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| The Devil on Santa Claus's knee - which is a neat visual summary of what follows |
It is approaching midnight on a cold Christmas Eve. The snow, though neither deep nor especially crisp nor conveniently even, is nevertheless present. I am in a cellar bar and my boss Natalia is hollering the communist anthem The Internacionale in my face at the top of her lungs. This could be the prelude to a bar brawl ending in the painful death of a few decadent westerners, myself included, but it is not. In fact all is good...all is more than good.
Let us take a step back for a moment in order to get a little context. For the last few hours the native teachers from the London School and the foreign teachers from the London School (plus a few students) have been engaging in a very different type of battle. a Christmas Carol Off. So far, the halls have been decked with bows of holly, our collective hearts have been given away the very next day, the twelve days of christmas have been invoked and the snow has been dashed through on a one horse open sleigh. Then, eep, out come the national anthems. That blind patriotism can be chanted at full volume and produce no rancour or malcontent is a good indication of the quality of company present.
Having been here for a few months already, it has been fairly shocking the paucity of contact with the local teachers I've had. This first opportunity to really interact in an informal environment is in every way a breath of fresh air.
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| Drinks at Anton's - a Bishkek institution |
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| Anton's Bog - Not for the faint of heart (or the sensitive of nose) |
The whole experience was capped off nicely with a textbook demonstration of the fine art of the putdown. After the singing subsided and a fair proportion of the gathered masses had trundled off to their beds, a man approached Anya (ethnic Russian, smiling or scowling with nothing in between, has a penchant for bunny ears, boxer outfits and other similar costumery) with a cheep pick-up line about the festive bunny ears she was wearing. Her response (in glorious deadpan)
<<Yes, I have ears here and ears here. I AM A MONSTER>>
Slightly taken aback he mumbles a garbled response. Without a moments hesitation (in English mind you, her second language)
<<Yes, it is funny. It is very funny.>>
The man slinks off, tail between his legs, dismissed. A true masterclass in sleaze management.
It is a few hours earlier. I am stalking around sneering, dressed as a skeleton, surrounded by the collected students and teachers of London School who are clapping, laughing and whooping with the sheer glee of it all. It is the New Year's Play (they don't do Christmas so much here but have New Year's (Новый год) trees with tinsel and so on and so forth). The plot is (approximately) as follows:
Sneegurochka, the granddaughter of Djed Moroz (equivalent of Santa Claus, translates literally as 'Grandpa Frost') has had her laugh stolen by an unkillable bad man called Kashay (yours truly). Kashay has stolen the laugh because Baba Yega (old, female, badass) wants it, and she is the only person who knows were Kashay has hidden his soul (in an egg, in the branches of a tree, at the top of a mountain). Because Sneegurochka's laugh has been stolen, the festive spirit has fallen flat and all is sadness and bad cheer. A series of crazy games are played to make her smile and laugh, they fail. Until Inspector Kurt (not part of the traditional story as far as I'm aware) catches Baba Yega and Kashay and some of the students complete a 'Mission Impossible' challenge to retreive Sneegurotchka's laugh. She laughs and all is merry and festive and happily ever after (until next year). THE END
My first piece of acting in Broken Russian (plus plenty of solid gurning) goes relatively swimmingly. Interspersed with all this are a series of songs, performances and games including traditionally festive bodypopping and fan dancing...
The play ends and the dancing begins. Now... people in Kyrgyzstan dance. That is how it is. They dance readilly and unselfconsciously and with a gay abandon that is truly refreshing. All in all, a fine Christmas Eve was had.
It is 11.30am on Christmas morn and I am in a supermarket helping the recently remonikered Max Bishkek (remonikered for reasons of facebook convenience) to fill a bag with industrial quanitites of potatoes. For it is Christmas, therefore Christmas Dinner will happen. There will be roasties and carrots and a variety of meats, mulled wine shall be supped and merriment shall reign.
As Eve (last night's Sneegurochka, Massachusetts raised, epicly caustic) says her goodbyes and heads off to Kazhakstan to meet up with Holly for a long-distance, holiday-season trek westwards in search of seashore (a rare thing in Central Asia), preperations to feed the hungry foreign types hanging around London School commence...
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| Dan prepping |
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| Cole Peeling |
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| Kevin carving |
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| Max mulling |
All goes to plan and at approximately 3pm food is served. A few moments later Eve reappears siting some Visa issues Holly is having. After half an hour or so all is resolved, but it allows time for Eve to bear witness to a ukulele rendition of Silent Night, join in the Christmas feast and for Logan to request to borrow some gaffer/duct tape (of which more later).
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| Tucking in |
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| Supping post-christmas dinner champagne - yes that is indeed a man spotwelding bars onto the window in the background. |
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| Santa Eve arrives - Logan despairs |
It is mid-afternoon in a swanky flat in the centre of Bishkek and a crowd including Tajik, English, Turkmen, American, Polish, Finnish, Italian, Kyrgyz, Scottish and Canadian people are watching a lady called Jyldyz (London School teacher, smiley, mad as a bag of badgers) wrap a rug around herself as if it were a dress.
We are engaged in a glorious Christmas tradition known as the White Elephant.
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| Jyldyz showing off the rug (before putting on the rug) |
The name of the game is to be the last name picked out of Djed Moroz's hat. Everyone who wants to play has brought a present and everyone who plays will take a present away with them. But which one? That is the question. Each person picks a present without opening it up. They open it, and can swap it with any of the previously opened presents. Then they pick the next name from Djed Moroz's hat, who has the opportunity to steal your recently won merch. Much ribaldry ensues.
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| Jyldyz picking the next name out of Djed Moroz's hat. |
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| Max showing off the Obama viagra - Yes I'm afraid you did hear that exactly right. |
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| Ruta sporting a fetching pirate hat - though who got it in the end I wouldn't even care to hazard a guess
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| Aaro selecting his future Brutus |
So when Max chose to snatch it from his loving grasp, it caused Aaro to utter a wail of genuine despair.
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| Max raising the legendary Jaguar Rocket in exaltation - Aaro despondent |
But Aaro has a fine lady who happened to be the last name picked out of the hat. And Ceci had the good grace to take one for the team and win Aaro's precious Jaguar Rocket back for him...
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| Ceci - a very classy lady |
The White Elephant over, the Christmas Tunes begin. Much fine conversation is had. At some point, Master Tom Walling drops a cheeky Grime (filthy London-centric dance/rap music) tune into the mix and the inevitable dancing kicks off, to run happily and in a highly over the top manner for several hours.
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| Danceage |
It is the point where late evening begins to blur into night and we are sliding along the icy streets of Bishkek town toward the Metro Pub, where a multi band metal extravaganza awaits us. The Christmas Party has raged for some hours now, someone has slipped fully onto their arse, in the corner of the street urination has happened, and a number of our party are quite filthily drunk. Not Kate though. An ex-student of mine (16 years old more or less), she arrived late to the party and is on a strictly soft drinks diet today. During the month in which I taught her, she was generally taciturn and kept her cards very close to her chest. Tonight, after a few minutes to get used to the crazy drunken expattage of it all, she is talkative and funny and inquisitive and in every way a pleasure to be with.
The half hour trek through the frozen streets of Bishkek dissapears like a snowflake melted by a heavy duty welding torch wielded by a powertool crazed metalhead and we arrive at the normally execrably expat Metro Pub to find it filled with energy-filled, excitable, mostly underage, mostly ethnic Russian carousers with moshing on their mind. Dancing is highly likely to happen...
It is at the time of the morn when midnight is but a distant memory. Much metal music has been moshed and pogoed to, much fat has been chewed and a not inconsiderable quantity of beer and vodka has been drunk. I have watched someone (once again names omitted to protect the guilty) segue a handshake with a passing punter into an invitation to grind lascivously to a passing lady in one fluid motion. I have moshed in a hardcore manner with smiling randomers and I feel my Christmas experience has been most satisfyingly rounded off. I am now fully certain that celebrating Christmas in a predominantly Islamic (though relatively liberal) country, is not only possible, but can be a true and many splendoured joy. I am laying in my bed on the verge of slumber with the broad smile of a man who has enjoyed the finest day and a half that Yuletide has to offer.
And so,
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night
Some photos in this article courtesy of Daniel Mahony
Credit for the photo of Anton's loo goes to Aaro Vitalo, a braver man than I
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