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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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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That’s the story for now.
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