An absolute bargain, and yes, I’m being sarcastic.

Our day in Petra was a glorious day in sparkling sunshine, suffocating heat and no food. We’d failed to pack any food, though we did have some water (detecting a pattern here?). Now, to make a long story shorter, we could have eaten had we wanted to. There were a couple of overpriced restaurants in Petra that mainly catered to tour groups, but we being such intrepid travellers were above that station. We reckoned we could make it through the day without eating: we’d punish ourselves to keep in the spirit of the situation. (Jeff had done it before, going an entire month many years prior, while working every day nonetheless.)

Now you can learn a lot from taxi drivers, who are often fountains of knowledge. One taxi driver told us (or, perhaps it was just me?) that in his mind, most Muslims ‘cheat’ during Ramadan. The streets of most towns and villages were empty during the day, as most people would get up just before the crack of dawn to eat, and then go to sleep all day, waking up in time for their iftar feast at sundown. This taxi man said that that wasn’t what Ramadan was about, and that to truly understand what sacrifice meant, you had to remain steadfast and stick to your normal everyday routine. Like he was. As he smoked his cigarette. But whatever, who am I to pass judgment?

Without fail, by early afternoon Jeff and I were starting to lose it. He had warned me that when he’s hungry he starts to babble and talk nonsense. By the end of the day, the utter rubbish and gibberish coming out of both our mouths would have been enough to render anyone apoplectic with insanity. Now, Petra is no easy stroll in the park either. It’s difficult work gamboling over the hills, scrambling over rocks, hiking up steep hills, all under the punishing midday sun. We were wobbly, our heads were light, and we were in desperate need of energy. Earlier we had bought a couple of sodas, which did us little good. For those who have seen the Facebook photo of me in Petra with my trousers down around my ankles (which was Jeff’s idea, by the way), that came right at the peak of our madness. You see what fasting does to a man?

[for the duration of my stay in Jordan, I actually fasted for the majority of my days; once you get used to it, it’s not too difficult.]

Back to the present predicament

Revisiting Ala Archa, where we pressed on with our afternoon, my hunger being somewhat satiated by the pot of tea.

Along with the cemetery, there was something else we wanted to see. So after pottering about a bit on the valley floor and walking on some very thin ice, we went in search of the ‘Bridge of Death’. Hell, I was intrigued.

We could hear the ice crackling under foot. But why should that stop us?

Getting there was the problem. We were now on flat ground, but the snow was close to knee-deep, and my feet were already soaked and almost completely numb. We weren’t entirely sure where this bridge was and there were no marked paths. We had little choice but to trudge through the snow.

Now, earlier when I was walking down the mountain from the cemetery, I was surprisingly able to maintain my balance, and I’m not the most coordinated person. (When playing baseball as a 12 year old, my coach actually suggested I take ballet lessons to improve my balance, a notion I quashed immediately: I would have been picked on even more than I already was.) But by now, the hunger was getting to me and it was Petra all over again, except in the snow. I couldn’t stop laughing, though at least my friends seemed to think I was funny. And I couldn’t stay on my feet, constantly toppling over into the snow, then bursting out into fits of hysterical giggles when I was helped up. It was a ridiculous scene, though I was having a blast. By this point, I was entirely soaked.

Eventually we found the ‘Bridge of Death’. Judge for yourselves whether it merits such an apocalyptic name.

What’s so deadly about that?

The tricky part, of course, is that it has no floor. And in my condition, it was clearly a bad idea to try and make it across. Naturally I tried, and had no problems at all. I had to admit, it was a bit anti-climactic, but at this point, breath-taking scenery notwithstanding, I was ready to get home for some much needed chow.

But before leaving, there was a minor bit of adventure. Poor old Nicola succumbed to the Bridge of Death, plummeting into the river when just a few metres from safety. Thankfully she was okay, though quite obviously drenched. Kole and I actually found it hard to contain our laughter at first, but I had an excuse after all: I was going nuts.

And just seconds later…in she went

Economics in the back of a taxi

On our journey back to town, we engaged our taxi driver in a bit of conversation about Kyrgyz politics. He spoke no English so it was a good opportunity for us to practise our Russian. Among the highlights, too numerous to go into here, were his reactions when we asked about how the economic crisis is affecting the country.

“Crisis? What crisis? This crisis is not affecting Kyrgyzstan because here it’s always a crisis, this is nothing new, we are always in crisis. This is normal. Every day is crisis.” And what about people losing their jobs? “Ah, this is not a problem, no one is losing their jobs because there aren’t any jobs to lose. Our people have no jobs. Ah, no problem, every day it’s normal here.”

But then, more soberly, he did say the economy would be in even greater trouble if the Kazakhs stopped crossing the border to buy cheap Chinese goods from the market. But that’s a far more complex matter. A topic for another time.

Soon I hope to report more on Bishkek itself. I’m still seeking out its seedy underbelly, so until then I may have little to share. Stay tuned.

Recommended reading. Or, credit where credit is due

If you want to read about real out and out adventure, the kind of stuff that would put most travel writers to shame, then you absolutely must check out my friend Rachel’s livejournal. Not only is she one of the best writers I know (and a constant source of inspiration to me), but her analysis of last summer’s events in Georgia (and much else besides) is second to none. For my money, not many people truly get it better than she does. The most recent posting is a real treat, but if you have the time, her earlier stuff is well worth checking out. Highly recommended. (And no, she’s not paying me to advertise.)

http://dukhobortsa.livejournal.com/

Why I need my very own fact-checker

Disclaimer number two. Or, allow me to elaborate on my rationale

I thank all of you for the feedback from my first post. It was all helpful and useful. A few more things to share on that note:

1. It was, after all, my first posting and there was bound to be a bit of rust, especially with all the [superfluous?] explaining I felt obliged to do.
2. I haven’t yet necessarily figured out what the purpose is in this blog, but it’s definitely intended to mimic the styles of emails, group or otherwise, that I’ve sent out in the past. As many of you know, I do tend to ramble in my emails. Just be glad you weren’t one of the [un]lucky recipients of some of my late 2008 drivel where I gave a detailed rundown of my online stock trading addiction. Hell, it beat working and was far more lucrative.
3. You think that was long? I haven’t even started waxing philosophical yet!

It’s a work in progress and I’m still trying to get my head round what I’m attempting to do. I’m a long ways away from taking myself seriously as a writer, so for the time being, this is a convenient way to keep people in the loop. I don’t have very good internet access, so I’m not able to attend to as many people as I’d like on an individual basis. In the future, I aim to keep things in manageable, bite-sized chunks with appropriate section headings. So if you see something entitled ‘A diatribe on Kyrgyzstan’s uptight women’, then you can easily skip it if need be. And yes, that will probably be coming soon.

The always sagacious Grant has also pointed me in the direction of Raymond Carver’s dictum regarding short stories: ‘Get in, get out, don’t linger’. I don’t intend to.

Now that that’s out of the way…

As for that Air Base I was talking about… Or, another point for the Commies

No sooner had I filed my last dispatch when I received notice that Manas Air Base is set to close. In fact, just minutes after posting it, I checked the news and got word. A bit hasty of me, but it had been rumoured and vehemently denied in the press over the past couple of weeks and I for one didn’t think it’d really happen. Either way, it appears as though the Russians have got another one up on the Americans. To quote Dr Yuhan Vevaina: ‘the US was paying $63 million a year for the shit hole and now the Russkies are outbidding them w/ petro-dollars... what the #$%^ is the world coming to when good old fashioned US greed (I mean globalization) doesn’t win out???’ I know, it's tragic.

Now I can’t confirm this figure exactly – I’m not entirely au fait with the situation – but I believe Manas Airport was charging the Americans, on top of that gargantuan rent (representing a substantial chunk of Kyrgyzstan’s GDP no doubt), some of the steepest landing fees in the world at $9k a pop. That’s a lot of revenue lost, but then Russia is promising a lot in return. See below for more details.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/feb/04/kyrgyzstan-us-base-afghanistan

Also of interest perhaps:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_rights_in_kyrgyzstan

However…the plot thickens

Other than the Guardian article I’ve linked to above, I’ve read nothing else in the American or British press. But naturally, as I tend to do, I asked all of my students about this, despite being warned by my boss on day one that under no conditions am I to mention the following three things: religion, politics (including the issue of Manas) and illnesses (?!?!?). Most of them were ambivalent, but one allegedly highly-connected source assures me that the base will absolutely not be closing and this is merely a bargaining manoeuvre to extract more money - his English was not that good, but I think that’s what he was trying to say. So, you heard it here first.

Waitresses of Bishkek, look out

I had great luck Wednesday finding a charming coffeeshop with outstanding coffee, albeit at a price: $3. It may not seem like much, but on my paltry salary here, I’ll have to ration them. On top of that, the waitress was very lovely and actually smiled at me and had halfway decent customer service skills, even displaying remarkable amounts of patience as I tried to order in Russian. Now, I overcomplicate things as it is, so I didn’t just order in Russian, but I instead attempted to ask whether they were Arabica beans, what country they were harvested from and even whether they were fair trade, in the interests of making conversation of course. Keep all of your comments about this to yourselves, but I really am making valiant efforts to improve my Russian. Besides, she was a good sport and even played along, answering ‘da, da, da’ to everything I asked. I will undoubtedly be going back soon. As my former Latvia colleagues can attest to, no waitress or barmaid is safe from my advances. It is surely only a matter of time before I make an utter twit of myself.

An ever so brief note on Arsenal signing Arshavin

Just one more reason why having a blog is fun: I get to throw in non-sequiturs like this simply because I want to offer my two cents on some mundane topic.

Anyway, I don’t get it. It makes no sense to me. I think he’s a brilliant player, but Arsenal need a ‘creative midfielder’ like the Patriots need another quarterback (I’ve now just lost or confused 95% of my reading audience). Surely they have a far greater need for a centre-back or defensive midfielder more in the Gilberto or Vieira mould. I don’t see Arshavin propelling them into the top four, nor will he obviously be of any help to them in Champions League.

The final word on my initial posting

‘I made [it] longer than [I intended], only because I [did not] have the time to make it shorter’. (Blaise Pascal)

The start of something. Or, what have I got myself into?

A brief disclaimer

As a self-professed Luddite who has never really got round to embracing the blogosphere in any great depth, I feel as though what I’m about to embark upon is anathema to everything I stand for. But alas, there appears to have been some demand – a handful of friends out there anyway – and so I’ve thus given in and started my own ‘blog’. I’m almost ashamed of myself. Not having read too many blogs myself, I’ve always found the idea of them to be self-indulgent little flights of fantasy. Or, as my friend Grant said, if ‘you have an idea without the ballast to constitute a proper essay and a shaky command of grammar, then what you have is a blog’. Very well-put. Or as Dennis has stated, ‘it is vain to sit down to write before you’ve stood up to live’. I figured that I’d done my share of living and it was time to sit down and put a few words to paper, so to speak.

My intentions here are noble: I want to provide an outlet for my friends and family (well, my sister at least) to follow my travels/travails (depending on your perspective). I’ve kept a few of you in the loop over the past few years, but now I reckon I’m ready to share my tales with a slightly bigger audience. It seems a bit of a shame, really, to only now be starting this after the past few years of fun and games on the road. Perhaps I’ll revisit a few stories every now and then, and finally reveal the full lowdown on prison visits in Nigeria and broken ribs in Latvia. But those are stories for another time.

I also warn you in advance that, if past habits are anything to go by, I may go off on seemingly random little tangents about all sorts of things: politics, sport, business, corruption, fashion, philosophy…we’ll see. But my intention is to maintain some semblance of a focus.

Now that I’ve explained my somewhat solipsistic rationale for this little endeavour, let’s move on to the here and now: Bishkek. This is the adventure that almost never was.

I thought my last year in Latvia was it. I wanted to ‘take a break’ from teaching English, and I figured I’d give things a go in the US for a bit. After all, it had been over 6 years since I’d last lived and worked over there. I did sort of haphazardly look for jobs, mainly in NYC but also in Boston and a few other decent-sized cities, but it really was never meant to be. And besides, despite wanting to take a break, I absolutely knew I would miss the lifestyle. My flatmate Mark in Latvia said as much, and I knew even at the time that he was right.

So after a bit of agonizing over Georgia and Kyrgyzstan, I opted for the latter. A good choice? Seeing as I’d been wanting to come to Central Asia for so long, absolutely. It’s barely been a week thus far, so for the time being it’s a bit too early to tell. I’m impatient, yet I’m not entirely sure what I’m impatient for. I want things to happen fast, and I get a bit down and flustered if things don’t work out as quickly as I’d like. But then I’m impossible to please and I never know what I want, so thus…

[at this point in my little missive, I’m starting to ask myself where the hell I’m going…and where to go from here…and, how do these things work?]

I had a few ideas in my head about what to expect from Kyrgyzstan. I’ve long been enraptured by Central Asian yarns of high adventure, about the ‘Great Game’, the geopolitics of the region, etc, etc. But what one gleans from a book is never the same as the story on the ground. I wanted to come and see this place for myself, find out the reality of the situation.

And something else just hit me today as I was explaining to my students why I’ve come to Kyrgyzstan. I’d never thought of this way before, but a bit of a joke turned into a bit of great thinking: three years ago, I started this teaching English adventure in Ukraine. After a stint in Spain, it was off to Latvia. I spent most of June last year in the Caucasus, taking in Georgia and Armenia. Suddenly, it seems like I’m circumnavigating Russia via the former Soviet Union. It oddly never seemed like it at the time, and those of you who really know me know that I never plan too far in advance, but it now appears rather logical and obvious. In fact, I’m quite proud of myself. It’s all falling into place. Logic would dictate that at the end of all this, Russia would be the final destination, or piece in the puzzle.

As for me falling into place, it was an eerie arrival. I was fully aware that the US Air Force has established a base here in Bishkek, which they share with Manas, the local airport some 30km outside of town. Various others had written of the strange feeling of arriving at the airport to see civilian airliners lined up alongside C130s. Sadly I missed out on these early impressions, as my plane landed in a thick pea-soup fog. In fact, I couldn’t see a thing as I looked out the windows and we suddenly touched down when I thought we were still thousands of feet in the air. The journey to my new home at 5am was enshrouded in that same dense fog, and I hardly knew whether I was coming or going I was in such a bleary-eyed state.

My first week here was somewhat rough. I had a nasty bout of jetlag which I’m only now slowly beginning to shake. I had the week off (thankfully the school likes to have its teachers ease into things with a 1-2 week settling in period), but I got a bit antsy and didn’t know what to do with myself. I met the other 7 teachers, most of whom have been here for at least 4-5 months, as well as the local staff and some of my new students. This has been one major difference between previous teaching assignments: at every other location I’ve started with a group of other teachers at the start of the school year in September (except in Ukraine, where it was only me), whereas here I’m the new guy suddenly crashing the party.

But no matter: the other teachers are friendly and have been welcoming. On our first night out together they regaled me with stories of crime and police harassment, things I eagerly look forward to. There would appear to be a significant risk of petty crime against foreigners here, but that’s to be expected in such an economically depressed former Soviet [insert your word of choice here]. At one point I thought they were about to take bets on establishing an over/under on when I might be expected to face trouble (3 weeks? 4?). The biggest threat to foreigners comes from the police, who rarely pass up an attempt to extort money from you. They lurk on every corner, glaring intently at me every time I pass by. Luckily so far, I’ve not been stopped, though it’s surely only a matter of time.

IR Theory 101

As for Bishkek itself, I’ve explored a bit here and there, meandered about the massive, wide boulevards and endless reams of concrete and statues, paeans to heroes from the glorious Soviet and Kyrygz past. My friend Magnus would no doubt make two astute observations about this place, as he is wont to do. First, this place is unbelievably ‘Sovietsky’. If you thought Yerevan was Sovietsky, you haven’t seen anything yet. And second, it’s a terrible city in which to wage guerrilla warfare. As it is, Kyrgyzstan is, geographically, a horribly convoluted country whose borders, like all the Central Asian states, cuts across and divides up different ethnicities and religions. The north is more Russified than the south, where a greater majority of ethnic Kyrgyz live. And towns like Osh near the Fergana Valley, a hotbed of militant Islam and a mere few kilometers from the border of Uzbekistan, feature a substantial population of Uzbeks and Tajiks, both of whom are severely underrepresented in Kyrgyz government. When the Soviet Union went belly-up in December 1991, the entire region hardly knew what to do with itself. In a sense, Stalin had carved out the countries of Central Asia into neat, convenient, easily manageable republics; independence had the effect of creating a set of 5 full-blown Russian inventions. The Soviet policies of strictly controlled borders, forced population relocation (Germans, Russians and Ukrainians to Kyrgyzstan, for example) and the redrawing of the map of the region, has left the 5 ‘-stans’ in a post-independence mess: economically depressed, ethnically and politically divided, and with Islam relegated to something of a secret religion, to be practiced only in private and away from the prying eyes of the state.

But what do I know? I’m only spouting off the ideas I’ve gathered from books and the news, it’s probably all horribly inaccurate. The point I’m trying to make goes back to Bishkek’s geography vis-à-vis the Magnus Briem school of international conflict: with its wide boulevards and overwhelming stretches of concrete plazas and wide open spaces, this place is not at all suited to guerrilla warfare, unlike say, Baghdad or Beirut. So despite its close proximity to the Kazakh border (not a threat) and the fomenting unrest in the south, Bishkek in theory is a much safer, secure place than, say, Tashkent. But I don’t want to get into Uzbekistan’s politics just yet.

[besides, with the American military just down the road, we should have nothing to worry about.]

Here's a handy wee map: http://www.lonelyplanet.com/maps/asia/kyrgyzstan/

My intention there was merely to provide a brief, cursory overview of Bishkek’s architectural splendours and sights. And instead I digressed to offer a half-baked analysis of Kyrgyzstan’s post-Soviet dilemma. Forgive me. I wish I could say it won’t happen again, but it almost certainly will.

Other than the architectural monstrosities, I’ve visited a couple of bazaars - Osh and Ortasay- which are far, far cheaper than the overpriced local supermarket. You get an amazing array of goods on display, though many are of dubious quality (such as the $5 kettle that lasted me 4 days). At the very least, they offer a colourful and eclectic slice of native life, even if they can be quite chaotic and frenetic. It’s all part of the fun.

As many of you are aware, I’m a bit lost without a steady reading supply and decent coffeeshops where I can lounge about, whiling away the afternoon with books, newspapers and general people watching. So that was my mission last weekend, and although I haven’t yet found anywhere to meet my high, snobbish standards, I did have a couple of very mildly amusing situations. First was the bookstore that I was told featured a ‘small selection’ of secondhand English books. Small indeed: there were about 15. The only one of any interest was a collection of short GK Chesterton pieces, many of which I’ve already read. But otherwise, it was a pathetic, pitiful collection on hand: Happy English, A Guide to Memorize English in Plenty (sic) and an issue of National Geographic from September 1989 were the highlights.

Then I called into Metro, apparently one of Bishkek’s prime expat and sports-watching watering holes. It was only 1pm and not many people were around: a couple of Englishmen at the bar and a table of 8 Americans (from the base?) drinking cocktails. On the only two TVs were the Australian Open semifinal and a nature documentary – tranquil scenes from ocean life interspersed with footage of natural disasters, accompanied by electronic, ambient variations of music from ‘Phantom of the Opera’. I was thoroughly enjoying, from a distance, the Nadal-Verdasco semifinal, which was at 4-4 in the final set. Then one of the Englishmen asked the barmaid to turn it to some football, she duly obliged, and I ended up missing the thrilling finale in favour of West Ham v Liverpool…from the 2006/7 season. With the time difference (6 hours from the UK, 11 from EST), there’s was no way live football would be on at 1pm local time. And I’d rarely object to watching football, naturally, but in such circumstances I was livid. To coffeeshops and books, you can add a steady stream of sports to my requirements for contentment. As for the Super Bowl…not a chance I was watching that with a 5.30am local kickoff time, seeing as Metro opens at 10am. And yes, I am bitter that I missed such a thrilling game.

Oh, and shortly after that, the waitress asked me how to make a White Russian. And this is Bishkek’s premier expat spot? They’re asking me how to make a mixed drink?

I’ll no doubt be going back, as there aren’t really any other places to choose from, and beggars can’t be choosers of course. I mean, the cup of tea I had was decent, if overpriced, and it’s a comfortable enough spot to spend a few hours watching football.

Dated cultural reference anyone?

Oh, and just before I left, one of the Americans was complaining to the waitress that she had forgotten the tequila in his Long Island Ice Tea. For whatever reason, the image of Ian Brown shouting ‘Amateurs! Amateurs!’ in the BBC studios way back when popped into my head.

Enough is enough for now

I don’t plan on all my posts being this lengthy. Unless something truly wild and unexpectedly adventurous happens (like, I get my head smashed in at some seedy bar after trying to steal some Russian mafioso’s Kyrygz girlfriend), I aim to make these commentaries as succinct and to the point as possible. If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading and please do share any comments, whether positive or [constructively] critical. In my next dispatch, I’ll share details of my living conditions and teaching specifics. Try and contain your excitement.