I’ve entered a bit of a slump with my writing. I’m also suffering from computer problems (thanks to an unnamed recent visitor who dropped my computer). So I’m going to offer up a scattershot, tidbit-style rambling of my recent holiday adventures, which occurred during the last week of April. My sister (or, the computer culprit) came to visit for 10 days, and for my week off, the two of us ventured as far as possible from Bishkek, taking in Osh, Jalalabad and Arslanbob. At this point, it might be useful to quickly consult an atlas.
I’ll avoid getting too in-depth and will spare you all the nitty-gritty details and contrafibularities and instead delve right into the juiciest bits. I’ll try.
The start: in a rickety old propeller plane to Osh
The 1 hour flight (versus a 10 hour car journey) to Osh is said to be one of the most thrilling and hair-raising flights anywhere on the planet, weaving its way through some of the world’s most perilous mountain passes. Sadly for us, it was an overcast day, so even once our plane managed to get off the ground, we could hardly take in the views. And we flew comfortably above the mountains anyway.
[I must say, however, that my most terrifying plane journey came not in Kyrgyzstan and not in Nigeria, but in the US, on a flight between somewhere in Connecticut and Boston. Don’t ask why we were flying, but it was my father, Jo and I in one of those single seats on either side planes with only a flimsy cardboard backing between us and our luggage at the back of the plane. During a particularly nasty bout of turbulence, the pilot came on the intercom and, I kid you not, asked kindly if two passengers from the right side of the plane wouldn’t mind switching to the left side. That tells you all you need to know about the conditions of that flight.]
In direct contrast to Bishkek, Osh reeks of history. Said to be close to 2,500 years old and perhaps founded by King Solomon (Suleyman) or Alexander the Great, it was allegedly one of the key routes on the old Silk Road, and features a massive, sprawling bazaar and a sizeable population of Uzbeks (roughly 40%). Osh is geographically situated in an awkward position in the Fergana Valley, close to the convoluted border with Uzbekistan. (As referenced in an earlier posting, upon the dissolution of the USSR there was a frenzied, illogical demarcation of borders throughout central Asia, cutting off Tajiks from Tajikistan, Uzbeks from Uzbekistan, and so on and so forth; it’s way too complicated to get into here, but for further reference, consult Olivier Roy’s The New Central Asia: Geopolitics and the Birth of Nations.)
One of the more striking differences we were to encounter on our travels was the massive gulf in quality between the food here and in Bishkek. Almost everywhere we went the food was not only far cheaper but far tastier. Sadly for poor Jo, however, she had constant difficulties in procuring vegetarian fare, and after one taste of sheep-fat laden lagman (noodle soup), that was her off. The poor girl had to make do with bread and tomato/cucumber salads for much of the trip.
I’ll avoid getting too in-depth and will spare you all the nitty-gritty details and contrafibularities and instead delve right into the juiciest bits. I’ll try.
The start: in a rickety old propeller plane to Osh
The 1 hour flight (versus a 10 hour car journey) to Osh is said to be one of the most thrilling and hair-raising flights anywhere on the planet, weaving its way through some of the world’s most perilous mountain passes. Sadly for us, it was an overcast day, so even once our plane managed to get off the ground, we could hardly take in the views. And we flew comfortably above the mountains anyway.
[I must say, however, that my most terrifying plane journey came not in Kyrgyzstan and not in Nigeria, but in the US, on a flight between somewhere in Connecticut and Boston. Don’t ask why we were flying, but it was my father, Jo and I in one of those single seats on either side planes with only a flimsy cardboard backing between us and our luggage at the back of the plane. During a particularly nasty bout of turbulence, the pilot came on the intercom and, I kid you not, asked kindly if two passengers from the right side of the plane wouldn’t mind switching to the left side. That tells you all you need to know about the conditions of that flight.]
In direct contrast to Bishkek, Osh reeks of history. Said to be close to 2,500 years old and perhaps founded by King Solomon (Suleyman) or Alexander the Great, it was allegedly one of the key routes on the old Silk Road, and features a massive, sprawling bazaar and a sizeable population of Uzbeks (roughly 40%). Osh is geographically situated in an awkward position in the Fergana Valley, close to the convoluted border with Uzbekistan. (As referenced in an earlier posting, upon the dissolution of the USSR there was a frenzied, illogical demarcation of borders throughout central Asia, cutting off Tajiks from Tajikistan, Uzbeks from Uzbekistan, and so on and so forth; it’s way too complicated to get into here, but for further reference, consult Olivier Roy’s The New Central Asia: Geopolitics and the Birth of Nations.)
One of the more striking differences we were to encounter on our travels was the massive gulf in quality between the food here and in Bishkek. Almost everywhere we went the food was not only far cheaper but far tastier. Sadly for poor Jo, however, she had constant difficulties in procuring vegetarian fare, and after one taste of sheep-fat laden lagman (noodle soup), that was her off. The poor girl had to make do with bread and tomato/cucumber salads for much of the trip.
Cow heads in Osh Bazaar: not on Jo's menu
Osh in a nutshell
* a steep, 30 minute hike up to Solomon’s Throne, a Muslim place of pilgrimage featuring a tiny mosque, where pregnant women go to get their pre-birth blessings. It’s quite a confidence-building measure of our fitness levels that heavily pregnant women in high heels are breezing their way past us as we were huffing and puffing.
* on the way down from Solomon’s throne, a little boy wearing a ‘50-cent’ hat who had first spotted me at the top and followed us down wanted to play spy games and kept pretending to shoot me. It was much funnier at the time, but check out the photos of his pursuit:
* on the way down from Solomon’s throne, a little boy wearing a ‘50-cent’ hat who had first spotted me at the top and followed us down wanted to play spy games and kept pretending to shoot me. It was much funnier at the time, but check out the photos of his pursuit:
That's our pursuer in the middle
He's got us in his sights
The pursuit continues (or, what a persistent little turd!)
Popping out of the bush, sniper-style* the wretched Historical Museum, featuring copious old documents, a bizarre assortment of badly-rusted weapons and coins and ghastly stuffed animals (not teddy bears, but badly preserved foxes and eagles)
* the foul, Trainspotting-like toilets, featuring a mere 2 foot partition between stalls (offering nothing more than tiny holes in the floor) and urinals that were nothing more than, literally, holes in the walls. Unable to determine the logistics of that operation, I opted to go in one of the squat toilets, next to a man casually doing a crossword in a newspaper. I’ve long found it funny that the Russian verbs for ‘write’ and ‘piss’ sound almost the same, the only difference in the infinitive being a subtle stress between the two syllables (ПИСАТЬ, or 'peesat'). I got a great kick out of asking the man, forgetting which verb was which, ‘mozhna peesat zdaes'? (rendered thus as may I piss/write here?) I think the irony was lost on him, but I chuckled at my own attempt at wit. These types of things are perhaps only funny to me.
* We were awoken by a mild earthquake at 4am one morning. I’m not sure if it was strong enough to register on the Richter Scale, but it was exciting nevertheless.
Osh to Jalalabad in a Kyrgyz-pop infused shared taxi
We were dropped off at the bus station, about 2-3 kilometres from our hotel in the centre of town. For most of the journey, we were followed by a creepy old man on a bike, who had originally stopped me to ask for the time. Perhaps it angered him that I didn’t feel like digging in my bag to find my phone, for after this he, decked out in a beige trench coat and wearing the Kyrgyz equivalent of Crocs (with socks naturally), followed us most of the way to our hotel on his rickety old contraption of a bicycle. This was more terrifying than you can imagine, and Jo and I had to play a Cloak and Dagger game of dodging in and out of various hideaways in an attempt to lose him.
Our hotel was a vast, Soviet-era monstrosity (in other words, quaint, cosy and charming) with shaky locks on the doors and cherry-red dyed-hair Svetlanas (some plump) working in every official capacity. After checking in, we exited back onto the street, only to find our friend on the bike circling around opposite the hotel. At this point we legged it in another attempt to lose him, which I think this time was successful. We spent the rest of the day speculating as to whether or not we would be murdered in the night (or whether he would rob our room while we were out). Jo unsuccessfully tried to attain a knife to hide under her pillow.
* Epicurean delights: horse lagman, foul-dishwater like coffee at a place called Café Au Italia (if you can’t get decent espresso in a place with a name like that, we’re doomed; I don’t care if we were in Jalalabad), the cheapest and best shashlyk (barbecued kebabs) in Kyrgyzstan, perhaps Kyrgyzstan’s finest Pizzeria, and the Diana Pub, which featured Admiral, by far the best value-for-money beer (about 55 cents) any of us had tasted thus far.
Recuperating in blissful pools of warmth
In Jalalabad we were joined by Brian and Kristen. On the morning of our departure, we all decided to visit the sanatorium a few kilometres outside of town for a bit of therapeutic cleansing. Sanatoria for me have always invoked a very kitschy, romantically-Soviet notion of decrepit health resorts for ageing soldiers and their arthritic-laden wives to rejuvenate their aching limbs and frazzled minds amidst the pleasant confines of environmentally-catastrophic nature reserves. I’ve not done any research on the matter, but I do believe the vast majority of the Soviet Union’s sanatoria are located in Crimea, judging from the number I saw dotted along the coast during my time there last summer. These days, many have been spruced up and turned into absurdly posh health resorts. Gone are the days of electro-shock therapy and mad ex-military men guzzling vodka and running around like blue-arsed flies.
This was arguably the highlight of the trip, but then I’m a glutton for grim, dire, decaying old derelict structures that haven’t been renovated in 40+ years. We were all in search of massages and a look at the thermal springs, where pilgrims are said to travel from thousands of miles away (I’m sure they make half this shit up) in order to fill their bottles up with the curative, sulphuric waters. I’m not so sure we wanted to drink the water, but we at least wanted to see the spectacle.
Despite my lousy language skills, I was put in charge of getting us massages and perhaps even a nice soap scrub-down. We were all pretty filthy at this point and were in dire need of showers. So before asking about massages, I inquired about baths. As one does in such a situation, I asked for ‘hot water’. They seemed to understand.
But oh, what a treat!
And then came the lovely surprise. We were sat down in a dank, dark corridor and told to wait for each of our turns. Putting two and two together, we deduced that what we were getting was merely a deep, hot bath. Which is nice, though we weren’t exactly sure of the standards of hygiene and the lack of privacy. Jo took one for the team and went first – at this point I’ll attempt to describe the set-up of this operation.
There were about 8 or 9 doors along the corridor. Just inside each was the changing area. The glass in the doors wasn’t exactly crystal clear, but it was certainly clear enough to see into and destroy any semblance of privacy. It took a bit of prodding, but eventually a flimsy muslin curtain was put up. As you went through from the changing area into the bathroom, the back side of the room running the length of the wall was open-plan style, meaning anyone could walk from one bath to the next. In fact, with only one female attendant drawing all the baths and checking on their occupants, there was nothing to prevent a person from wandering into someone else’s personal bathing area. Not a place for the modest, to be sure.
Now, much of Kyrgyzstan and Jalalabad in particular are very conservatively Muslim. But here at the sanatorium, the demure female attendant, resplendent in her headscarf and white hospital-like uniform, seemed to have very little shame in checking me out. I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m boasting but this has happened to me on more than one occasion. In Nigeria, whilst changing after having a dip in the pool, I was surrounded by a bevy of youngsters all vying to get a look at my manhood as I discreetly tried to change. My attempts to cover myself were in vain as these little boys swarmed like locusts to peer in at what I was trying to hide. I reckon most of them had never seen a naked white man before. (in other words, I condone their actions; what’s wrong with a bit of curiosity?)
As for our friend at the sanatorium, she kept pestering me to get undressed. She’d disappear for a mere moment, only to suddenly spring back into view barely a few seconds later. Either she was impatient, was a bad judge of time or [insert your own choice here], I’m not sure. But far from averting her eyes, they instead zipped right down to the area I was trying to protect.
Then the bath itself, which was a gloriously relaxing luxurious treat with splendid views of the mountains in the distance. The water was clear, though my private parts were protected by a red covering over the outside of the bath. Every now and then she would pop her head in to ‘check’ on me, hovering dangerously close to the forbidden area. I was astounded, though impressed, by her audacity. Perhaps I should have been flattered, though I later found out that Brian had a similar experience.
And that was that. From there it was onto Arslanbob, which will be discussed in my next post.
Waiting their turns in the gloom
What mystery awaits inside?
