A bit of soft-core porn - Uzbek style - in the back of a taxi

I'm fully aware that thus far on my travels I have yet to really describe in great depth some of the places I've seen, other than to offer up some cursory and inchoate observations. That won't change with this dispatch. I'm saving some of my more properly thought-out analysis, regarding the stunning architecture, rich cultural heritage, vast array of mausoleums and exquisite, intricate Islamic faience for after my return to Bishkek, when I can properly sit down and digest everything I've seen in its entirety. Instead, I give you more oddities and quirky little happenings I've had with various local people. Those have proved to be the most memorable bits so far anyway.

From Khiva to Bukhara: getting groped in the back of a taxi

Transport options between some cities are limited to shared taxis or marshrutkas (minibuses). Shared taxis are much quicker and more convenient, though luck of the draw dictates that you never know who you might end up sharing a taxi with.

On my way from Khiva to Bukhara, I had to change en route in Urgench. The first taxi was a mere 45 minute journey, and I got talking to nice enough guy who was sitting in the back seat (I was upfront). He didn't waste much time in offering me some of his tobacco dip (or snuff). For those not well-versed in the fine art of dipping, you take a small pinch and insert it into your lower lip, all the while being careful not to swallow any accidentally: that would be lethal.

He aggressively offered me some and I kept refusing. But he was persistent and seemed offended and so I eventually acquiesced. This was at about 8.30am.

Next came the vodka, which he was kind enough to wait for until the taxi had reached its destination and we could each do a shot - or, take a swig directly from the bottle - in more comfortable conditions than in a bouncing, rattling tiny Tico with nearly 700,000km on its odometer. That didn't go down so well: I swallowed a good chunk of my tobacco and barely 10 seconds later I was retching on the side of the road. As means of rinsing my mouth out, he offered another swig and I duly obliged, even swishing it a bit before swallowing this time. It was almost 9am by this point. I felt great and still had about 5+ hours in another taxi to look forward to. I promptly paid the driver, then sprinted to the nearest kiosk I could find to buy some juice.

[Confession #1: I had an ever-so-brief dipping habit at university, which lasted for a month or two during the summer after my 2nd year; but I hadn't touched the stuff since the other day.]

But the real fun had yet to start

When procuring a taxi, it's always best to get the seat upfront, for obvious reasons. Otherwise you're stuck with 3 people squashed in the back. Unfortunately your dear author has been suffering from, among other things, a very sore coccyx. I have no idea how this occurred, but it's been bothering me greatly on my trip and any kind of sitting can be dreadfully difficult, meaning I'm constantly shifting to find a more comfortable position. The middle of the back seat is the absolute worst spot for this problem, so I made sure of getting myself a seat by the window at the very least. But then trouble showed up.

A woman, not by any means unattractive - think a very poor man's Jessica Biel - but certainly one who looked a bit feisty and troublesome, turned up with a small 5 year old girl in tow. One thing that always gets me is how small children aren't charged for their spots - most of the time they take up the same amount of room, which in this case meant 4 of us crammed into the back. And this wretched woman - who was 22 but looked more like 32 - would not, absolutely would not, sit in the middle. So an argument ensued and I was told to sit in the middle. I refused. Why not, I was asked. How the hell am I supposed to explain the problem with my coccyx? On top of this, I'm still suffering from my ongoing foot and leg problems, which only added to my concerns. Seeing as we were getting nowhere, I at last gave in, with the full intention of demanding a switch halfway through.

[Along those same lines, why is it that on most public transport in Europe you are charged an extra ticket if you have a large suitcase or backpack, yet if a woman gets on with a baby in a pram or stroller, which takes up far more room than an extra bag, there's no extra charge. How on earth is this fair? It's like young, independent travellers are penalised for having the audacity not to have a child or something. I don't get it, and as far as I'm concered it's completely illogical and ridiculously unfair.]

My audition for a soft-core porn column. Or, I thought Uzbekistan was a conservative place

This woman wasted no time making me uncomfortable. She was openly flirtatious, very tactile and incredibly aggressive. At first it was mild: asking my name, where I was from, offering me apples (one of which had a maggot in the middle), tomatoes and bread. But in no time she had her hand on my leg, was nestling her head into my shoulder, trying to hold my hand, inspecting my biceps and forearms and chest, of which she didn't approve of the hair. My protestations that I was a taken man did nothing to deter this wild, depraved beast from attempting to maul me.

She danced in the backseat. She nudged me every time I drifted off into a sleep. She repeatedly pulled my headphones out of my ear if I dared listen to music. She would then lick my ear, this after whispering some sweet something or other into it. Her hand got closer to my crotch. She rubbed my chest. I must have come across as the most uptight traveller in the world, I was not enjoying this, not smiling and kept firmly removing her wandering hands. On top of all this was my intense physical discomfort. After about 90 minutes of this mayhem, I insisted we stop and switch places. So we did. And then 10 minutes later, she asked to stop and switch again. So I had gone from the middle to the right side, and she was now in the middle, where there was no escape.

After a toilet break on the side of the road a short while later, while I was doing my business behind a derelict building, she sprung behind me and shouted 'boo!'. That was it: I was livid and I screamed some horrible obscenities at her. When I returned to the car I let out a torrent of foul, contempible abuse. She probably understood little of it, but she got the hint. Or so I thought. She sat in a mopey silence for a few minutes and suddenly, out of nowhere, thrust her hand right onto my crotch. I sternly slapped it away and again unleased a litany of abuse, this time more in Russian than English.

Reflecting on this experience, strangely enough the one thing that annoyed me more than anything else was her insistence on speaking to me in Uzbek, despite it being quite clear that I didn't understand a word. She initially addressed me in Russian, but then quickly switched to Uzbek. But she kept expressing irritation when I failed to understand her harsh, gravely voice. Why she persisted with Uzbek is baffling to me, but I think she just revelled in being difficult and odd. If that's the way her behaviour could be described.

Getting groped by an 18 year old boy: much better!

This was an experience I'll never forget. Loyal readers will know my fondness for public baths. The one I visited in Bukhara has to be one of the most unique and enjoyable encounters I've had. I had the place to myself; there was not a single other soul in this ancient, centuries-old cavernous bath. After about 30 minutes in the sauna - which despite the 40C+ heat outside still remained refreshing - I was directed to a massive marble slab and told to lie down on my chest. I was completely naked. An 18 year old boy then proceeded to manhandle me and turn me into a pretzel. He trampled over and kneed my back, picking my legs up and twisting and contorting them in countless directions. I heard parts of my body I never knew even existed crackle and crunch. Most of it was downright excruciatingly painful yet it felt truly wonderful and invigorating and I'm not even into sado-masochism. After 30 more minutes of being tied up into a knot and having my knees and elbows bend at angles that science shouldn't conceivably now, I was turfed out onto the street feeling a new man.

Oh, and half way through, I did get turned over onto my back. And I was thoroughly washed. Everywhere.

For an image of me getting my massage, try this link:
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f1/Sargent,_John_Singer_(1856-1925)_-_1890-91_-_Massage_in_a_bath_house.jpg

Uzbek hospitality at its finest

Loyal readers will have heard my rants about Kyrgyz and Kazakh hospitality; now for the Uzbek version.

First off, I should say that although I met some terribly wonderful people in Uzbekistan, unfortunately the vast majority tried to fleece me in some manner. I realise this is a common scam with tourists, and thankfully my [limited] Russian saved me a ton of money, but I was constantly being taken advantage of, and my obstinate refusal to back down in most cases worked like a charm.

I'd heard that locals will often invited foreigners into their homes for dinner, or at the very least, tea, while expecting nothing in return. One day in Bukhara I met a shifty money-changer in the street, and he took me to his house in order to conduct the transaction. Blackmarket money-changers are not really tolerated in some cities, Bukhara being one of them, so we had to do this on the sly (Uzbek official exchange rate: 1500som = $1; blackmarket: 1800 = $1). This guy was nice and amiable enough, but somewhat creepy. He had a lisp and one of those quiet, hissing sinister voices normally characteristic of foreign movie villains, like Hans Gruber in Die Hard. His face was like a weather-beaten, pock-marked Richard Gere with a rectangular-shaped Frankenstein-like head, but he was missing his entire top row of teeth - would you trust a guy like this? Anyhow, after a quick transaction in front of his house over green tea, he and his wife invited me back to their home for dinner that evening, telling me they were going to make me traditional plov (pilaf, rice, whatever), and that it would be the best I'd ever had. Naturally I was sceptical.

I almost didn't go. It was my final night in Bukhara and there was another small restaurant I'd spotted and wanted to go there. But I thought it would be rude to stand up Richard Gere and his wife. So I went. Bad move.

I should have seen this one coming

What a surprise awaited me on my arrival: Richard Gere had 2 teenage daughters, of 14 and 16. And of course the 16 year old would be joining us for dinner. I should have known that this was another underhanded trick to get me hitched to an Uzbek girl.

Either way, I eagerly awaited my plov, which is considered an Uzbek specialty. I'd had plov twice in Uzbekistan thus far on my trip and both times it was pretty wretched (the plate I had in Kazakhstan on my way to being ripped off at the border would be the best I had on my trip). My hopes were now high.

Did I get the most delicious plov that Uzbekistan had to offer? Did I f&#%! I got a plate of lukewarm spaghetti with a drop of sauce and a fried egg on top. And stale bread. And lousy tepid green tea/dishwater. I'd had a tasty lunch in some local dive that cost me around $1.25 This was worth about half that.

The 16 year old sat across the table, glaring at me as I ate my 'plov'. I attempted to make conversation, which was a fruitless and thankless task. I found most Uzbeks under the age of 18 to be incredibly friendly, open and welcoming, and a lot of girls would smile and say hello as they passed you on the street. Not this one: she was a surly, grumpy little article, sitting there stewing in silence, almost as if this were a weekly ritual: Richard Gere would bring some unsuspecting foreigner over to change money and then they'd invite the fool over for a bit of matchmaking over spaghetti. She was probably tired of it. Or she didn't like me one bit, more likely the case. I did my best to get words out of her but it was a futile endeavour.

What kind of hospitality do you call that?

After the meal, the moody little teenager scurried off without even a goodbye, while the wife brought out examples of her arts and craft handiwork: some cotten placemats. Not to be harsh, but they weren't very nice, the more so when compared to some of the lovely stuff I'd seen in the markets. They showed me 4 pieces and asked which one I'd like, as a gift. I chose the least offensive and thanked them. Richard Gere then asked me, from the kindness of my heart, how much money I'd like to give for this 'gift'. I was incredulous. I was especially flabbergasted because I had very little money with me, the equivalent of around $7, which I needed for snacks and transport to Samarkand the next day. (word to the wise: if you come to Uzbekistan, bring lots and lots of dollars: ATMs don't exist here and getting money on cash advances is awfully difficult.)

I probably committed the ultimate faux pas by handing back the gift, profusely apologising that I simply had no money to give them, making up a story about getting robbed of my remaining dollars. They seemed dejected and certainly didn't feel sorry for me. Then as I was leaving, Richard Gere put his hand to his heart yet again, and asked how much I could pay, from the heart, for the wonderful 'plov'. All this time, every time he spoke with that sinister maniacal lisp in Russian, I'd get shivers down my spine. This, I couldn't believe: so much for 'true' hospitality then. I didn't want to insult them, but the meal wasn't worth much. As it is, I vastly overpaid and sheepishly handed over nearly $4 - a decent-sized sum for what I got and more than a meal at any other place in town. He took it, inconspicuously counted it, looked visibly agitated, then pocketed it without even a thank you. His wife was equally disappointed.

But let's not that little episode spoil things

Uzbekistan is behind me and overall, it was a pleasurable experience. I'm now on my way back to Bishkek for roughly 3 weeks, where I'll put together a recap of my entire trip, this time including all the fascinating cultural crap I've barely touched upon.

From Taskent to Karakalpakstan in an Uzbek Airways Tupolev. Got that?

Disclaimer: I'll be the first to admit that I can be a pedant when it comes to the English language. But allow me to share another bugbear of mine: the incorrect or excessive usage of 'literally'. To me, literally is a special word to be used only for special occasions. One cannot say 'I was so tired that I literally fell asleep' or that 'my feet were so hot they were literally on fire'. Those are just two examples of unacceptable uses of literally and unfortunately too many of them are prevalent in English.

Glad I've got that out of the way.

Soviet-engineered flying saunas - literally - at their finest

After a couple of days in Tashkent - an intriguing city which I'll write about at the end of the trip - I took an old, 1950s-engineered Soviet Tupolev plane west across the country to Nukus, the capital of the Republic of Karakalpakstan. Much of the area has been devastated because of the destruction of the Aral Sea, and it's a desolate, barren part of the country, with not much on offer other than a remarkable art museum. It was to be start of my eastward journey back across Uzbekistan.

The population of the republic, which must surely be one of the least-densely populated parts of the planet, is around 1.2 million, 400,000 of whom are Karakalpaks. To my amazement, I found that very few people in Nukus spoke Russian, and those that did could barely understand me. My Uzbek and Karakalpak (not too similar to each other and very different from Russian) are not quite up to scratch, which proved a constant challenge.

It's a small miracle I even made it to Nukus alive. I don't know much longer Uzbek Airways can get away with using such old, decrepit contraptions and still call them aeroplanes, but the one I took surely must be heading for the scrap heap soon. The thing was, literally, a sauna and I've never heard such a racket in my life, parts of the plane sounded like they were falling off midair. And I'd never been inside such a hot, humid vehicle either. With the fans not working, it was an utter, 90-minute nightmare. If you want a nice, swelteringly humid Turkish sauna, I can recommend taking a domestic Uzbek Airways flight. A real treat indeed.

The hotel was even better: a mosquito-infested cauldron of stale-smelling grimy sheets, musty air and a barely-functioning putrid toilet. You know, I've read a lot of books about travel across the former Soviet Union and stories like these from hotels always sound so adventurous and romantic when you read about them in print. They're not so fun in person. Of course, many of these books were written in the 1970s and 80s.

Suffice to say, it was one of the most unpleasant nights of my life. I spent the entire night swatting away the interminable mosquitoes which were coming at me like kamikaze pilots. If the blood-splattered wall and the remnants of my Economist are anything to go by, I must have killed at least 30 of the bastards, with many more escaping to prey on the next poor victim of that room.

The highlight of the city, and the primary reason for most people going to Nukus, is the [Igor] Savitsky Art Museum. Not to go into too much detail here, but Savitsky was the former curator of the museum, which is notable for its outstanding, eclectic collection of Soviet-era realist and avant-garde art. Most of these paintings were banned in the Soviet Union but found a safe haven in the backwaters of Uzbekistan, far from any prying, too-inquisitive eyes. Not many visitors make it out to Karakalpakstan, but those who do so are rewarded with what must surely be one of the more fascinating collections of art you're ever likely to encounter.

Never mind mail-order brides: come to Uzbekistan!

I swear, every man I've met here has asked me the following questions, in this order:
1. Where are you from?
2. Have you got children?
3. Have you got a wife?
4. Why not?

I love how question 2 is always asked before question 3. Anyway, after answering no to both questions, I'm immediately offered or told about a beautiful young woman who needs a husband. This has to be the easiest place in the world to find a wife. Witness:

As I was waiting for my transport from Nukus at the bus station, a decaying old structure about 6km outside of town in the middle of nowhere, I started a bit of banter with the market vendors, all lovely young ladies. One in particular, a strikingly pretty teenager, was being rather flirtatious. When her mother appeared, I made the crucial mistake of telling her that I thought her daughter was beautiful. This sent spasms of euphoria through the marketplace, and within minutes they were already in the advanced stages of wedding preparations. The daughter seemed awfully excited as well, which I found flattering. I had to quickly put a stop to all the hubbub, and calmly told them I couldn't marry this girl.

Why not, she aggressively inquired? Because I'm already taken, I responded. But is she as beautiful as my daughter? (I think that's what she said, she was speaking half Uzbek, half Russian) Now how does one answer a question like that without getting brutally assaulted afterwards? I stammered something or other and then conveniently enough, it was time for my taxi to leave. After getting an amusing group photo, I said my goodbyes despite one last plea from the mother to marry her daughter.

[Speaking of photos, I failed to bring my camera cord with me, so all photos will have to wait until after my trip.]

And now a brief word about the mud-enclosed wonders of Khiva

I've now reached what I'd consider to be the first stop on the old Silk Road, just one of a host of cities in Central Asia that have always held immense romantic allure for me. I'm quite a sucker for Great Game history (see Peter Hopkirk's 'The Great Game' for an absolutely riveting tale), and have long wanted to visit this part of the world, an area dripping with history and culture. In Great Game lore, Khiva was known for its slave caravans and barbaric cruelty, as it housed a great many Russian slaves captured by Turkmen tribesmen in the 16th, 17th, 18th and 19th centuries. Repeated attempts to free the slaves were unsuccessful until the late 1800s.

Most of historic Khiva is well-preserved as a veritable open-air museum, replete with medressas, minarets, caravanserais and various other structures within the cosy confines of ancient mud walls. It feels slightly artificial and a bit lifeless at times, and it's hard to imagine that at one point it was a bustling town, teeming with life and activity and market vendors. Now there are only a few souvenir stalls and the odd tourist here and there. It's not high tourist season at the moment, it's way too hot for that, and much of my trip thus far has been largely devoid of contact with other travellers. Tashkent was quite eerie in that respect and everywhere else has been quiet as well. Not that I'm complaining much about that aspect, though the heat has been downright unbearable and I am suffering a wee bit.

From here it's onto Bukhara.

Getting Kazakhed at the Kazakh border

Some time ago, I was having a conversation with a few people regarding the term 'to be Shanghaied'. We were discussing its origins and then moved onto other examples of where we use city or country names as a verb. And amazingly, we couldn't think of any. Why don't more of these terms exist? Surely a language as rich, inventive and creative as English would have churned out a term or two along these lines, no? Anyway, from this point on, I'm starting up 'to be Kazakhed'. Listen up and spread the word.

Yesterday I was travelling from Shymkent to Tashkent, two cities a mere 120km apart. Without properly doing my research (mistake #1), I assumed what Lonely Planet had written regarding getting across the border was true, and I followed their instructions to the hilt. Bad idea.

I consider myself a savvy traveller but I was rather impatient yesterday and couldn't be bothered haggling too much. I've also realised my Russian is absolutely pitiful, which makes negotiating doubly difficult. I paid the equivalent of $7 to take a 110km ride to the border post of Chernyaevka, from where I expected to be able to cross by foot before taking a short 10km or so taxi to Tashkent, which supposedly would cost me $5. That's what Lonely Planet says anyway (my friend Sian calls it Lying Planet, I think she's right).

I got to Chernyaevka only to be told that most nationalities, including Americans and British, could not cross there but had to go to Yallama, another 100+km away. I think my taxi driver knew this. Suddenly there I was, stuck at some remote border post, with little option but to continue with this clown. His asking price? A cool $50. I flat out refused and looked round for other taxis. Realising they were on to a good scam, none of them budged below $50. I was stuck behind the proverbial rock and a hard place and reluctantly had to give in.

Confusing matters, this crook of a taxi man handed me off halfway to another taxi man. I couldn't understand what the hell was going on, and I made sure, or so I thought, that before agreeing to this that I wouldn't have to pay another dollar or tenge (the Kazakh currency) for the privilege. They were both in agreement and seemed to understand me.

My new taxi driver seemed like a nice chap. We even stopped en route for some lunch, a bit of plov (which was unbelievably good) and shashlyk in the middle of nowhere, his 'treat'. There was some good banter between us even though he spoke no English.

Then as we were nearing the border crossing, he pulled the car over and demanded 4,500 tenge ($30). An argument ensued and I refused to back down. So we just sat there and stewed while he berated me for my supposed insolence. He went down to $20. I refused. I repeatedly told him that I'd already paid and agreed on a sum, and that I had already got ripped off enough as it was. He suddenly understood nothing of what I had to say. After about 15 minutes of our stand off, and sensing that we weren't going to get anywhere, I literally threw $10 at him and called him a bad name. He actually smiled and wished me a good journey. I reckon he thought that was better than nothing, the indolent git.

It was a blisteringly hot day and I was sweating profusely by this point. I still had to get across the border, which only took about 4 hours or so. I'm not sure why there was such a lengthy delay, for there were only about 15 people crossing over to the Uzbek side. When the first [Kazakh] border guard examined my passport - I'm using my American one - he asked me what state I was from. He seemed perplexed when I kept responding with New Hampshire. He shook his head over and over, saying 'no, no, what state, what state, for example Alabama, Missisissippi, Florida...' (he must have had a deep affinity for the deep south). I persisted with New Hampshire, but he was becoming increasingly agitated and exasperated, so I then said New York and this seemed okay with him. He clearly needs to brush up on his New England geography.

Originally when I'd negotiated that $50 fare, I was told I could be taken all the way to Tashkent. Not so of course. There's no way those taxi men would go through the hassle of a 4 hour border crossing, and I feel a bit foolish for not considering that ahead of time.

Once I'd got across the border (after a brief health check-up to see whether I had swine flu, or pig influenza as they called it), I was met by utter isolation. Hardly a soul in sight except for two taxis who wanted another $50 to take me to Tashkent, which was another 100+km away. An original 120km trip had now turned into around 350km and was proving way more expensive than originally anticipated. I was ruthless in my bargaining and got one guy down to $25, a small consolation.

I eventually made it to Tashkent and eventually found a place to stay thanks to a number given to me by Italian Brian, though the place is nothing as he advertised. I'm in a sweltering, tiny room with more mosquitoes than a Nigerian rainforest, living next door to a couple of 12 year olds and sharing a bathroom with them as well. One of them came knocking on my door last night at 10.30 asking for my passport. Just a little bit suspicious I'd say.

Lessons to be learned?

1. Do your research ahead of time, especially when crossing borders in Central Asia
2. Never assume anything
3. Don't take shit from taxi men; stand firm and hold your ground
4. Be patient (my downfall)

Whatever the consequences, I've learned my lesson. Let this whole experience be called 'getting Kazakhed'. You can invent your own definition, but here are 3 good choices. Choose the one that fits best:

to be Kazakhed (v)
1. to be ripped off in Kazakhstan
2. to be lied to in Kazakhstan
3. to be fleeced and misled by taxi drivers at a remote border crossing in some former Soviet hell-hole with already convoluted and mind-boggling borders stemming from a time when a country's leader (i.e. Stalin) decided it would be fun to draw random borders traversing different ethnic groups and then creating a nightmare border situation for 21st century backpackers too stupid to check on updated border situations before setting off on a journey

The joys of a 14 hour train journey across the Kazakh steppe

Or, this gets a bit monotonous...after 5 minutes

There are few things I love more in life than taking overnight 3rd class ('platskartny') rail journeys, especially in the former Soviet Union. One tends to meet a wide array of interesting characters in a convivial atmosphere as well as get barked at by hostile train attendants if you fail to adhere to the proper train etiquette. They're also a lot cheaper than the slightly more comfortable 2nd class option.

So I set off from Almaty Monday night with 6 people squeezed into an area meant for just 4. Third class is almost like a hostel on a train - it's all open-plan with no barriers between sleeping areas. In many ways, this makes me feel a lot safer, safety in numbers like. And people are generally up for a bit of banter, conversation, food & drink sharing and what-have-you. But not on this trip.

I was greeted gruffly by my bunk mates, a married couple with two young whippersnappers in tow (the 2 extra people) plus an older man with a permanent scowl on his face. I was given a look as if to say 'what the hell do you think you're doing intruding in our space?' I knew the kids would prove to be a nightmare and they were, constantly yapping, running around, climbing on top of me, knocking my book out of my hand. I remained resolute and steadfast in my determination not to get too flustered.

Going back to my last post regarding Kyrgyz hospitality, here was my first opportunity to experience a bit of the Kazakh brand. Never before had I travelled on an overnight train journey and not been offered food and drink of some sort. Not once. Until the other night. And this couple had an absolute feast, enough to feed a small army. I had a few snacks of my own, but nothing like the spread they put on. To add insult to injury, at the same time as the woman unveiled her epicurean delights, whippersnapper #1 decided that he had to take a dump and promptly started crying. So the woman produced a small little portable toilet for the kid to sit on. It must have been incredibly comfortable, for after depositing his load, he sat there complacently grinning and giggling. Happy for him to remain content, the woman just left him there, while his output began to ferment right under him. Soon enough, the woman had produced eggs and fish; combined with the pungent fumes produced by this kid, the whole train was soon treated to the wafting aromas of Kazakh cuisine at its finest. Once whippersnapper #1 was happy enough to get up, whippersnapper #2 promptly unleashed his load, though thankfully he wasn't as keen as sitting there comfortably relaxing. Bless the poor kid: as young as he was, I think he was smart enough to realise (probably from the look of anguish on my face) that it was best to get right down to business and then be done with it.

But the shit doesn't stop there

The remainder of the journey passed without incident. The landscape, which I'd been eagerly looking forward to, reminded one of a vast, unkempt billiards table, such was the monotonous nature of the steppe. In other words, not such exciting stuff.

After arriving in Shymkent and finding a hotel, and perhaps feeling inspired by the young toddlers, I immediately went into the toilet down the hall to do my business. My hotel is a very nice one, though they still only have the squat toilets, which as my close friends can attest to, make me terribly nervous. I have immense difficulties with the logistics of this operation though I won't get into too many unnecessary details. Thankfully, however, the toilet was spotlessly clean, so I made myself as comfortable and relaxed as possible. This involved removing all of my undergarments so as not to run the risk of making a mess. (at this point, I blame no one for giving up on this blog and never reading it again.)

We've all been in caught in at least one embarrassing moment...

Now, I was certain there was toilet paper there when I started. But then I realised there wasn't and that I was SOL, literally in this case. I had little other choice but to make a beeline for my room to grab my spare roll. Not wanting to put on my boxers, for obvious reasons, I chanced it. I got to my room just in the nick of time, as I heard someone coming from around the corner. But I'd failed to grab the key from the pocket of my trousers, and there I was caught in the corridor like a deer in headlights. It was the maid, who was on her way to my room to drop off a couple of towels. I admire her resolve and calmness in the situation; while I was in a cold panic, embarrassed as all hell, she remained nonplussed, calmly handing me my towels. Which I conveniently used to cover myself up and then promptly went to retrieve my key.

The pleasures of Almaty

Almaty was a lovely city, though far different from Bishkek. It was very European in temperament and layout - Emma and I thoroughly enjoyed meandering aimlessly about the wide boulevards and pavements, gorgeous tree-lined streets. Overall it's very relaxing, peaceful and chilled, far from the frenetic atmosphere of Bishkek. Even on Monday morning, there was little traffic and a very calm, languid atmosphere about. By Central Asian standards, it's very expensive (the cheapest beers were $4 but most were in the $6-8 range). Not to launch into an expose or diatribe on why Almaty is as it is, but it's a city that has changed dramatically over the past decade or so, as oilmen have moved in and construction has boomed. At times you'd think you were in Vienna, while it really reminded me a lot of Odesa, in its layout (Soviet-style grid), tree-lined wide boulevards and pavements dotted by numerous cafes, and a lack of a real downtown or city centre or main artery. Even the couple of ex-pat Irish pubs were almost the same as Odesa's.

Speaking of Irish pubs, after Emma had left, I spent my Sunday evening at a place called Mad Murphy's watching that epic Wimbledon final between Roddick and Federer. I'm a big Roddick fan and was eagerly cheering him on. In the bar were quite a cast of obnoxious, annoying customers. In one corner were the absurdly drunk and ludicrously loud German football hooligans, and in the other were the table of two Canadian women, a couple of nasty pieces of work. Right away I could tell there was something odd about them and they had the foulest mouths, swearing like Welsh miners at every opportunity they got. If someone's mobile rang, one of them would scream at the top of her lungs 'turn that f$&*ing sh$% off!' They expressed their annoyance in similar terms with the Germans but that didn't get them far and in the end they resorted to muttering insults about Germans under their breath.

But the real annoyance for me was that these two women were rooting for Federer...because Roddick is American. And furthermore, they were doubly delighted in that Federer's win, his 15th in a Grand Slam final, broke Pete Sampras's - another American - all-time record. So that was two for the price of one, two Americans down in flames. These women were thrilled at this.

I refrain from any further comment.

Famous last words?

On the walk back to my hotel (11.30pm at night), I encountered some minor trouble from a couple of Kazakh men who apparently wanted my money. I imagine they were amateurs, for they didn't really do a good job of getting it out of me. I have a pretty fearless - some may call it reckless - attitude towards walking late at night, stemming from my stint in Nigeria. One dark evening, in search of some late night snacks in Port Harcourt, my then girlfriend and I went in search of barbecued beef ('suya') in a slightly rough part of town. While trying to avoid the traffic (and since there was no pavement), I instead balanced on the kerb. In one of the cleverest lines I've ever heard, a voice from out of nowhere shouted, 'hey white man, why you balancing with your life?'

I survived that night and from then on I've shown no fear. If I can survive Nigeria, I can survive anywhere.

T-shirt update!

Although Emma and I had our eyes peeled for more examples of great t-shirt slogans, we sadly didn't spot any memorable ones, though I did just after she'd left - what rotten luck. This was perhaps the most bizarre of all, and it was spotted on a young man:

'When you masturbate, God kills a kitten. Don't kill kitten.'

Welcome to Central Asia kids.

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I head off tomorrow morning for Tashkent, and the start of a fortnight in Uzbekistan. I'm rather worried about the temperatures, which are said to average around 45C/113F on most days this time of year. Today it reached 35C/95F in Shymkent and I was flagging. I'm a wreck and a baby in the heat; I can hardly wait to see how I hold up.

A bit of doggerel on Kyrgyzstan's finest moments

Or, a coruscating wrap-up of 5 months of mayhem and shenanigans

Horse-riding and blistering burns in the countryside…drunken wedding shenanigans… bizarre medical treatments…being stalked by a student and yelled at by a ‘prostitute’…almost getting jumped by the Kyrgyz army in the bathroom…grabbing the undercarriage of a bouncer at a nightclub and almost seeing a repeat of the Latvian broken rib experience…wonderful new friends (and one very special one)…and the Vagina Monologues in two languages. These have been among the numerous gems and highlights during my time in Kyrgyzstan.

Bishkek really came alive in the spring

How many different synonyms for c$#% in Russian?

Quite a lot, I tell you. I wouldn’t normally see something like the Vagina Monologues given the choice, but the opportunity to see it in Bishkek was way too good to pass up. I saw it first in English, a performance that brought out about 95% of Bishkek’s ex-pat community. I then saw it a couple of weeks later in Russian. Sadly, I’ve forgotten all of the crucial vocabulary, but for the life of me I’ll never fully understand how the Russians (or anyone, for that matter) can translate the likes of ‘coochie’, ‘snatch’ and 'poontang'.

The Baltica Challenge

Not necessarily the best range of beers in the world, but rather good nonetheless, Baltica – brewed and bottled in St Petersburg - comes in 7 or 8 different numbered varieties, with numbers 3 and 7 being the most popular. Elizabeth hit upon the idea of doing the ‘Baltica Challenge’, which involved a small group of us getting together and drinking all of the available Balticas in numerical order in quick succession. This is something bored English teachers do in foreign countries and it was tremendous fun, believe me. Our first attempt was a roaring success, though the second ended in colossal failure. Pictures of this epic night do exist, but for the time being I’ll withhold those. It’s for the best.

A bit of drunken buffoonery never does anyone much harm

A few weeks back one of the teachers, Andy, married a local woman, his former Russian teacher. Naturally all the teachers were invited and a generally festive good time was had by all. The evening confirmed to all of us that the glory and spirit of the Soviet Union is alive and well. On various occasions, the MC came out dressed as Lenin and then Brezhnev, to the accompaniment of old Soviet anthems. It was a real treat, replete with gorgeous food, copious amounts of vodka and the usual sloppy dancing characteristic of weddings in the ex-USSR. The night ended with yours truly feverishly dancing topless, waving his shirt over his head to the melodic tunes of Dr Alban’s ‘It’s My Life’. May I remind you that I’m 32 years old.

My Russian teacher Jyldyz and I at the wedding (look a bit more closely: I'm sporting the Sir Walter Raleigh look)

You'd never see this in the US

For three months I taught a class of local contractors at the American Embassy. They were a jovial bunch of 5 middle-aged men, and I’m pretty certain I learned far more Russian than they did English. But I’ll never, ever forget the time when, in a maudlin moment of nostalgia, the 5 of them in unison started gloriously chanting the tunes of the old Soviet national anthem. Once I’d got the hang of the tune, I hummed along. All of this within the confines of the embassy. Now if that doesn’t constitute treason…

Bonding time with old naked men

One of my favourite things to do wherever I go is visit the local banya (public baths). Many of my most memorable travel experiences have come from such experiences, whether Turkish baths in Budapest and Amman, slightly more plush and up-to-date ‘aquatic centres’ in Riga, or Swedish saunas in Edinburgh. Most of these places have a strict ‘clothing optional’ requirement, which in other words means everyone is starkers and foreigners naturally get stared at as some sort of spectacle. I’ve visited Bishkek’s main banya twice and it has failed to disappoint. There’s nothing better, more stimulating and utterly soothing than to be manhandled by a fat old Kyrgyz man whose ravaged, wrinkled hands go in search of every imaginable crevice in an attempt to get you as clean as possible. All of this on top of a marble table that’s given a quick rinse in lukewarm water after each customer. Nothing like throwing caution to the wind as far as communicable diseases are concerned.

An absolute treat on the inside

[Two disclaimers: I’m told the woman’s portion is far nicer and more luxurious; Kristen and Emma had lovely oatmeal massage treatments, though I best not share the full details; and I’ve never been to a Swedish sauna in Edinburgh.]

The Kyrgyz army: cognoscenti of the fine arts?

I thoroughly enjoyed my numerous trips to the Opera and Ballet Theatre, taking in ‘Carmen’, ‘Spartacus’, ‘Rigoletto’ and just recently, ‘Swan Lake’. The quality of the performances was always shaky, but for around $2-3 a ticket, one really can’t complain. Whilst watching ‘Rigoletto’ from the first row of the balcony (where I was the only spectator), I noticed approximately 150 members of the Kyrgyz army occupying all of the last 5 rows of the floor section, thus constituting well over half of the patrons in attendance. I hardly think they all came voluntarily, as most seemed bored and their applause was perfunctory at best. But during one interval, I popped into the bathroom, and was promptly met with about 150 sets of penetrative, inquisitive eyes that all seemed to be asking the same question: what the hell do you think you’re doing in here son? I froze, hardly knowing what to do. Each urinal and stall had a queue of soldiers about 10 deep, and there was little old me ready to get a beating for daring to intrude upon their private little get-together. I stood there meekly near the entrance, calming waiting for each and every one of them to finish. As they filed out past me, I was met with either hostile stares or fits of giggles (and probably a fair few insults). Once they’d gone, I attempted to do my business, though was faced with the biggest case of stage fright in my life.

The fine hospitality of the London School

The school here has been, on the whole, very kind and generous to the teachers, taking us on various day and weekend trips. Recently, a few of us visited the home of the owner of the school, mere steps from Lake Issyk-kul, Kyrgyzstan’s pride and joy. The lake was absolutely freezing but the countryside and calm serenity were a much welcome relief from the scorching heat of Bishkek. Not having learnt my lesson from Arslanbob, where I was in pain for days after a horse-riding trek, we again set off on horses one fine Sunday in search of a supposedly therapeutic salt lake of sorts (the poor man’s Dead Sea, allegedly). The start was way too ominous for my liking. Barely had I got seated and comfortable on my horse when another, smaller horse suddenly galloped off, mine following in rapid pursuit. Now, I had just been told that to get these evil beasts to stop, one must yell ‘drrrrrrrrrrrrr’, with the rolling of the ‘r’ crucial to the horse’s understanding. But I can’t roll my r’s, so I was helpless to stop it. I’m not sure how far and fast we went, but I was terrified and my friends were nowhere to be seen. At one point, when the horse made a quick pivot and turn, I almost went tumbling off – just the mere thought of this was enough for me to feel a slight twinge in my collarbone. Once the horse had finally been corralled by one of our guides, it took an awful lot of convincing for me to get back on another one (no way was I getting back on the same one). The rest of the day was overall quite uneventful, the most serious traumas being severe burns for all of us - for a week afterwards my forehead and nose were a mess and I looked like a leper and Brian looked like he had 2nd degree burns on his thighs – and yet again more pain in sensitive spots for both Brian and I. It’s a good thing I’m not so keen on having children.

While Emma stayed tough, Brian and I walked it back

Kyrgyz showers in the countryside

Emma, Kristen and Brian on the shores of Issyk-kul

That is not a receding hairline...let's call it windswept

A note on hospitality and other ‘default’ settings, pedantically-speaking

It was Alex, a former student of Russian here, who alerted me to this theory. If you look at a guidebook to any country, most of them will not hesitate to praise the hospitality of the people. Alex called this a ‘default setting’. In other words, when you can think of little else to describe a country, use the word hospitality (in slightly less PC terms, if a country is shitty and has nothing going for it, use ‘hospitality’). Now, this is in no way an indictment or statement on Kyrgyz hospitality, for I have little to complain about. I’m merely relating an interesting point that has a good deal of validity to it. Outside of the school environment (meaning, besides the school itself and my students), whether in Bishkek or in the countryside, I wouldn’t exactly say that we’ve encountered tremendous hospitality. It’s been nothing like the hospitality of Georgia, Armenia, Jordan or Ireland amongst many other places. Nor has it been anything like what we encountered in Arslanbob, which to remind you was around 99% Uzbek. It will be interesting, for comparative purposes, to see how Kyrgyzstan fares with Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan.

While I’m on the topic, 3 other prime examples of default settings:

* while watching a football match that has no clear rhythm or where it’s difficult to decide which team is controlling the pace and flow, use ‘scrappy’. I find this an amateur term used when your adjectives and powers of analysis have failed you.
* when describing a book or film you disliked and your adjectives and powers of analysis have failed you, use ‘pretentious’. This can equally be applied to people one doesn’t like.
* when out at a place you’ve never been to before, or after you’ve met someone new who either intrigued or annoyed you, use ‘random’. As in, ‘last night was so random. I met the most random guy at the most random bar.’ I thank Grant for bringing this to my attention, and since then I’ve realised just how prevalent this is. When your adjectives and powers of analysis have failed you, use ‘random’.

Some random guys washing themselves...in beer

The pleasant surprise that were my students

For the most part during the past 4 years of teaching, I’ve been fortunate enough to have had lovely students and pleasant classes (with Spain being the unfortunate exception). I left my last teaching gig in Latvia thinking that that was it, I’d had enough of teaching and needed a break. That says nothing about my students in Latvia: they were exceptional and I left on an extremely high note: I just didn’t want to risk Tefl burn-out. So it was with some trepidation that I returned to teaching and this gig; yet from the very first day it has been nothing but a positive experience. I’ve had some of the most motivated, eager, friendly and hospitable students and if this is it for teaching English, I am once again leaving on a massive high.

Last-day food and drink with some of my favourite students (or as Kristen said, you couldn't find nicer, sweeter people anywhere on the planet). Begimay (in the middle in red): 'Daniel, will you take me to London with you?' Me: 'I don't live in London!'

Another wonderful class who gave me a shirt and traditonal Kyrgyz hat as gifts

Sartorial elegance at its finest

Spring and summer has brought out the very best in female fashion…and I’m talking only about the T-shirts and their wonderful slogans. I’m convinced that the vast majority of girls and women wearing these shirts haven’t the faintest idea what the message actually means. Here are some of the best:
1. ‘If we are what we eat, I’m fast, cheap and easy’ (as worn by a non-English speaking middle-aged shopkeeper at Osh Bazaar)
2. ‘Remember my name: you’ll be screaming it later’ (as worn by a plump, elderly woman)
3. ‘So many man, so many mind’ (if ‘man’ were ‘men’, this might have a ring of logic to it)
4. ‘Let’s put some ornament on it’ (I don’t quite get it)
5. ‘Girls today you be the sexy’ (always a good idea)
6. ‘No Cash, no Crisis’ (with the ladies or economics?)

But easily the best, which is indicative of the mentality of the women here. Remember kids, in Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union, the man pays for EVERYTHING without exception:
7. ‘No Romance without Finance’

Priceless.

[though I’m not sure anything could top the shirt Magnus and I saw in Yerevan on a 15-year old who spoke not a word of English. On the front: ‘Did I make you cum twice?’ On the back: ‘Was it better the 2nd time?’ Sorry for the explicit details, but ‘cum’ was 3 times larger than any other word on the shirt.]

Kyrgyz medical ideas rooted firmly in fact

* If a woman sits on a cold, hard floor, then her ovaries will freeze and she’ll never be able to give birth. This is a medical fact.
* If you have both the door and window to a room open thus creating a draft, this will lead to severe ear, eye and lower back pain. This is a medical fact.
* Eating ice cream in winter will give you strep throat. This is a medical fact.
* A warm boiled egg will cure any ailment. This is a medical fact.

An epic night at the disco-theque

And lastly, arguably the finest night out I’ve had to date. Five of us – Brian, Kristen, Brian (a different one, an Italian/Belgian hereafter referred to as Italian Brian), Joe (another teacher) and of course me – went to Platinum, one of Bishkek’s more upscale dancing establishments. After a few cocktails at a similarly swank location, we were all in good form on this particular Friday evening. Italian Brian ran into some Iranian and Jordanian friends of his, along with a couple of Turkmen girls. One of the Turkmen girls broke a glass. Then so did one of the Jordanians. They departed. I was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, and despite not having had anything to do with this malarkey, was presented with a bill for approximately $10. It’s a common feature of the former Soviet Union that one must pay for any broken dishes or glasses; in fact, most menus feature a price list on the last page of the menu.

Now, my Russian hasn’t improved to the point where I can have an intense argument with overbearing and muscularly insolent (not to mention morally insouciant) bouncers over the deafening music of the club, but with a little help from Italian Brian, I thought we’d somehow managed to persuade them that we were not to blame. Case closed.

But alas, some time later, whilst dancing, the bouncers approached me on the dance floor and motioned for me to come and join them for a ‘chat’. Despite Kristen’s best efforts to dissuade them, I voluntarily acquiesced and went over to work things out. This being on the fringes of the dance floor, many people were of course watching events unfold.

These guys weren’t exactly being polite and cordial and my temper was starting to fray. But I didn’t dare think of doing something stupid in public, with hundreds of potential witnesses probably happy to see a foreigner getting pummeled and then turfed out onto the street in a crumpled heap of bones and blood. But I was getting increasingly agitated and at this point Italian Brian was nowhere to be seen. So it was left to me and Brian (the other one, my dear good friend) to weasel our way out of this misunderstanding. Brian’s contributions were invaluable: the extent of his Russian at that point was ‘nyet’ and ‘normalno’, neither of which were particularly helpful.

Mere words can hardly describe my next choice of action. As the bouncers continued to jostle and incredulously violate my personal space, I waved my finger slowly in front of one of their faces, quite intentionally flicking his nose in the process and saying in a childlike voice, ‘no no no no no’. I then impetuously snatched the bill from out of his hands (which they kept thrusting in front of my face), ripped it in half, and threw it back at his face. This incensed them even more and my rage was about to boil over. I desperately felt like I was going to snap. My fists were clenched at my side, and although I’m not exactly known for my sangfroid in situations like this, I’m not a violent person and at no point was I about to whack this clown. So, with them almost on top of me, with loads of prying eyes looking in our direction, I was left with little other choice: I gave one of them a swift, firm grasp of the old undercarriage – what else can a man do in a situation like this? This was the fuse that really set them off, for almost at once, the two goons grabbed both of my arms and literally picked me up and dragged me across the dance floor and out into the foyer. Brian valiantly tried to stop them but they did their best to savagely elbow him out of the way. Before either of us were fully aware of what was happening, we were bundled into a small room near and the door slammed shut. I was fuming, too angry to be frightened, though I was suddenly faced with flashbacks from Latvia, which coincidentally enough occurred almost a year ago to the day. After a few minutes we had calmed down and amazingly the door was unlocked. We left the room and were confronted by Mikhail, the showman/MC of the club. He was unbelievably helpful, friendly, considerate and spoke excellent English. After explaining our ordeal, he apologised profusely and invited us back inside. Later I was to find out he was gay.

The rest of the night proceeded smoothly enough until it came time to leave. After resolving a bit of a mix-up at the coatroom, Italian Brian and Joe came barreling out of the club in a frenzied dash saying ‘come on, run, let’s go, let’s go’. We didn’t ask any questions but it transpired that on this occasion, Joe had actually really broken a glass and was damn well determined not to pay for it. Try explaining that one to the bouncers.

We all went back to Platinum a few weeks later, a night largely without any more serious shenanigans. But upon entering, Mikhail recognised me, greeted me with a radiant smile, and calmly told me ‘no fighting or trouble tonight, behave yourself’. He then said ‘you make me pleasure later, eh?’ While I stammered with an appropriate response, he quickly added, ‘it’s okay my friend, I’m joking, I’m joking.’

Without a doubt, Bishkek has had its moments.

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My time in the region is not quite complete. I depart on 4 July for just over 2 weeks of travelling, starting in Kazakhstan with a weekend in Almaty with Emma and then spending the bulk of my holiday going it solo in Uzbekistan. I may try and write quick updates from the road but I’m not making any promises. I’m returning to Bishkek hopefully in time for the presidential elections on 23 July, before jetting out in early August.

That’s the story for now.