Fancy a bit of cultural enlightenment then?
I’m rather fond of the opera and had been eager to see ‘Carmen’ for quite some time. Although it plays here monthly, I jumped at the chance to see it the other night. I really needed some cultural nourishment.
Now I’m no connoisseur of opera, but I have been to a few in my time. This one was far from the best (though I did enjoy myself) and the opera house itself was in a pitiful state of disrepair on the inside with peeling paint, torn and fraying carpets, and bathrooms that obviously hadn’t been cleaned since the end of the Cold War. The hall was half-empty, which I’m told represented a good night, but at least my ticket was only around $3 – for the 3rd row, front and centre. The comical sight of a troupe of plump Kyrgyz singing in Russian was trumped only by people constantly nattering away on their mobiles and carrying on conversations around me. Oh, and the presence just two rows back of a student who may or may not be stalking me.
Not so nice on the inside
After my very first class, one of my students - a lovely young woman - kindly invited me to go away for the weekend to visit her family in the countryside, to a small town 4 hours away from Bishkek. Now, I generally have a strict policy of not mixing business with pleasure: I’ve learned my lesson. I’m willing to make allowances, but preferably a few months down the road closer to my departure date in case things go awry and there awkward moments later on. So I thanked her and said I’d see. And then she invited me again the following Friday. And again last Thursday. I’m running out of plausible excuses, though I’m coming tantalizingly close to telling her I’m gay. Honestly, I’m not very good at making excuses and I hardly know what to say. (Suggestions anyone?)
I’m generally quite open and honest with my students, and so I made no secret of my Valentine’s Day plans, even mocking the fact that I was going alone and looking forward to it. And then, there she was, just a couple of rows back. ‘Oh, what a surprise!’ she says. (Like hell, I’m thinking.)
Weaseling out of another sticky situation
I end this tale here, for now, because as things stand, we’re tentatively schedule to attend the opera this Saturday. She conned me into asking what I thought of Rigoletto. It happens to be my favourite, and me not thinking straight, said as much. Very conveniently, it’s playing Saturday. And would I like to go, she enquired. Well, uh, sure, yeah, I suppose, I responded. I’m thinking up excuses as we speak.
Afterwards, I headed to Metro, the premier ex-pat scene where the waitresses and barmaids have yet to master the art of mixing cocktails. I was almost as desperate for some football/soccer as I had been earlier for cultural enlightenment. But my attempts were foiled by a gaggle of drunken Scots (not necessarily a bad thing, mind) watching the France v Scotland Six Nations affair. So I pretended to look interested while quaffing a few beers. A wee while later, one of my colleagues turned up with his Kyrgyz girlfriend. They’d been to a wedding earlier and were already well and truly steamed at that point. We got talking and inevitably the talk quickly turned to the subject of prostitution, as it generally does in this day and age. After all, what else have young people got to talk about in such trying economic times?
The sad reality of life in these impoverished former Soviet republics is the preponderance of prostitutes that cavort in expat-heavy locales. The previous weekend, I went out with a few teachers to a nightclub called the Golden Bull, one of the handful of premier places for foreigners, where we don’t pay a cover charge. There was a heavy US military presence inside, and it was downright hysterical, whilst simultaneously tragic, watching the servicemen fawn all over scantily clad Kyrgyz prostitutes. I was actually hit on within minutes of my arrival…by a man. It seems like in Bishkek, the ‘do you speak German?’ chat-up line (can anyone verify where this comes from?) is banished in favour of ‘do you like skiing?’ Flattering, but no thanks.
Anyway, at Metro, as we discussed the subject of prostitution, my colleague’s girlfriend then proceeded to point out who was and who wasn’t a prostitute. She seemed far more amused by this than I was.
Up to this point, 100% of the women I’d suspected of being prostitutes were Kyrgyz. But sitting up at the bar, alone, was an absolutely stunning young Russian woman. I’d caught her looking at me (yes, yes, believe it) when I was up at the bar earlier getting drinks. Standards of dress here are far, far different from what many of us are accustomed to back home, as those of you with Eastern European experience can attest to. For most women, thigh-high boots are de rigueur on any night out, and in Bishkek at least, they seem to be the same for most of my students, no matter what the age. Well, even by Eastern European/Central Asian standards, this woman looked iffy and I questioned her status to my friend. Big mistake, for she then made her way over to find out the truth.
You know what you and me say about assuming things
A good 10 minutes later, my friend came back to report the good news: she wasn’t a prostitute at all and would I like to go and meet her? I’m utterly hopeless in such situations. All the same, sufficiently fuelled by a bit of Dutch courage, I sauntered over the bar where we were introduced. And things were going well for a while.
About 30 minutes into the conversation – not like I was keeping track of the time or anything – she had me flummoxed and I was grasping at straws to get myself untangled from the mess. Up to this point the conversation had been conducted in stuttering English with the odd Russian phrase thrown in for a laugh. But then:
Her: ‘Your friend, she is strange, why she ask me if I go with other men for money?’
Me: ‘Uh, huh? What do you mean?’
Her: ‘Your friend says so interesting things, it is bullshit though, I don’t why she says this things. She says you ask her if I go with men for money.’
Me: ‘What? She said that? I never said that?’
Her: ‘Yes, she said, she said.’
At this point, I made an epically tremendous recovery, one of my finer moments, though my choice of words could have been better. I’m generally not very good at thinking on the spot.
Me: ‘No, you don’t understand. My friend said you were a prostitute, not me, I said you weren’t, but she had to find out. I told her no, she didn’t need to. Besides, she’s very drunk and says stupid things.’
She seemed satisfied by this response. But even so, things gradually took an unpleasant turn, and once again, I was painfully reminded of a couple of experiences in Ukraine, where a meeting with a woman over coffee or a drink quickly turned into an interrogation about my income, whether I wanted children, where I wanted to live…of course, Milan Kundera did after all call love ‘a continual interrogation’. Now, not to go into too many details now, but my unflinching honesty, depending on your perspective, is either one of my greatest strengths or greatest weaknesses. It’s probably a sign that I’m not very good at flirting, but when a woman, in just about any circumstance, starts probing me with these types of questions, I never play along and I tend to offer up the gospel truth regarding my beliefs. Interpret that how you like.
The problem for me in situations like this is that my dry, sardonic wit (or, more like sarcasm and awful use of puns) rarely even works at the best of times with native speakers. So I’m already working with a handicap: when I have to grade my language to a very basic level, I struggle to flirt and offer up witticisms in broken English and smatterings of awful Russian. It’s a challenge to which I’m not very adept, and I’m far from a suave, smooth operator. So this appeared to be a futile endeavour. Though numbers were exchanged and we did talk late into the night, I doubt this one is going anywhere.
And almost my first brawl to boot
Next to the school, where all the teachers live, is a small nightclub. Upon arriving back around 3am, there was a massive brawl going on, which had spilled onto the street. There were at least 20 people going at it, half of them getting the living bejesus beaten out of them as they lay sprawled all over the pavement. I calmly sidestepped my way past the mess; I’d already been involved in enough sticky situations for one evening.
After my very first class, one of my students - a lovely young woman - kindly invited me to go away for the weekend to visit her family in the countryside, to a small town 4 hours away from Bishkek. Now, I generally have a strict policy of not mixing business with pleasure: I’ve learned my lesson. I’m willing to make allowances, but preferably a few months down the road closer to my departure date in case things go awry and there awkward moments later on. So I thanked her and said I’d see. And then she invited me again the following Friday. And again last Thursday. I’m running out of plausible excuses, though I’m coming tantalizingly close to telling her I’m gay. Honestly, I’m not very good at making excuses and I hardly know what to say. (Suggestions anyone?)
I’m generally quite open and honest with my students, and so I made no secret of my Valentine’s Day plans, even mocking the fact that I was going alone and looking forward to it. And then, there she was, just a couple of rows back. ‘Oh, what a surprise!’ she says. (Like hell, I’m thinking.)
Weaseling out of another sticky situation
I end this tale here, for now, because as things stand, we’re tentatively schedule to attend the opera this Saturday. She conned me into asking what I thought of Rigoletto. It happens to be my favourite, and me not thinking straight, said as much. Very conveniently, it’s playing Saturday. And would I like to go, she enquired. Well, uh, sure, yeah, I suppose, I responded. I’m thinking up excuses as we speak.
Afterwards, I headed to Metro, the premier ex-pat scene where the waitresses and barmaids have yet to master the art of mixing cocktails. I was almost as desperate for some football/soccer as I had been earlier for cultural enlightenment. But my attempts were foiled by a gaggle of drunken Scots (not necessarily a bad thing, mind) watching the France v Scotland Six Nations affair. So I pretended to look interested while quaffing a few beers. A wee while later, one of my colleagues turned up with his Kyrgyz girlfriend. They’d been to a wedding earlier and were already well and truly steamed at that point. We got talking and inevitably the talk quickly turned to the subject of prostitution, as it generally does in this day and age. After all, what else have young people got to talk about in such trying economic times?
The sad reality of life in these impoverished former Soviet republics is the preponderance of prostitutes that cavort in expat-heavy locales. The previous weekend, I went out with a few teachers to a nightclub called the Golden Bull, one of the handful of premier places for foreigners, where we don’t pay a cover charge. There was a heavy US military presence inside, and it was downright hysterical, whilst simultaneously tragic, watching the servicemen fawn all over scantily clad Kyrgyz prostitutes. I was actually hit on within minutes of my arrival…by a man. It seems like in Bishkek, the ‘do you speak German?’ chat-up line (can anyone verify where this comes from?) is banished in favour of ‘do you like skiing?’ Flattering, but no thanks.
Anyway, at Metro, as we discussed the subject of prostitution, my colleague’s girlfriend then proceeded to point out who was and who wasn’t a prostitute. She seemed far more amused by this than I was.
Up to this point, 100% of the women I’d suspected of being prostitutes were Kyrgyz. But sitting up at the bar, alone, was an absolutely stunning young Russian woman. I’d caught her looking at me (yes, yes, believe it) when I was up at the bar earlier getting drinks. Standards of dress here are far, far different from what many of us are accustomed to back home, as those of you with Eastern European experience can attest to. For most women, thigh-high boots are de rigueur on any night out, and in Bishkek at least, they seem to be the same for most of my students, no matter what the age. Well, even by Eastern European/Central Asian standards, this woman looked iffy and I questioned her status to my friend. Big mistake, for she then made her way over to find out the truth.
You know what you and me say about assuming things
A good 10 minutes later, my friend came back to report the good news: she wasn’t a prostitute at all and would I like to go and meet her? I’m utterly hopeless in such situations. All the same, sufficiently fuelled by a bit of Dutch courage, I sauntered over the bar where we were introduced. And things were going well for a while.
About 30 minutes into the conversation – not like I was keeping track of the time or anything – she had me flummoxed and I was grasping at straws to get myself untangled from the mess. Up to this point the conversation had been conducted in stuttering English with the odd Russian phrase thrown in for a laugh. But then:
Her: ‘Your friend, she is strange, why she ask me if I go with other men for money?’
Me: ‘Uh, huh? What do you mean?’
Her: ‘Your friend says so interesting things, it is bullshit though, I don’t why she says this things. She says you ask her if I go with men for money.’
Me: ‘What? She said that? I never said that?’
Her: ‘Yes, she said, she said.’
At this point, I made an epically tremendous recovery, one of my finer moments, though my choice of words could have been better. I’m generally not very good at thinking on the spot.
Me: ‘No, you don’t understand. My friend said you were a prostitute, not me, I said you weren’t, but she had to find out. I told her no, she didn’t need to. Besides, she’s very drunk and says stupid things.’
She seemed satisfied by this response. But even so, things gradually took an unpleasant turn, and once again, I was painfully reminded of a couple of experiences in Ukraine, where a meeting with a woman over coffee or a drink quickly turned into an interrogation about my income, whether I wanted children, where I wanted to live…of course, Milan Kundera did after all call love ‘a continual interrogation’. Now, not to go into too many details now, but my unflinching honesty, depending on your perspective, is either one of my greatest strengths or greatest weaknesses. It’s probably a sign that I’m not very good at flirting, but when a woman, in just about any circumstance, starts probing me with these types of questions, I never play along and I tend to offer up the gospel truth regarding my beliefs. Interpret that how you like.
The problem for me in situations like this is that my dry, sardonic wit (or, more like sarcasm and awful use of puns) rarely even works at the best of times with native speakers. So I’m already working with a handicap: when I have to grade my language to a very basic level, I struggle to flirt and offer up witticisms in broken English and smatterings of awful Russian. It’s a challenge to which I’m not very adept, and I’m far from a suave, smooth operator. So this appeared to be a futile endeavour. Though numbers were exchanged and we did talk late into the night, I doubt this one is going anywhere.
And almost my first brawl to boot
Next to the school, where all the teachers live, is a small nightclub. Upon arriving back around 3am, there was a massive brawl going on, which had spilled onto the street. There were at least 20 people going at it, half of them getting the living bejesus beaten out of them as they lay sprawled all over the pavement. I calmly sidestepped my way past the mess; I’d already been involved in enough sticky situations for one evening.
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