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.

Some photo shenanigans from Arslanbob

I've now finished teaching - hard to believe that 5 months have flown by just like that. I had originally signed a contract that would have kept me here until 21 August, but I changed it in order to give myself some time to travel through Central Asia. Next weekend, on 4 July of all days, I'll set off on a small adventure, starting my trip in Almaty and then going down into Uzbekistan for about 2 weeks. I aim to be back in Bishkek in late July, where I'll relax a bit here before heading homewards in early August.

Over the next few days I plan on writing some sort of wrap-up of my time here, along with amusing little anecdotes - amusing to me, anyway - capturing some of the more memorable moments I've had here.

For now, I offer up some more photos from my recent visit to Arslanbob. It was truly a wonderful place; I only hope the pictures can convey at least a sense of the place's natural beauty.

Chaikhana fun

The serenity of the countryside

More whippersnappers clamouring for a photo

The steep incline of marbles that almost claimed our lives...almost

Jo. And the mountains. And a river. Wow.

What a couple of clowns

What, that's it?

Smile for the camera kids

You can lead a horse to water...

Spring break continued: a bit of trekking in the world's largest walnut grove

No apologies or excuses for taking so damn long to finish my spring break wrap-up. Remember kids, this all happened at the end of April and the beginning of May.

After cavorting with Jalalabad's most well-heeled denizens...

From the wondrous heights of the decrepit Soviet-era sanatorium of Jalalabad, the four of us (Brian, Kristen, Jo and I) headed to Arslanbob, an overwhelmingly Uzbek (99%) village in western Kyrgyzstan. We were treated to some of the most spectacular nature scenes any of us had ever encountered.

Barely had we arrived when we found ourselves embroiled in our first little adventure. Arslanbob is a very conservative village, but we would have hardly guessed based on what we experienced within an hour of our arrival. After a sumptuous lunch at one of the town’s only two chaikhanas (teahouses), we meandered into the deserted market square. We were immediately spotted by a group of well-pissed Uzbek men who promptly staggered over and offered us shots of vodka. And this was a conservative town? We being good sports, we each in turn duly obliged - we were unable to do a group drink seeing as they only had one glass. We also learnt how pleasant it is to chase vodka with a spring onion: I can’t recommend this practice highly enough.

Our three nights were spent at the home of a traditional Uzbek couple, all organised by the excellent local Community Based Tourism (CBT) office, who have an extensive network of homestays dotted throughout the country. This was a magnificent experience, ever-so-relaxing in the splendid company of Brian and Kristen, two of my closest friends here. Brian is hands-down one of the funniest people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, and I never tire of his puerile humour (a compliment), soothingly and reassuringly similar to mine. The both of them are so down-to-earth and easy to be around. Our time in Arslanbob featured lots of rollicking laughter, wonderful bonhomie and endlessly fascinating conversation. It has to be said that this would be true of all the time we spend together, whether on the road or in Bishkek.

Enough with the melodrama, on with the story!

Alcohol is quite taboo in this part of the country, so we knew we were in for some trouble when it came time to procuring some. Not that we really needed it, but we did all fancy a beer or two to wash our dinners down, especially considering our homestay had a deck offering spectacular views of the mountains. This proved an almost impossible task, though we did manage to find an incredible little speakeasy-type place hidden in the corner of the market square. After being met with hostile glares at every shop where we enquired about beer or cognac, we eventually stumbled upon a tiny metal shack with a door just barely cracked open. Inside we were greeted by the overwhelmingly pungent aroma of unwashed bodies and a grubby, plump old woman who was more than happy to do business with us. I could only wonder how much resemblance this had to Prohibition-era America.

Of course our hosts were none too pleased that we’d brought alcohol into the house, though considering they had beer available on their menu, I’d be reluctant to say we committed any sort of faux pas.

Time for a bit of exercise

Our outdoor escapades were brilliant. Jo and I set off one day in search of an oft-talked about high waterfall. Getting there was a real challenge, especially with our [lack of] fitness levels and the treacherous terrain. That, and the fact that we’d failed to bring enough water and were suffering from dehydration in the already-scorching late spring heat.

At one point, we climbed up a steep, 75-degree angle wall of stones: it felt like scrambling up a wall of marbles and we did rather wonder how on earth we’d make it back down. But at this point in our journey we’d got so far that there was no way we were giving up. So on we persisted, slowly but surely, trying desperately to avoid being avalanched by one false footing.

The waterfall itself was nothing to rave about (revisiting my old ho-hum attitude toward nature again), but the endeavour itself was rewarding enough. Getting back down was to prove not so difficult, for we discovered a path that we’d somehow accidentally bypassed on the way up.

The next day all of us ventured out for a few hours of horse-trekking amidst the walnut grove. I had heard a bit about Kyrgyzstan’s walnut groves, allegedly the largest in the world, including stories about how some of the finest walnuts have ended up on handmade guns (worth up to $1200) in the UK. But none of this mattered to us, as instead we did our best to relax and take in yet more of the epic panoramas.

Sore asses though not on asses

I’m no experienced horse-rider and within mere minutes I was in a bit of discomfort. It wasn’t just the preservation of my manhood that I feared, but the mind-numbing drops down the sides of the cliffs. I was lucky to have a strong, obedient horse, but I still didn’t trust him on these awfully narrow mountain passes, where some of the paths were only a few metres wide. One bad step and whoosh – that would be us plunging to our untimely deaths. At the very least, this fear kept my mind off other pains.

The trek offered a vast array of vistas and we soon stumbled onto a clearing where children were playing and having a picnic: it was May Day and we were invited in for the obligatory round of photos and bread (the hospitality of the Uzbeks was incredible). At times it seemed like we were exhibits in a human zoo, as children clamoured to have their photos taken, an experience if you remember, similar to that in Kochkor where the 12 year old incessantly asked my for my phone number. They never wanted us to be in the photos, they just wanted us to take photos of them and they were always so eager to pose. All the children in the village would eagerly shout ‘Hello! How are you? repeatedly as we passed. This was the limit of their English though one audacious little girl of perhaps 10 said ‘hello baby!’ to me as she passed, her friends cackling along. All so very cute and innocent really.

Having made it back alive, we began to regale one another with tales of our pains. Brian and I could hardly walk and we were all quite sore for days. Unfortunately, we were facing a 10 hour car journey back to Bishkek, not a pleasant prospect considering the condition of our aching bottoms. After this experience, and the one in Jordan where a camel took off on a gallop while my guide had stopped for a pee break, I vowed never to mount a beast ever again. (I did, however, break this promise to ride a horse this past weekend on the shores of Lake Issyk-kul, a story to be shared another time.)

Saving the best for last

Little did we realise that our most hair-raising adventure would be the taxi journey home. We’d been expecting a beautiful ride, for the road between Arslanbob and Bishkek is said to feature some of the most visually arresting topographical relief in the world. It’s also very dangerous and requires a good, sound, responsible driver. Which we didn’t have.

I sat upfront and so had to endure the brunt of our insolent driver’s antics. He talked loads of utter nonsense (not in English), asking repeatedly about the marital status of Jo and Kristen and whether I liked young girls. At no point did I say yes (and nor did I say that it seemed young girls liked me), but he insisted on showing me clips of the collection of child porn stored on his mobile. On top of this, he had a DVD in the car showing the same loop of unbelievably wretched under-the-radar 80s pop. All this within the first hour.

It hardly got better. We could tell that this clown was having trouble staying awake and it transpired that he’d only got 2 hours of sleep the night before. I could see him fighting to keep his eyes open and we all began to slightly panic: at this point, we had yet to reach the start of the most perilous part of the journey. It was also raining fairly heavily. When we expressed our ‘concern’ in not so kind terms, he would promptly sit up straight and proclaim that he was fine. He then asked Brian to drive! Not having any experience with a stick, and considering we were heading into the mountains, he politely declined. His next suggestion was priceless: he wanted to stop at a makeshift roadside mosque to pray and take a quick nap. This was all too much for us to take and we wanted to get out and find another taxi. But this buffoon was having none of our rebellious chatter, and instead sped off to prevent us from fleeing. By the time we stopped for lunch, we had gone too far into the mountains and it was too late to change drivers.

Once we had accepted our fate, we did our best to settle in and enjoy the trip. As we were nearing home in the early evening hours, our driver answered a call from someone in Bishkek wanting to be taken back to Arslanbob that very night. With no hesitation in his voice, our driver eagerly accepted and then ever-so-proudly announced his intention to turn the car right round and head back the very same way we’d just come. As we got out of the taxi and returned to our flats, we were all left to ponder the fate of that poor sucker.

First stop: a chaikhana for lunch

Brian braves the first shot

Jo's turn: don't let that face fool you. She loved it

A spot of relaxing for our efforts

The drop got worse once I'd put my camera away

Always eager and never camera-shy

Spotted! The speakeasy safely tucked in the corner

With our kind benefactors inside

Spring Break Kyrgyz-style

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.

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:

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?

A funny coffee menu and various other restaurant shenanigans

Coffee has a special feature; it can enter into enchanting relations with the soul. It disposes a person to struggling and directs people to the Spirit purification way. It intensifies and improves the opportunities of an organism. It illuminates an inward world, into precious and passionate words. (Jose Martin)

I mentioned early on at the start of this blog how I’d been able to track down one place that served halfway decent (albeit a tad overpriced) coffee. I don’t frequent it all that often, but not long ago I found another branch of the same coffeehouse (imaginatively named ‘Coffee’) nearer the centre of town. This is not very exciting news. In a nation of avid tea drinkers, it has occurred to me to just forego the coffee and stick with the tea.

But what has always been exciting, or rather, highly amusing, to me, are humorous restaurant situations in foreign countries. The kinds we just don’t get in English-speaking countries. These situations include any of the following:

* bizarrely and hilariously badly translated menus (for example, ‘flesh with blood’ in Riga), replete with some of the most egregiously awful English grammar.
* some of the most insolent and indolent customer service known to mankind.
* that typically subservient attitude where waiters are unable to make any minor decisions without higher authorization.
* miscommunication between waiters and customers. This is standard everywhere.

Customer service in Bishkek is actually not half-bad. I’ve not yet had any dramatically sensational stories to share, other than the amusing descriptions of coffee which follow on these pages.

Americano
It is a traditional American coffee. It is also called a Regular. It is prepared from the big quantity of water and little quantity of coffee. It is a perfect coffee for people to whom the strong taste of coffee is contra-indicated.

I could probably write an entire book devoted to restaurant culture in Nigeria. That was where I first encountered the ‘aspirational’ menu. Despite some 20-odd items listed on a single laminated menu card, only 2-3 things would be available at any given time. It was pointless to order anything without first asking what was available. But amazingly, the waiters never seemed to know what the hell was on offer on various days, even with a limited array of options. The following exchange has to go down as one of my all-time favourites. I was having dinner at a somewhat nice hotel with 3 Nigerian colleagues:

Me: ‘Ah, have you got the steak and mushrooms tonight?’
Waiter: ‘I don’t know sah, let me check.’ (note: remember, even if they do know the answer – though they probably don’t - they must not, under any circumstances, fail to enquire with the chef or boss as to any customer request; furthermore, they must never make a decision without first consulting with the boss or head chef)
Waiter comes back. ‘No sah, we don’t have steak and mushrooms tonight.’
Me: ‘Oh dear. Well, which don’t you have, the steak or the mushrooms?’
Waiter: ‘I don’t know sah. Let me go check.’
Waiter comes back. ‘We don’t have the steak tonight sah’.
Me: ‘Oh, what a pity. Okay, well how about the steak with black pepper?’
[one colleague giving me dirty looks, one kicking me under the table, the other laughing]
Waiter: ‘I don’t know sah. Let me go check.’
Waiter comes back. ‘No sah, we don’t have the steak with black pepper.’
Me: ‘Well, damn it again. I knew the steak was too good to be true. Well tell me, which is it you don’t have, the steak or the black pepper?’
Waiter: ‘I don’t know sah, let me go check.’
Nigerian colleague interjects: ‘No, it’s okay, it’s okay, just bring my friend some chicken and rice.’
Waiter: ‘Okay, sah, let me see if we have it…’

The aspirational menu also exists, though to a much smaller extent, in Bishkek.

Cacao
It is an interesting fact that even though a cacao is a high calorie, it doesn’t lead to adiposity. Even a small quantity of cacao drink gives the feeling of satiation, because of it a person doesn’t overeat. Cacao and chocolate are very good for people with high physical and mental activity. Cacao drink is often called a Perfect antidepressant.

What gets me is that ‘Coffee’ is frequented almost entirely by native speakers of English. Don’t they ever think to ask someone to run their eyes over their menus before they unveil them to the public? One restaurant in Riga featured the ‘Language Salad’, which upon further investigation turned out to be a ‘Tongue Salad’ (tongue and language can be used interchangeably in Russian). But surely they get people to proofread these things, no?

Coffee and Alcohol Drinks
Coffee with alcohol drinks not only warms the soul and body, but also assists in recovery for people who experienced insult.

I inadvertently insulted a waitress in Nigeria when I questioned the authenticity of the chicken I had been served. The thing was as hard as a rock and I couldn’t get my teeth into it; I really thought it was one of those plastic display chickens they use as models in department stores.

Me: ‘This chicken is as hard as a rock. I can’t possibly eat this.’
Insolent waitress: ‘No sah, it fine chicken. Eat.’
Me: ‘Are you kidding me? I can’t even get my [very-sharp] knife into it.’
IW: ‘It is good chicken, it is odalaya chicken.’
Me: ‘Odalaya chicken? I don’t care what kind of chicken it is, that’s not edible.’
IW: ‘No sah, you don’t understand. It odalaya chicken. It good chicken.’
Me: ‘Like [expletive] it’s good. It’s impossible to eat.’

A minor scene thus ensued, when eventually the chef came out to take the brunt of my criticism and insults. We then proceeded to insult each other over our lack of culinary sophistication, and I apparently just couldn’t get it into my thick head that this ‘odalaya’ chicken was supposed to be a decent piece of meat. Only after a few minutes of what I though was their chicanery did I finally get the message. ‘Odalaya’ became ‘older layer’. In other words, an old hen who had reached the end of her egg-laying days. No wonder the old bitch was so tough.

Tea
Tea-drinking not only slakes thirst, but also strengthens health. It was used as therapeutic agent since early times. In any kind of tea there are a lot of nutrients, because of it not drinking tea is a big mistake. It can replace many medicines and vitamin complexes.

Okay, I get it: I’ll stick with the tea.

'Uhh, what are those mosquitoes doing in my soup?'

'Looks like the backstroke, sah.'

A bit of rigmarole and palaver

I recently visited the doctor. This wouldn’t normally provide the most scintillating of conversation topics; but then again, visiting a doctor in a place like Bishkek is far from a standard, run-of-the-mill hospital visit.

One doesn’t truly learn to appreciate living in lesser developed countries (am I starting to sound like an Orientalist yet?) until it comes time to deal with the typical and ever-present bureaucratic rigmarole of everyday living. In other words, the things most of us take for granted, such as healthcare. I’ve found that some of the starkest differences are to be found in three areas: hospitals, post offices and internet cafes. For me anyway, these have been the scenes of some of the most frustrating, enervating moments, though in retrospect I do laugh from to time. I suppose I can laugh as long as I survive.

Advances? What medical advances?

Hospital visits have been a constant feature of my excursions abroad over the past few years. Having blood drawn in Nigeria has to be considered an early highlight. Honestly, what was there to worry about, I’m sure the needles were perfectly clean. In retrospect, and this is really a non-story, but I can hardly recall why I was having blood drawn in the first place. I never got ill there, and my more memorable experience was the clichéd one straight out of every other Colin Thubron book: visiting a dentist who didn’t use anesthesia. Luckily for me, I was merely an observer whilst my poor friend had to go through the torture of having a cracked tooth repaired. At least it only cost her $2.

In most ways, Riga is a thoroughly modern, well-developed city, and its private clinics are extremely clean, efficient and well-run. But though the doctors all spoke passable English, their credentials and expertise were of a more dubious nature. Since my days in Spain, I’ve been suffering from a mysterious foot ailment, and the Latvian doctors sounded like quacks when it came time to recommending treatment. My favourite diagnosis came from a doctor who suspected my birthmark – measuring 1 x 3 inches on my lower leg – was causing nerve damage and thus the pain in the base of my big toe. Other remedies were equally as hopeless but I did get immense joy from visiting the underground bunker-like x-ray clinic on numerous occasions, which undoubtedly exposed me to the former Soviet Union’s highest quality radiation, not to mention rendering me infertile.

[Though saying all this, it was Spanish doctors who misdiagnosed the broken bone in my foot in the first place, so perhaps ‘Western’ standards of healthcare aren’t so good after all.]

I’m not finished yet: after my cracked rib experience, I decided to spend a lovely spring Saturday afternoon at a Latvian state hospital on the fringes of Riga. My friend Michael came along with me, ostensibly for his moral support and sang froid, since he didn’t speak enough Russian and/or Latvian to serve as an adequate translator for the barking, un-customer-service oriented Natashas who run these places. At times it felt like we were in a Stanley Kubrick film: the long, deserted, seemingly never-ending ghostly corridors with flickering red lights could have been straight out of The Shining. A pity about the lack of music. I was again exposed to yet more high-grade enriched uranium and plutonium, but at least this time I had more than just my hands to protect my important bits.

There’s surely a reason that hospitals have separate bins for waste. One would assume that some materials are more hazardous than others. But not here: one whopping container for everything – Coke cans, asshole gloves, syringes, containers of bile, blood-stained sheets, dismembered carcasses, human fingers, etc. Slightly disturbing to say the least.

Whilst I was waiting for my x-ray results in a small room, there was an old woman laying on a gurney a few feet away from me. I had assumed she was sleeping, but she didn’t appear to be breathing. She sat there for about an hour before the doctors came in and confirmed my fast-growing suspicions, pulling the sheet up and over her head, and wheeling her out. Michael, who had been ordered to wait for me in the waiting room, later told me that upon seeing her being wheeled out, a man who might have been her husband or a relative, broke down in tears. He tried to get closer to the woman, only for the morally insouciant doctors to forcibly restrain him, push him away and excoriate him for being so obtuse. Their message: it’s death old man, get over it! We don’t do compassion in Eastern Europe!

Yet again I digress. Back to the present day

As I was saying, I visited the doctor the other day. I’ve long had a propensity for ear infections, though otherwise the state of my immune system is okay. I suspected I had another one, for I was having some pain my left ear. Visiting the doctor is hardly ever fun, so immediately I thought of what a headache it might prove to be. (a proverbial headache for a real earache: a decent trade off?)

Kole, (of the snowball in Kristen’s back fame), visited the doctor a few weeks ago, accompanied by Nargiza from the school, who served as translator. He had a mysterious eye socket complaint. The doctors told him that the problem was caused by the wind getting into his eye. And the solution? To put a boiled egg on his eye for 15 minutes every night.

My hopes were not high

I must first state that the hospital was in pretty decent condition, albeit with poor lighting. Nargiza had clearly done this many times before, deftly navigating our way through the hospital as if she ran the place. I was treated like a VIP: people dived out of our way as we marauded up stairs, scurried down corridors, Nargiza all the while shouting ‘foreigner!’ at anyone who dared to block our path.

The doctor was a pleasant enough chap. He took one quick look in my ear, asked my permission to dig the chunk of wax out of it and with a deft touch swooped in and plucked it out (if only I’d had my camera with me, it was a beaut). Now he could properly examine my ear. After a 2 second examination, he declared that my ear was fine and the pain – which had since spread to my jaw area and had got very bad – was caused by arthritis or a structural problem in my jaw.

And the solution? To put a boiled egg on my ear/jaw for 15 minutes every night. This has to be the default remedy for any ailment that can’t be determined within 2-3 seconds. I wonder if they have a day at medical school devoted solely to conning gullible foreigners into thinking that a boiled egg is the cure for all of life’s ills. I bet they even have a lecture entitled the ‘Boiled Egg as a Treatment for Anything’.

When I questioned his judgment to Nargiza afterwards, she told me that he is a good doctor (he was elderly). She told me that ‘the old doctors, they are good, smart, traditional, the new ones are too young, not experienced, they don’t know what they are doing’. Medicine is a very rigid discipline in Kyrgyzstan.

Some brief words on internet malarkey

As for the internet, always an unpleasant experience: power outages, frozen/crashing computers, awful Russian pop blaring, gangs of teenagers playing World of Warcraft or Doom or Grand Theft Auto IX: Kill all Hookers (or whatever it is the kids are playing these days), sticky keyboards, men looking at porn, prying eyes or, as is ever so common in Bishkek, heat pumping out of the ducts and sweltering you to death. I had a very surreal moment the other day, one that may actually paint me in a slightly negative light, but what do I care? Most places - shops, cafes, internet – have security guards permanently on duty. But whether these guards actually deter crime or would be of any use in preventing an attack is debatable.

Just a couple nights ago, at around 1am, I’m sat at a terminal with a friend on one side and a security guard on the other. Despite having some 25-odd terminals, I believe we are the only 3 people in there. I’m busily ‘shopping’ on Ameritrade, buying and selling various distressed banking stocks, all the while the guard is playing Solitaire. Every so often, he disappears for a few minutes, only to come back reeking of booze and cigarettes. This gets progressively worse and worse as the night drags on. It’s a particularly important day for me in the market, and so I’m waiting for the closing bell, which is at 2am local time. But the stench has gone from unpleasant to unbearable and I’m starting to gag: moving to another computer is out of the question, though I don’t know why. As I attempt to put up with the malodorous aromas wafting in my direction, a bizarre thought pops into my head: here I am buying and selling shares at $10 a pop, and this guy is sneaking off to down a shot of vodka or swig a bottle of beer, spending what little money he earns for quick and instant gratification. And is he even making $10 a day, I ask myself? As I’m frittering away $10 here and $10 there with nary a thought of how much that is to some people, he’s bleary-eyed, rapidly clicking away on his mouse, hardly knowing whether he’s coming or going. There is a certain absurdity in this, and it makes me feel a bit guilty. Yet I don’t know what the message is or what I am trying to say: fill in your own judgment/analysis here.

To make matters even worse, I sneak a peak at his computer and the poor guy hasn’t the faintest idea how to play Solitaire. It’s tragic. If he weren’t so drunk and smelly, maybe, just maybe I’d attempt to explain.

An irony to mull over: the Russian word for brave or courageous is СМЕЛЫЙ. That’s pronounced ‘smyelly’. I couldn’t make this up.

Kochkor Part II: Shock and Awe

Behind a ruin’d mountain does appear
Swelling into two parts, which turgent are
As when we bend our bodies to the ground,
The buttocks amply sticking out are found.
Thomas Hobbes

But first, I contradict myself

I love cities. I’ve always been a city man, and I love nothing more than soaking up the atmosphere and culture (especially of the café variety) of a vibrant, pulsating city centre. In years past, countryside sojourns were merely a change of pace from urban life, as I never really felt the need to ‘escape’ like I’ve done here. Because I don’t necessarily love the countryside. Sure, it’s pleasant, it’s nice (notice the uninspiring adjectives?), but on the whole, a bit humdrum. Not always, but generally I find weekend getaways, in any country for that matter, to be more beneficial and therapeutic because of what they are ‘not’. So it’s not as if I’m raving wildly about the exquisite Kyrgyz countryside or anything, it’s just that it makes such a refreshing change from the old routine that I’m thankful for some clean, country air and the absence of grimy, Soviet-esque architecture.

But thanks to Jeff, I’ve come to realise that there is so much more to how we view nature, the countryside, open spaces and, most especially, mountains. For on the Sunday of my recent excursion to Kochkor, we hiked in the meandering valleys of nearby hills, which offered stunning views of the mountains. But, deep down, were they really that stunning? And, even deeper down, are mountains stunning at all? Is nature stunning at all? Why do we love nature so much?

The transcendent beauty of literature

Shortly before I departed for Kyrgyzstan, Jeff gave me a book entitled The Accidental Masterpiece: On the Art of Life and Vice Versa by Michael Kimmelman. It’s not the kind of book that would immediately catch my eye, but it has been an absolute gem. It’s made me think of some of the more prosaic things in life in such a different light.

For instance, where does this reverence people hold for nature come from? When people gush and rave about picturesque sights and epic vistas, is it because we have merely been programmed to accept all this at face value? In years past, many people had an intense disdain for mountains. The Romans found mountains to be forlorn, miserable objects. John Donne referred to them as ‘warts on the planet’. Martin Luther considered them ‘part of God’s retribution for man’s fall’, since the world at one point had been perfectly round.

In fact, our modern attitude toward mountains – to what we consider their natural beauty – is a matter of conditioned learning, inherited through literature and theology, which has evolved during the last few centuries to encompass a notion of the sublime in nature: we have been trained what to see and how to feel. The evolution of the whole modern worldview, including the notion of beauty…is exemplified by the evolution of our feelings towards mountains.

And yet we dare not question these notions of the utterly sublime beauty of mountains. There are so many nature lovers out there, that when someone like me comes along and presents his ho-hum attitude towards nature’s many splendours, we are considered strange and abnormal specimens of the human race. Whenever I deign to mention that cities are the true, beating heart of a country, indicative and representative of what that country signifies to the world, I am met with perplexed stares and berating comments. I enjoy pleasurable doses of cultural enlightenment, and the city has always been where I’ve found that. And let’s face the facts: the world is rapidly becoming more urbanised. (for rapid, unbridled urbanisation see sub-Saharan Africa for starters)

Let me be clear: I’m not rubbishing nature and its wonderous splendours. I have a healthy appreciation for nature and some of my fondest memories from childhood are my scouting excursions in gorgeous locations in Washington, Europe and the UK. I can vividly recall exquisite Sicilian sunsets, the visually arresting Cliffs of Moher, the desolate and lonely swathes of the ‘bush’ in Africa and the archealogical marvels of Petra (which is borderline nature/urban anyway).

But the real images that remain indelibly stamped in my mind are the grotesque Soviet-style monstrosities in their varying guises; the seemingly unending sprawl of squalor-mired shantytowns peopled with vendors selling Bibles, tupperware and toothpaste amidst standstill traffic stretching for miles on either side of Lagos; the narrow, cobbled, winding, decrepit and crumbling yet utterly charming streets of Lviv; the sordid and seedy underbelly of many a central/eastern European city in the wee hours...these, more than anything else, are the images that will undoubtedly remain with me far longer than anything I see in the countryside.

I mean, honestly: how can it possibly get any better than this?

Climbing for armchair enthusiasts

I find modest climbing to be, on the whole, a mundane undertaking. I’m not lazy, but sometimes, depending on my mood, even the mildest form of exertion is too strenuous. If I’m promised a sweeping view, I mull the prospect over, and nine times out of ten, I’m in. Yet I hardly know why.

The 19th century American landscapists saw beauty as intrinsic to mountains, which is to say natural, because they thought God spoke directly through nature. But if beauty is actually in the eye of the beholder, then it is not a matter of nature or science or something that can even easily be named. People have the ability to see that something, like a mountain, is beautiful or they do not, in the same way that you may describe in great detail a piece of music to a deaf person, and that person, despite having rationally absorbed what you have said, will still never quite know what the music sounds like…

Because we’ve been programmed not to question the beauty of certain things, we are inevitable disappointed when, after having built the expectations up to a frenzied level, we see the eagerly anticipated object in question and are suddenly faced with that dreaded anti-climactic feeling. Everyone’s been there before: think of films and books, paintings (the Mona Lisa, for example) and sculptures, churches and monasteries, the Super Bowl and the World Cup final, even cities and countries…at some point we’ve all been conned into expecting something marvelous and grandiose, only to be let down by the final product. If you’re human, that is.

Revisiting history for a second, since awe hasn’t always been the natural response to mountain vistas, why and how has our attitude changed so dramatically? Is it that ever menacing urbanisation I earlier spoke of? As cities have grown, has the attraction of the countryside been magnified as a response to this creeping urban sprawl? Years ago, people held fear and terror in their hearts when thinking about mountains, but somehow this fear gradually turned to aesthetic pleasure. Immanuel Kant, a great purveyor of the marvels of natural beauty, described mountain climbing as ‘the terrifying sublime…accompanied by a certain dread or melancholy’. But if we examine the Old Testament (not that I do), we of course see that ‘every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low’.

The transition in our attitudes from fear and inaccessibility to how we view mountains today is very well encapsulated in Marjorie Hope Nicolson’s Mountain Gloom and Mountain Glory:

Awe, compounded of mingled terror and exultation, once reserved for God, passed over in the 17th century first to an expanded cosmos, then from the macrocosm to the greatest objects in the geocosm – mountains, oceans, desert.

Glorified Stairmasters for the upwardly mobile?

All of this begets an urgent question. In the 21st century, with all the distractions and delights that rule our lives, with the ease and improving convenience of travel, with the world’s boundaries shrinking, with so much information so easily accessible and at our fingertips, with so few remaining known or unknown unknowns left to be discovered, have we found anything yet to replace the mountain as a new exemplar of sublimity?

It almost seems odd to talk about the sublime today. We are programmed now to expect awe in certain circumstances, and are therefore doomed to be disappointed…when we don’t feel it…this is because when nothing is truly strange or foreign any longer, everything having been predigested, we then demand to be shocked, shock being an experience that still seems genuine to us. Thus we mistake shock for awe.

Cut to the chase old boy, was a good time had or not?

Above and beyond all my philosophical musings, I rather enjoyed myself, but that was primarily due to the company and the accompanying conversation. Still, all in all, it was a good, relaxing weekend away from the city, and I didn’t really ask for much more. Because, you see, I long ago deprogrammed myself from expecting too much. And now I expect nothing and still expect to be disappointed. One of these days, I’m sure I will well and truly be blown away.

As for the panoramas? They were pleasant, as they tend to be in most cases. But nothing more, and nothing less. They were merely pleasant. That, for now, will have to suffice.

Trudging along, with my companions along the ridge

But honestly, can you get a better view than this?