tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36014979275862414632024-03-13T11:58:37.054-07:00A jaunt in the Kyrgyz RepublicThe misadventures of a Tefl teacher in the Switzerland of Central AsiaEl profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-33857816184138460962011-09-11T06:19:00.000-07:002011-09-11T19:46:29.168-07:00До тех пор, и спасибо за все баранины (So long and thanks for all the mutton)So this is the end...the last hurrah. the tale of my final days (for now) in the Kyrgyz Republic.<br />
It's been an insane, jumbled, eye-opening, belly-building, gratifying and intense experience. I leave Kyrgystan a far better informed individual with a re-drawn mental map of the world. <br />
My last few weeks in the country consisted in me cramming in as many of the many things I loved about Bishkek and Kyrgyzstan as I could, so there was plenty of meat on a skewer and beer in chilled glasses at the railside shashlyk jount, a certain amount of cocktails on the 13th floor looking down over the city at 12bar, numerous strolls down Bishkek's many leafy boulevards and park areas and my leaving do, where we rocked the full Bishkek Korean experience. <br />
To this end, a great (I was taken aback how many actually, thanks all) swathe of Brits and Aussies and 'Mericans and Kyrgyz and Russkies gathered at a Korean place over at vostok pyat to munch beebembap and bulgogi and lashings and lashings of rice (but not pudding).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhigRD43KLlH0FzyIZP4eqCdBU3hUlhny7SEljTta25AO24usbuTenNuV__S7NqCxWwtWzWoJn6tyi0FAaR8c7xaQp_8RgP7Mzx8aVN7MUq8viz5pGxikHvlqtj07r9g1XrFp6SB7aHmDNk/s1600/leaving+do+peeps.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhigRD43KLlH0FzyIZP4eqCdBU3hUlhny7SEljTta25AO24usbuTenNuV__S7NqCxWwtWzWoJn6tyi0FAaR8c7xaQp_8RgP7Mzx8aVN7MUq8viz5pGxikHvlqtj07r9g1XrFp6SB7aHmDNk/s320/leaving+do+peeps.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Many merrymakers </td></tr>
</tbody></table>I was showered with presents, including a traditional <span id="goog_1133314586"></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/">kyrgyz jaw harp</a> and, from Ana, the bunny ears that caused her to so impress me in <a href="http://kyrgyzjaunt.blogspot.com/2010/12/christmas-in-bishkek.html">this episode</a>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdL1FNY4pmmyk9gTed_bFxF9aGlio-mWs4kyapIzw2MkeH1Z9RKPUswx5JPOwYiaMYM-g3IaK8zyBghRFmzG8URi09vnlO94K_uYXkmT6S9GBugDE8K4-HCXtdSgoKa3FlAHbJdFYPuZnB/s1600/bunny+ears.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdL1FNY4pmmyk9gTed_bFxF9aGlio-mWs4kyapIzw2MkeH1Z9RKPUswx5JPOwYiaMYM-g3IaK8zyBghRFmzG8URi09vnlO94K_uYXkmT6S9GBugDE8K4-HCXtdSgoKa3FlAHbJdFYPuZnB/s320/bunny+ears.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think you'll agree I look rather fetching...What do you mean it reminds you of Donnie Darko!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Next up, off to the karaoke (or should I say <a href="http://kyrgyzjaunt.blogspot.com/2011/02/of-noraebang-spag-bol-and-flaming-hot.html">Noraebang</a>). The PA wasn't properly set up in our private room, but the set up time was the perfect excuse for me and Alec Forss to belt out an a cappella version of <a href="http://kyrgyzjaunt.blogspot.com/2011/05/of-kazakh-wine-couchsurfing-parties-and.html">The North West Passage</a> for one last time.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHWGUSASeyltDVfgK7QIP30a9vw2SaO8pDNXJGtf70H5mypqIw6YWViEWVQIE4V9qbRD4Va3VLb6aJJ2YeORBXngW5rexY0UF51Jl0WSvjhbJmZI64uqBo8T4RBPXC_Dzm7hpiB4PmbxeD/s1600/a+capella+north+weswt+passage.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHWGUSASeyltDVfgK7QIP30a9vw2SaO8pDNXJGtf70H5mypqIw6YWViEWVQIE4V9qbRD4Va3VLb6aJJ2YeORBXngW5rexY0UF51Jl0WSvjhbJmZI64uqBo8T4RBPXC_Dzm7hpiB4PmbxeD/s320/a+capella+north+weswt+passage.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.pp2g.tv/vZH97anY_.aspx">Fuck a beat, we go acapella</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Technical issues dealt with, the night settles into good solid karoake. A mishmash of tunes from the inspired to the insane, often out of tune, rarely in time, sometimes with the right lyrics, sometimes in the right language. A particular highlight was Dan's deadpan, Merseyside tinged version of 'Forgot about Dre'. After all, everybody knows that hip-hop originated in Birkenhead.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Balls Deep Mahoney and The Big Ian performing a jaunty rendition of Electric Six's popular dittie 'Gay Bar'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>And then came the leaving speech, which involved Dan unravelling a giant roll of toilet paper covered in a litany of the many and varied nicknames I have acquired in my time in Bishkek (plus a few new gems that Dan had coined especially for the occasion). <br />
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Leaving do done I hopped on a plane back home..............................................................<br />
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No, wait, hold on, that can't be the end. There hasn't been any spurious cultural comment or observation to counterbalance the druken revelry yet. <br />
Fortunately, I didn't follow tradition and leave after my leaving do. Oh no, I didn't even stay to the end of my own leaving do. At 2am, me and Miranda said our goodbyes and hopped into a taxi to take the overnight ride to <a href="http://kyrgyzjaunt.blogspot.com/2010/12/karakol.html">Karakol</a> to catch a day of traditional Kyrgyz horsegames.<br />
After a quick nose at Karakol's Russian Orthodox Church, we took a bus provided by CBT from Karakol up to a couple of yurts on a mountainside, to be greeted by a band playing traditional Kyrgyz music (beautiful) and a plethora of tourists who wouldn't shut up throughout the performance (damned annoying).<br />
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We were then invited to join in with the erecting of a yurt. If this experience taught me one thing it is that many Kyrgyz people are good at erecting yurts, but most foriegn tourists are bloody terrible at it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGtBI7y60f6gsOy5vmoWjVUx7l4y8v9mL2lF90mPdWf_N41rOJhTGWsr_GNvlFQ4vR979mw67MoLh8XnQ5JYm-0ofcnnlC27f2QBFKnRcFHnnGEJ34PJ2hPp9nIMCzroLu_f8yeC_Pi0fy/s1600/yurt+construct.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGtBI7y60f6gsOy5vmoWjVUx7l4y8v9mL2lF90mPdWf_N41rOJhTGWsr_GNvlFQ4vR979mw67MoLh8XnQ5JYm-0ofcnnlC27f2QBFKnRcFHnnGEJ34PJ2hPp9nIMCzroLu_f8yeC_Pi0fy/s320/yurt+construct.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tourists using our well-honed skiills to set up a yurt</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZzHzD60EFIUmTimWCjtpBn0F-IJKY2DU7jEhlD9LtjRX6C9hbpLYBrqwf7RBTun2kAdQ5KM7GDbAS_-rTiRSzhdWI-wFEKzjo1xixFwurWaLvn8kpSu6ObeMjq4LB5YZwHoUYRBhLx6xD/s1600/yurt+constructor.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZzHzD60EFIUmTimWCjtpBn0F-IJKY2DU7jEhlD9LtjRX6C9hbpLYBrqwf7RBTun2kAdQ5KM7GDbAS_-rTiRSzhdWI-wFEKzjo1xixFwurWaLvn8kpSu6ObeMjq4LB5YZwHoUYRBhLx6xD/s320/yurt+constructor.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Kyrgyz gent sorting out the mess our well-honed skills have made of it</td></tr>
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There then followed a display of traditional Kyrgyz eagle hunting. I have no intention of saying anything about this on the basis that you can find far more engaging and informed commentary on the topic at the excelent <a href="http://keenonkyrgyzstan.com/">Keen on Kyrgyzstan</a> blog than I could ever hope to write.<br />
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And so...On to the games!<br />
The first game, Ulak Tartysh, is a little bit like football; except very violent, played on horseback and the ball is a decapitated goat. Actually, come to think of it, it's not very much like football at all.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxySxDeZalndGlS7dfF-n4xxCyZu8t28gbozvt9VnGwL4J2WCOrH07jiYY6300YrAFgIVGRdgsjtfZeq-2EctLvqIzRuh3Tt4t-_eN_ZUYkghdYsjiIZLvs5QKPuXkSexf8wiDGkPmPLM1/s1600/goat+game.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxySxDeZalndGlS7dfF-n4xxCyZu8t28gbozvt9VnGwL4J2WCOrH07jiYY6300YrAFgIVGRdgsjtfZeq-2EctLvqIzRuh3Tt4t-_eN_ZUYkghdYsjiIZLvs5QKPuXkSexf8wiDGkPmPLM1/s320/goat+game.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipeO-1rd4t7lr8tYCZBY9zvX5H329VP4z7WOF5wVQQ-nv1ormS_jcMDxt7s6Xrhe7DTUveew1jjQLIwjyDheKQULD5u1Hwy5yde88mGIjtIgGBZFJ2YcubnIRNdsVMymPjNsLqyNg8b4Yq/s1600/goat+game+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipeO-1rd4t7lr8tYCZBY9zvX5H329VP4z7WOF5wVQQ-nv1ormS_jcMDxt7s6Xrhe7DTUveew1jjQLIwjyDheKQULD5u1Hwy5yde88mGIjtIgGBZFJ2YcubnIRNdsVMymPjNsLqyNg8b4Yq/s320/goat+game+3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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It's a hell of a thing to witness, but certainly not for the faint hearted (those cantering horses get damned close to the crowd) or the weak stomached (watching the goat being slaughtered is part of the attraction.<br />
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The next game, Kyz Kumnai, involves a guy on a horse chasing after a girl on a horse with a whip. The guy tries to catch the girl and kiss her and the girl tries to whip the boy so he can't catch her. Once the guy has kissed the girl, he runs the hell away and she (suddenly enthusiastic) tries to chase after him and catch him. Now if that's not the perfect metaphor for the traditional course of male-female relations I don't know what is.<br />
The final game was Oodarysh, or horse wrestling; which is exactly what it says on the tin. Two guys on horseback try and wrestle each other off their respective horses. So simple it's genius.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0DohU4YSrgsaS5IFlXivN8AvBlkSJbVwyIryGckZ_Ngcu1FWcSXx0ENPIcRx57Ipr7QHZiIiwSUckizlyWJMKixdtK6L40KRgFsxPkpgPTf38Kttg5EfPSiJLVtv1LLVSiMgzNagciHpF/s1600/horse+wrestling.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0DohU4YSrgsaS5IFlXivN8AvBlkSJbVwyIryGckZ_Ngcu1FWcSXx0ENPIcRx57Ipr7QHZiIiwSUckizlyWJMKixdtK6L40KRgFsxPkpgPTf38Kttg5EfPSiJLVtv1LLVSiMgzNagciHpF/s320/horse+wrestling.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
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Traditional games done (big tick) and on to the next hastily crammed-in cultural experience...the obligatory Central Asian yurt stay.<br />
So we hop on a marshrutka down to a yurt camp near Bokonbaaev on the south shore of <a href="http://kyrgyzjaunt.blogspot.com/2011/07/lake-issyk-kul-weekend-in-cholpon-ata.html">Lake Issyk-Kul</a> (incidentally as 'kul' is Kyrgyz for lake, calling it Lake Issyk-Kul is a little bit like calling an Italian resaurant <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0130121/quotes">The La Trattoria</a>). The yurt was down by the lakeside and after a comfortable night's sleep we awoke to some of the most beautiful views I have seen in Kyrgzstan.<br />
Unfortunately, Miranda's camera ran out of batteries before we went to bed, so we only have an image of the yurt in the stygian gloom of night (I curse you <a href="http://kyrgyzjaunt.blogspot.com/2011/05/of-kazakh-wine-couchsurfing-parties-and.html">Ulanbek</a>).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcSnTxdwsAnN3PRk2Gb0qT8jNJI7kRcBJmuTnImQSX9UsBxacv-87QA9PRAMlA3oRFRRYV6Nv3rVLHapCI9x5pocJn9KEJ9Xo0wRh2MBXDVa1lQ7oKf79tMuQpZlUXjSi_UtuGiiL1YMdV/s1600/our+yurt-+before+mirands+camera+packed+up.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcSnTxdwsAnN3PRk2Gb0qT8jNJI7kRcBJmuTnImQSX9UsBxacv-87QA9PRAMlA3oRFRRYV6Nv3rVLHapCI9x5pocJn9KEJ9Xo0wRh2MBXDVa1lQ7oKf79tMuQpZlUXjSi_UtuGiiL1YMdV/s320/our+yurt-+before+mirands+camera+packed+up.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our yurt (on the right) in the gathering gloom of nightfall</td></tr>
</tbody></table>And so, like the boy who cried wolf, having inundated you with photos of Bishkek and told you repeatedly how beautiful the Kyrgyz countryside is, I once again (see my trip to Ala Medin through the Ulanbek link above) have to describe without visual backup the gloriousness of the Kyrgyz countryside. We hired a guide to take us on a day's horsetrek up thorugh the surrounding mountains with vistas of lake, pasture, farmland, scrub and mountainside all jumbled and intermixed into one picture like the overactive imagination of a feverish six year old. The effect is glorious and intoxicating. <br />
At the end of the trek, our guide invites us in for chai and lepyoshka, shows us around his smallholding and feeds us fresh apricots from the garden.<br />
The guy who organises the horsetreks in the area (who by a marvellous coincidence has a name pronounced 'jockey') takes us to pick up our stuff from the yurt camp and then drives us to the marshrutka rank in Bokonbaev town.<br />
Halfway to town Jockey receives a phonecall and we stop unexpectudly at the roadside. He explains that our guide for the day wants to go to town as well and would we mind waiting a moment for him. We say no problem. We wait, A few minutes later our man gallops into view at full pelt. parks his horse in a convenient parking spot, tethers it up and hops in. <br />
And then a Marshrutka back to Bishkek and the final preperations for leaving. After a final meal at the Georgian restaurant (spicy, stewy yum) I take a taxi to the airport ready to catch my flight back to the UK....<br />
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</div>...or so I thought.. I arrive at Manas Airport with some 6 hours to kill just sitting around. However, I am determined that I won't fall asleep, definitely not, I'm going to stay awake, sleep will not happen, fall asleep, not...awake, won't, asleep, awake, sleep, going....sleep....<br />
And I jerk awake to find that I've dozed off for a few hours. It's 5am though, still plenty of time.<br />
I wander over to check the situation and find that the flight has been delayed a little. By a bloody day, 24 of them hours. So I get a taxi back to Bishkek and turn up in the early morn on the doorstep of Miranda, Eve and Dirk throwing my shouldn't-you-have-left-the-continent self on the mercy of their charity.<br />
An extremely pleasant final day of pottering around the sunny Bishkek streets and saying my last goodbyes (again) later and finally I board the plane back home to the U of K <br />
<br />
And so Goodbye to Bishkek, to Kyrgyzstan. Goodbye to Lagman and police shakedowns, to komuz and kumyz, to shashlyk and ice cold beer by the railway lines, goodbye to London School, to wednesday night poker sessions, to kalpaks and kurdak, to The Lake Issyk-Kul's azure shores, to majestic mountains and vast bazaars; and to more fine people than I could possibly mention. <br />
<br />
So long Kyrgyzstan and thanks for all the mutton.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Credit for the photographs in this blog article must go to Miranda Phua and Daniel Mahony, thank you both.El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-8118896253843817062011-07-25T08:40:00.000-07:002011-07-25T19:50:35.215-07:00The Lake Issyk-Kul (A weekend in Cholpon-Ata)<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> <<Have you been in our Issyk-Kul?>></span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">With the exception of the gold standard; ‘What the hell have you come to Kyrgyzstan for?’ query, this is the most common question asked by locals to foreigners visiting or coming to live in Kyrgyzstan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lake Issyk-Kul has (since their arrival in the area around about the 14th century) become the spiritual home of the Kyrgyz people and is their pride and joy.<br />
And indeed they have much to boast about;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with a length of </span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">182 kilometres (113 miles), a width of up to 60 kilometres (37 miles), and covering an area of 6,236 square kilometres (2,408 sq mi); it's the tenth largest lake in the world, the s</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">econd largest mountain lake after Lake Titicaca in South America and the second largest saline lake after the Caspian Sea.<br />
Located in the north-east of the country, perched between the stately peaks of the Teskey Ala Too range in the south and the Kungey Ala-Too range in the north (both offshoots of the great Tien-Shan mountains); its name, </span><span lang="KY" style="mso-ansi-language: KY; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Ысык – К</span><span lang="KY" style="mso-ansi-language: KY; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">ө</span><span lang="KY" style="mso-ansi-language: KY; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">л, </span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">means ‘hot lake’; referring not to the waters' balmy temperature (I can assure you) but to the fact that even though it’s at an altitude of </span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">1,607 metres (5,272 ft)</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> in the middle of a bloody great load of mountains, it never freezes, not even in the depths of winter.<br />
Since Soviet times, it's been a popular seaside holiday destination (or as seaside as you can get in a landlocked country) and during the summer it seems like the entire population of Kyrgyzstan decamps to its azure and highly culturally-charged shores. With this in mind I've been holding off going to visit until the weather improved to the point when I could get the typical Issyk-Kul experience (I even looked the other way on the bus rides to and from Karakol so I wouldn't see the lake...yes, I am indeed that sad).<br />
But summer is getting into full swing now, and what better location to expeience the typical Issyk-kul from than its most popular resort; Cholpon-Ata. <br />
And so at the end of a weary week, myself, Dan and The Big Ian dusted off our workday cobwebs, grabbed a bite to eat at the Vefa Centre and then hopped a cab for the 5 hour drive to Cholpon-Ata.<br />
Except it did not take 5 hours, no nor 4 neither, nor 4 neither. In fact it took a little over three hours. Why was this, I hear you ask? (is it you, my dearest reader? Or is that the voices in my head? Nevermind, its all much of a muchness). The answer was that the taxi-driver turned out to have a Michael-Schumacher complex and drove like a fecking lunatic. Still, we arrived all in one piece, just after 1am, in time for a few bevvies with those of the advanced guard who were still awake (i.e. Rhys and Eve).</span><br />
So, who was the company, all told, and what was our purpose at Issyk-Kul's sacred shoreline. Our party was 8 in total; The Big Ian (veterean tefler, Edinburgh born, ironist, sometime philosopher, man of many wisdoms), Dan (Merseysider, speaker of outrageous wrynessess, pathological nickname creator), Cole (soft spoken Oregan gent, dryly humourous, sometimes too generous for his own good), his fine fiancé Кызжыбек (pron. something like Koozj'bek) an affable and petite Kyrgyz lady, Eve (sharp tongued Massachusett, fond of the telling of jokes and of rambling, nonsequitous anecdotes), Miranda (a recently-arrived Melbournite, maker of gentle acoustic guitar pluckery, talker in tangents, currently saving the world one borrower at a time through the mystical art of microfinance), Rhys (an understated Canadian who, recklessly fanning the flames of stereotype, used to work at an ice-hockey rink) and your (relatively) humble narrator. Our stated aim was twofold, to thoroughly relax body and mind, and to celebrate Cole's last weekend in Kyrgyzstan before his return to the States. <span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And now, the company and its purpose introduced, it's time for bed... </span></span><br />
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The next morning we rose and shone for a breakfast of tea, freshly made pancakes (courtesy of Cole, fine gent that he is) and laid-back acoustic guitar accompaniment (courtesy of Miranda, Cole and myself) </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCbude-B2aSNVWV_2PRR4sHs9mkmgtE4GS1nccLrcHUhLZEIkrKUQtMD6s7rNJJoP9OqlTxg5ZY55s-hKiPQ3-hBJJh8tJUFQq1h839-jOV3N2nY_6ibqhPaGCR6EDp_78Vkykb34HDVR-/s1600/cholpon+breakfast.jpg"><span style="color: blue; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f"><stroke joinstyle="miter"></stroke><formulas><f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"></f><f eqn="sum @0 1 0"></f><f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"></f><f eqn="prod @2 1 2"></f><f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"></f><f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"></f><f eqn="sum @0 0 1"></f><f eqn="prod @6 1 2"></f><f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"></f><f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"></f><f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"></f><f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"></f></formulas><path gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect" o:extrusionok="f"></path><lock aspectratio="t" v:ext="edit"></lock></shapetype><shape alt="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCbude-B2aSNVWV_2PRR4sHs9mkmgtE4GS1nccLrcHUhLZEIkrKUQtMD6s7rNJJoP9OqlTxg5ZY55s-hKiPQ3-hBJJh8tJUFQq1h839-jOV3N2nY_6ibqhPaGCR6EDp_78Vkykb34HDVR-/s320/cholpon+breakfast.jpg" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCbude-B2aSNVWV_2PRR4sHs9mkmgtE4GS1nccLrcHUhLZEIkrKUQtMD6s7rNJJoP9OqlTxg5ZY55s-hKiPQ3-hBJJh8tJUFQq1h839-jOV3N2nY_6ibqhPaGCR6EDp_78Vkykb34HDVR-/s1600/cholpon+breakfast.jpg" id="Picture_x0020_1" o:button="t" o:spid="_x0000_i1036" style="height: 180pt; mso-wrap-style: square; visibility: visible; width: 240pt;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="cholpon+breakfast" src="file:///C:\Users\Owner\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image001.jpg"></imagedata></shape><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7i80-VRAmSQLxZN9m99SJ2hP-MGk2_RebSfy2jfzEsPNjLLqQyuXrMUGq_6ZlhRJfjbk_XORiLV64Rv0YTDR9rxAFGY-BYpHIMvkBo9V8zhBh65Wg-DvTPcGp0P9TcN1u8L3vvCLYBOu/s1600/cholpon+breakfast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7i80-VRAmSQLxZN9m99SJ2hP-MGk2_RebSfy2jfzEsPNjLLqQyuXrMUGq_6ZlhRJfjbk_XORiLV64Rv0YTDR9rxAFGY-BYpHIMvkBo9V8zhBh65Wg-DvTPcGp0P9TcN1u8L3vvCLYBOu/s320/cholpon+breakfast.jpg" t$="true" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Stomachs sated, we made our way down to the beach. There's something unnervingly surreal about seeing a typical beachfront resort in a country about as far away from the sea as you can possibly get, But Cholpon-Ata has the typical trimmings, complete with people selling ice-creams and candy floss//fairy floss/cotton candy (plus dried fish, savoury pastries and beer), big beach parasols, slides and diving boards, giant gerbil balls you can trundle across the water in, parasailing and one particularly disgruntled-looking camel giving rides to kids along the longsands.</span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfHcMGZucNL7Qz8KvFIerwKbSad4cZ7CG5cUXebrEEVjDFznc3n63NlZ0SYuVVtLfj47rZpU3cQ5uusACyWJoGODsi6XGpwNnGLQoUDS7MUgSyLxA3I_xYI0YB8ZDuVzTgi77fJyhJf5n4/s1600/cholp+camel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfHcMGZucNL7Qz8KvFIerwKbSad4cZ7CG5cUXebrEEVjDFznc3n63NlZ0SYuVVtLfj47rZpU3cQ5uusACyWJoGODsi6XGpwNnGLQoUDS7MUgSyLxA3I_xYI0YB8ZDuVzTgi77fJyhJf5n4/s320/cholp+camel.jpg" t$="true" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">- Cholpon Ata's Camel -<br />
With all the charm, amiability and job satisfaction one would expect from a worker in the tourist industry</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqODNO6maLszoQivI1OqU0QLqy-Acta3mVLxti_l3qc-t768O2Vkbq0ghtVAikCpAZwI6gUBf61Cr1175wUA1NPC9PQ2N6nTM_xcW0MmV5D88dvyVi0Ct-Qwzx2Z7-prbZwVSqH0ZELSgs/s1600/parasail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqODNO6maLszoQivI1OqU0QLqy-Acta3mVLxti_l3qc-t768O2Vkbq0ghtVAikCpAZwI6gUBf61Cr1175wUA1NPC9PQ2N6nTM_xcW0MmV5D88dvyVi0Ct-Qwzx2Z7-prbZwVSqH0ZELSgs/s320/parasail.jpg" t$="true" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Parasailing - looks like much fun. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten the thing </span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">that holds my glasses on so I couldn't bloody do it. Grrrr!<br />
(shakes fist in impotent frustration at own damn stupidity!)</span></td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We got set up with a parasol, found a choice spot on the beach and then headed in for a dip. The water is bracing but refreshing (it's got nowt on swimming in the North Sea) and not overly salty, approximately 0.6% salinity compared to 3.5% for average seawater, so it doesn’t give you that familiar seaside feeling of your eyes stinging as if a jellyfish has crawled into them and invited all his friends along for a big party. It does, however, provide a gentle, bobbing, buoyancy. This buoyancy might be one reason to explain how, despite spending every summer bumming around at a beach resort, none of the people in Kyrgyzstan can actually bloody swim.</span> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div></div><div align="center"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoNormalTable" style="mso-cellspacing: 0cm; mso-padding-alt: 3.1pt 3.1pt 3.1pt 3.1pt; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184;"><tbody>
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<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 1; mso-yfti-lastrow: yes;"><td style="background-color: transparent; border-bottom: #f0f0f0; border-left: #f0f0f0; border-right: #f0f0f0; border-top: #f0f0f0; padding-bottom: 3.1pt; padding-left: 3.1pt; padding-right: 3.1pt; padding-top: 2.05pt;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Kyrgyzstan's entry for the Turner Prize</span></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">For lunch, I decided to opt for the generally lauded choice of beer and dried fish. Now, bear in mind that not a morsel of fish had crossed my lips in almost a year, and I love seafood. The result was a display of barely restrained savagery for which the word 'devour' only begins to cover. </span><br />
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<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 1; mso-yfti-lastrow: yes;"><td style="background-color: transparent; border-bottom: #f0f0f0; border-left: #f0f0f0; border-right: #f0f0f0; border-top: #f0f0f0; padding-bottom: 3.1pt; padding-left: 3.1pt; padding-right: 3.1pt; padding-top: 2.05pt;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUmAnRESrHdsqBjKz3TzEEOHhc5AV4mS-FqPv1lfJodtEoIdlwe3wIOmvNqRVKH4ofcvdo8CPhVHgktBCphim7yN4Ah9j76Nw7otyhvqvH6-nkF1IN9LVRgPQbR8OUAY9AxxtEoXXdcyKo/s1600/fishyeating.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUmAnRESrHdsqBjKz3TzEEOHhc5AV4mS-FqPv1lfJodtEoIdlwe3wIOmvNqRVKH4ofcvdo8CPhVHgktBCphim7yN4Ah9j76Nw7otyhvqvH6-nkF1IN9LVRgPQbR8OUAY9AxxtEoXXdcyKo/s320/fishyeating.jpg" t$="true" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQhfknFrlA0"><span style="color: blue; font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The rocks and pool - Is nice and cool - So juicy sweet</span></a></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQhfknFrlA0"><span style="color: blue; font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Our only wish - To catch a fish - So juicy sweet</span></a><script language="JavaScript" src="../../ringdown_song.js" type="text/javascript">
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">After we'd popped back to our lodge for a wee siesta, we made our way out to the petroglyphs that lie to the north of the town.</span><br />
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<tr style="mso-yfti-firstrow: yes; mso-yfti-irow: 0;"><td style="background-color: transparent; border-bottom: #f0f0f0; border-left: #f0f0f0; border-right: #f0f0f0; border-top: #f0f0f0; padding-bottom: 3.1pt; padding-left: 3.1pt; padding-right: 3.1pt; padding-top: 3.1pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXUmZWIV5hRPwoQU1VoZoDkYBNG5u-E3Oe9y31NoUWOfR7fiq0wZP1cV7gxTNAGTmCBCySU7EYtawHNkGB6sU53qBrpo3F_sImGdnBW94AGcXPQm0u7RF5vn-WKoNis71_HMkCQEYGlH-O/s1600/petroglyph+-+on+the+way.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXUmZWIV5hRPwoQU1VoZoDkYBNG5u-E3Oe9y31NoUWOfR7fiq0wZP1cV7gxTNAGTmCBCySU7EYtawHNkGB6sU53qBrpo3F_sImGdnBW94AGcXPQm0u7RF5vn-WKoNis71_HMkCQEYGlH-O/s320/petroglyph+-+on+the+way.jpg" t$="true" width="320" /></span></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9MPynTJmIqdI0G48s76e1oHsr-B4sQnovd0HZsBWctKeOyqiZYLUxNz0MVjNdi9TqS-xxcmBLag2xRNFeSCQbtk3vceNSltcXqV49tJolfjT5G92Gj4IZOaHucmIJH2_ZunPHKIGGf65/s1600/petroglyph+-+on+the+way.jpg"><span style="color: blue; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><shape alt="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9MPynTJmIqdI0G48s76e1oHsr-B4sQnovd0HZsBWctKeOyqiZYLUxNz0MVjNdi9TqS-xxcmBLag2xRNFeSCQbtk3vceNSltcXqV49tJolfjT5G92Gj4IZOaHucmIJH2_ZunPHKIGGf65/s320/petroglyph+-+on+the+way.jpg" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9MPynTJmIqdI0G48s76e1oHsr-B4sQnovd0HZsBWctKeOyqiZYLUxNz0MVjNdi9TqS-xxcmBLag2xRNFeSCQbtk3vceNSltcXqV49tJolfjT5G92Gj4IZOaHucmIJH2_ZunPHKIGGf65/s1600/petroglyph+-+on+the+way.jpg" id="Picture_x0020_7" o:button="t" o:spid="_x0000_i1031" style="height: 180pt; mso-wrap-style: square; visibility: visible; width: 240pt;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="petroglyph+-+on+the+way" src="file:///C:\Users\Owner\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image006.jpg"></imagedata></shape><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div></td></tr>
<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 1; mso-yfti-lastrow: yes;"><td style="background-color: transparent; border-bottom: #f0f0f0; border-left: #f0f0f0; border-right: #f0f0f0; border-top: #f0f0f0; padding-bottom: 3.1pt; padding-left: 3.1pt; padding-right: 3.1pt; padding-top: 2.05pt;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">A relaxing evening stroll to go see some ancient stuff</span><br />
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</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCeAosnxLKAToWT588RhaO4up_EKp-IHwKsHQtDjkZRkaSHoNTbWYi87K0B9Ce8K_8YjHEfbEgtKXYgQUFtfH5Qx4tjJT1V1yAqFSfEdWPOb5FxIaF-S0IJimDdVG9etO_tWZoO_Dl6wcT/s320/petroglyph+site.jpg" t$="true" width="320" /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We found a large, open-air site with about 2000 or so petroglyph in various states of clarity and fade-age, dating from 800 BC to 1200AD. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The word Petroglyph comes from the Greek words Petro ‘rock’ and Glyphein ‘carve’, and refers to images carved or incised into a rock (not to be confused with a Pictogram where the image is painted onto the rock)</span><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFzflF1jDz4M83OqCy8yX_nNJUbnTdZlzQXl58-TSmCMjEIgb9UdT9Oq0_hhz2yyLNbBYQMYBzfipQsD2PqPqqb690yAQJuzhPhlGk2KPxpDLaHmf6OLzQKk4JjsFiHK5xbWb6-irtk7YM/s1600/petroglyph+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFzflF1jDz4M83OqCy8yX_nNJUbnTdZlzQXl58-TSmCMjEIgb9UdT9Oq0_hhz2yyLNbBYQMYBzfipQsD2PqPqqb690yAQJuzhPhlGk2KPxpDLaHmf6OLzQKk4JjsFiHK5xbWb6-irtk7YM/s320/petroglyph+1.jpg" t$="true" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The Cholpon-Ata petroglyphs are widely spread around a several hectare site, which also includes a number of stone circles and burial chambers. Many of the stones depict animals, particularly ibex, goats, wolves and horses. A number of the stones depict hunting scenes in which hunters on horseback are hunting with the assistance of tame snow-leopords (which is, quite frankly, pretty damn bad-ass).</span> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWBbRpAeWMBVrJBX20-05Db9UhKhH4rjiNof2LN-hm_KZVs204jVvki1WtqZMkd7eKRsX30olbPI5VKFz32FNP-FnQYOwCO6sgVpQyNre8tVPRgNHn1SM0E_dvWbqbtDLelmAA11EbLJOS/s1600/petroglyph+%252B+rhys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWBbRpAeWMBVrJBX20-05Db9UhKhH4rjiNof2LN-hm_KZVs204jVvki1WtqZMkd7eKRsX30olbPI5VKFz32FNP-FnQYOwCO6sgVpQyNre8tVPRgNHn1SM0E_dvWbqbtDLelmAA11EbLJOS/s320/petroglyph+%252B+rhys.jpg" t$="true" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rock and Rhys</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table> <span style="font-family: inherit;"></span> <span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Another common image on the stones is that of the sun, and this, along with the south-east/south-west orientation of many of the stones and stone circles, has led a number of archaeologists to postulate that this used to be a large open-air temple dedicated to the worship of the sun. </span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">A lot of the glyphs have suffered from the effects of weathering and also a little bit of more modern petroglyph work (mostly people’s names scrawled in a strong, clear cyrillic hand). Nevertheless, a fair number of impressively well preserved examples remain and it provided an extremely interesting hour or so's wander.</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But, as always seems to be the case in this blog, every cultural insight must be paid for with a drunken revel and so, after an incredibly tasty tea of fresh, sizzling hot trout on a platter, we made our way down to the beachfront armed with a plentiful supply of beer and fizzy wine.</span></span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The champagne, direct from the champagne region of Kyrgyzstan/Kazakhstan/Moldova (I'm not quite sure which), was provided courtesy of The Big Ian and turned out to be for the purpose of toasting his 35th birthday, the fact of which he'd been keeping under close wraps all day, the sly dog. So we all drank a toast to his good health, and he extolled his hopes for the second half of his life. These ran as follows:</span><br />
<br />
1) to gain respect<br />
2) to have some of them bairns (that's children to the uninitiated)<br />
and 3) not to become a hope-bereft, washed-out, lecherous, old drunkard<br />
wandering vaguely from country to country because he's too socially <br />
inept to survive in his half-recalled homeland, sipping vodka and <br />
coke from a colourful plastic cup during lessons he no longer has any<br />
enthusiasm to give, to an endless treadmill of students, ever-changing<br />
but always the same, for whom he is at best utter indifferent,<br />
schlepping his way through a series of trainwreck relationships<br />
with a thickly-made-up procession of initally enthusiastic but <br />
switly dissilusioned, nubile, young golddiggers.<br />
This is the great fear and potential fate of all long-term<br />
teflers. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaEdu9vMQ6OXIjGNDky_GyvsNWEEghIEM992svmCJ5JQ6ppDt7z22UdDjerhTJEaKntjvUeyTFgEzg2QYlXP5IhDj9aCoAeoidZT6ej1FhRED9FJ2Fc9VeAzCM0sZCCzaPV82whsLbH0uf/s1600/beachfun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaEdu9vMQ6OXIjGNDky_GyvsNWEEghIEM992svmCJ5JQ6ppDt7z22UdDjerhTJEaKntjvUeyTFgEzg2QYlXP5IhDj9aCoAeoidZT6ej1FhRED9FJ2Fc9VeAzCM0sZCCzaPV82whsLbH0uf/s320/beachfun.jpg" t$="true" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Big Ian divvying up the bubbly</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj4TPVJZeWv_we23nXW_l9AD8omtzc6_71eaPgSAF7xdG9s24J-LsvtX5eW6CAd21pdkw8tUCSWYhYQO8rndxMfeCSaZq8NJFF4CfSIQMU2HyKRjSPuB0XPK98AtiPEdrjSmg3t3zS1LpA/s1600/beachfun.jpg"><span style="color: blue; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><shape alt="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj4TPVJZeWv_we23nXW_l9AD8omtzc6_71eaPgSAF7xdG9s24J-LsvtX5eW6CAd21pdkw8tUCSWYhYQO8rndxMfeCSaZq8NJFF4CfSIQMU2HyKRjSPuB0XPK98AtiPEdrjSmg3t3zS1LpA/s320/beachfun.jpg" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj4TPVJZeWv_we23nXW_l9AD8omtzc6_71eaPgSAF7xdG9s24J-LsvtX5eW6CAd21pdkw8tUCSWYhYQO8rndxMfeCSaZq8NJFF4CfSIQMU2HyKRjSPuB0XPK98AtiPEdrjSmg3t3zS1LpA/s1600/beachfun.jpg" id="Picture_x0020_11" o:button="t" o:spid="_x0000_i1027" style="height: 159.75pt; mso-wrap-style: square; visibility: visible; width: 240pt;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="beachfun" src="file:///C:\Users\Owner\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image010.jpg"></imagedata></shape><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As his p<span style="font-family: inherit;">ièce de résistance</span>, Ian whipped out the <a href="http://kyrgyzjaunt.blogspot.com/2011/05/of-mud-wrestling-bottle-popping-and.html">by now legendary Admiral Ackbar mask</a></span> for a photo opp.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6QeHM7vjRba5hH-fBDPaDfX2bfXqEJw0bxe1G71IHVaj1RfazcDskbJXyhoefT9taNwqSzy5c6maVYOuU5UBex05B7z2NjfHPP_ZQtLHwE0G7LW-z2S07nYbjU3OC7l_wDcSqvSTMPHTg/s1600/Akbar%2527s+return.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6QeHM7vjRba5hH-fBDPaDfX2bfXqEJw0bxe1G71IHVaj1RfazcDskbJXyhoefT9taNwqSzy5c6maVYOuU5UBex05B7z2NjfHPP_ZQtLHwE0G7LW-z2S07nYbjU3OC7l_wDcSqvSTMPHTg/s320/Akbar%2527s+return.jpg" t$="true" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dddAi8FF3F4">Return of the Ackbar</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">After a while Miranda, being sensible, decided to lay her head down and have a snooze, the rest of us, not being sensible decided up and polish of a large quanitty of beer and shoot the shit into the wee small hours.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And so, the next day dawned, as dull and heavy as our hangovers Overcast. windy and gloomy, our enthusiasm for the beach lasted barely an hour. A quick meal in a cafe with waitresses as speedy and enthusiastic and mathematically acute as the Cholpon-Ata Camel later and I was in a marshrutka heading back to Bishkek, with Miranda introducing me to the wonders of Aussie hip-hop. And what finer end to a fine weekend at the lakeside could there be than that.</span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A hearty thank you must again go out to master Dan Mahony for allowing me to use his fine photographs. </span><br />
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</div>El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-10511979169767503312011-06-12T22:21:00.000-07:002011-06-19T08:44:52.389-07:00A Moment of ReflectionToday you find me in reflective mood, contemplating what the the future might hold for Central Asia and Krgyzystan in particular. So you'll find a want of tawdry tales of drunken debauchary, surreal occurences, comic goings on, off the cuff quips and self-deprecating comedy rambles in today's blog. Today shall be a serious taking of stock, a heartfelt analysis of what the future might hold for my sometime country of residence.<br />
Good, so now that I've scared off the vast majority of my readership (if I'd thrown in a handful of facts and figures into the opening paragraph I might have got rid of you all) lets get contemplative.<br />
For<em> </em>I confess that over my residency I have grown to care for this country and its peoples, with all its problems, idiosyncracies and occasionally just damned illogical opinions. <br />
So, what does the future hold? Well, though I confess my opinions probably don't ammount to a hill of beans in this crazy world, here is my tenpenn'orth worth. <br />
The main problem/danger/stumbling block to progress (call it what you will) that most people here can identify clearly enough, but everyone plays along with whilst at the same time bemoaning, is that of corruption. Bribery, cheating, backhanders, nepotism, a bit more cheating, cronyism and the whole unmarked brown envelopes stuffed with unmarked, non-sequential bills rot of it all is so endemic, so normalised, that it will take some serious political will (which is decidedly lacking) and a major seachange in attitudes to even begin to make a change. As a partially sighted person, noone in their right minds would allow me behind the wheel or a car, but I've been told in all seriousness that with a few crisp bills in the right pocket I could be driving the streets, fully licensed before the week is out. A good friend of mine recently took a series of finance exams and presented a thesis, but not as herself, in the role of a friend of hers who is away working in bloddy Moscow. My friend didn't even study finance herself, but this is all seen as normal. Lord knows, the ex-president was so corrupt he happily sold of chunks of his own country to neighbouring regimes in order to line his own pocket. Want a degree? Driving licence? To have a day out hunting endangered species with your pals? Handy Kyrgyz Passport? Murder someone and have it discreetly hushed up? All achievable to a man with the right contacts and deep enough pockets. <br />
Another major problem for Kyrgyzstan is a paucity of natrual resources. Although there's a few companies rooting around in the mountains for minerals of one sort or another, it has nothing like the oil reserves that are currently making Kazakhstan one of the best loved, most befriended authoritarian regimes on earth. <br />
And thirdly, and tellingly, ethnic tensions are still very much present, particularly in the south. The ethnic Russians are still leaving in large numbers (indeed, there is a general brain drain of the well educated out of Kyrgyzstan), and the bitterness between Kyrgyz and Uzbek in the aftermath of the riots in Osh last year is palpable (<a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/jun/10/kyrgyzstan-ethnic-conflict-osh-uzbekistan">read my old colleague Max Bishkek's Guardian article about his interviews with victims of the violence to get an idea of the extent of the emnity</a>).<br />
So, the problems are clear...but where are the opportunities. <br />
Well I can see two big opportunities. The first is in tourism, most specifically adventrue tourism. There's huge, still largely untapped, potential to develop skiing (both on piste and cross country), horse trekking, climbing and gorge scrambling, hill walking and mountaneering, rafting and kayaking and any number of other outdoor pursuits. The key to achieving this is simple, investment. And investment will come if political stability is maintained (there's a Catch 22 here pretty clear to see). <br />
The second opportunity is water. Kyrgyzstan has a pretty abundant supply of water, meltwater from the mountains mostly, in a fairly arid region that is still trying to grow water intensive crops like cotton. This resource is likely to become increasingly impotant in the coming years (<a href="http://www.waterjustice.org/article.php?subSectionID=1&articleID=95">have a look at this for an informed point of view about why</a>). <br />
So there you go, my pontifications, for what they're worth. <br />
King Charles is on his way back through this coming weekend and there are a number of leaving do's coming up, so no doubt it'll be back to tales of drunken debauchary soon enough.El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-14150069232072970002011-05-29T05:14:00.000-07:002011-07-25T19:47:50.345-07:00Это западня (Of Chocolate Wrestling, Bottle Popping and Admiral Ackbar)<div class="separator" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"></div> <<What kind of idiot is going to fork out to buy an Admiral Ackbar Mask in Kyrgyzstan?!>><br />
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That's how it all began, some months ago now. We were having a wander through цум (Tsum = Central Universal Store) a giant department store that sells all kinds of bric-a-brac, including (it turns out) latex masks of Admiral Ackbar from Star Wars. Not, it must be added, a collection of different Star Wars masks. There was not a whiff of a Darth Vader, Storm Trooper or Chewbacca mask. No. Admiral Akbar, alone and proud.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="211" id="il_fi" src="http://gdb.rferl.org/8D794EF9-D48D-431F-99F1-0281B9CF4D66_mw800_mh600_s.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="280" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tsum loves you - as Soviet a piece of architecture as you could want</td></tr>
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The obsession began here, but grew when we watched Star Wars dubbed into Russian. In particular, this scene:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/dddAi8FF3F4?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
Now in Russian, Admiral Ackbar's cry of 'It's a trap!' is 'Это западня!' (pron. Eta Zapadnya). This became an in joke in the oh-so-injokey, pressure-cooker of cliqueyness that is London School, with shouts of Это западня being regularly dropped for the slighest of reasons.<br />
But the answer to the conondrum of what idiot would throw away good soms on a bloody great latex monstrosity depicting a minor character in a 40 odd year old sci-fi film would have to wait five months to be answered. The answer, it turned out, was me. Yep, I'm the mug. A wilfully dumb, overpaid Brit buying a dumb, overpriced item for his wilfully dumb, overpaid Brit friend's birthday. <br />
For May 21st saw a triple birthday celebration in Bishkek, of <a href="http://www.kurtinkstan.wordpress.com/">Kurt Davies</a>, <a href="http://www.ivorypomegranate.com/">Kirsten Styers</a> and <a href="http://www.google.co.uk/imgres?imgurl=https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivc6OD0Z911daDs4-wFW3gC7Mjd15AJe4VSGgpP51ozxh-S7s69C4hTK_Oi_H2TK8OckTA9ZZjGPm71gMmhl5BmAXa4sY2Si5lnXwRSR-Ro2P3r_05wCWhQgWYy-KzfHTJZ8Vx-aEA2ARp/s1600/Kazakh.JPG&imgrefurl=http://kyrgyzjaunt.blogspot.com/2010_11_01_archive.html&usg=__HzD_VcyoMCp4xWhhHj7VJ6W9UGU=&h=1600&w=1200&sz=329&hl=en&start=1&zoom=1&um=1&itbs=1&tbnid=aQy-yGC5s_kFhM:&tbnh=150&tbnw=113&prev=/search%3Fq%3DKazakh%2BTracksuit%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DN%26biw%3D1419%26bih%3D466%26tbm%3Disch&ei=Ry_iTfeJDom0-QbcgY34Bg&biw=1419&bih=466">Daniel Mahony</a> and the largest party yet at Kurt/Alice/Laurence/Dillon/a-rolling-stock-of-other-ex-pats apartment. The place was packed to the rafters. Although my Ackbar mask for Dan was a pretty damn stupid present, it had some competition in the form of a 3-litre behemoth of Russian Standard Vodka:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnQkmGwbFALkzRg6FqfNt8a4e7jmIrdQXyUPg7cAdA5zChrH_t413lw2ZFKklwRmTAI7vUSDvs0O9x2j3tZ4Narn-QL0BBKjzQlzJQpv9eXdl6OK8uzNXZ75yZKPZBQjvnSQaAvSmHd_1l/s1600/Rusky+Standard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnQkmGwbFALkzRg6FqfNt8a4e7jmIrdQXyUPg7cAdA5zChrH_t413lw2ZFKklwRmTAI7vUSDvs0O9x2j3tZ4Narn-QL0BBKjzQlzJQpv9eXdl6OK8uzNXZ75yZKPZBQjvnSQaAvSmHd_1l/s400/Rusky+Standard.jpg" t8="true" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLNTkZkQiEm-tBVTwkw-q_1sFL5YEO7TEK4fiF0Q7ctLg6OifE-409tdurdXxAKQ07SvKYd9_BO5eqJFl2TNYVsaUVMN18DCu3YHHHX8NsI0VjjmhMNInEqco3Ay4PkvJfE3rOKJuJtT88/s1600/Akbar+forss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>A few days later, you find us sitting in Dan's room, supping beers and getting our <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmmapLB8Hzuy3L9IPky1d2oAoHS_eNHo651gkU1KxMTyFqVXkcI2OhKUZl_S5VqqdMeW0-AgliNxYusPQQ6Es6568ARrkEALvUO4yqx_wzc9zdbIQdPMUsEkpNtgUwwn9NFfmaEPmw5r3L/s1600/Akbar+Eve.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>Это западня on trying the many flavours of Ackbar possible. Here are our results for your delectation:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBo0QKlu1H2Q8Eja8mVHJu3jsxOCrqmi1E4KiA_bZWk3G9MUy8T9J0N1i04Btz8o-zEGRV71ZgunWEQ37j_FOXwbh4ZgxpNcM_BVwL4DPPatwpDTZLXp0G8fCnrxH23256QQiPAQchXe3f/s1600/Akbar+Kushjebek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmmapLB8Hzuy3L9IPky1d2oAoHS_eNHo651gkU1KxMTyFqVXkcI2OhKUZl_S5VqqdMeW0-AgliNxYusPQQ6Es6568ARrkEALvUO4yqx_wzc9zdbIQdPMUsEkpNtgUwwn9NFfmaEPmw5r3L/s200/Akbar+Eve.jpg" t8="true" width="150" /><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgunKU8LGIVkH_WZq2oxZeNqRgWE71dJurxLF5oOde-0kmS4Or0W7aM0AU0bqYJVzzO_EyDdYvBBXnqRmFxU15zEvSLsc-ebSwuL80WJB5Jp4rkTDJViPjbBTFO7KTkhxrOspX5NPvPQlAo/s200/Balls+deep+akbar.jpg" t8="true" width="150" /><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij2psCjYjxmiZNP1LVyjwIoFQ9Y9f3D7hrBhyphenhyphenjEiKcXvBFzOYN01QRV61zND6WbRH9mnZ9LJPv3ys7V3V03eTMx3qY3_G0IousqEMFmKLIjGHUnif96xDuYaiR0jZB5p3ozYyU0O4DEAtM/s200/Akbar+shaw.jpg" t8="true" width="150" /><br />
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</div><div align="left"> <img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkAWxQTvUtchfPRBMGB4RJ86kIjEqobl5Xs9BxisHo_X1chrhgroi9Kyt8fbTqaXP9BEv7SZ5uHV60-FJ5kBbk_tPBK8N-yb08lQj97yDp22ibhXDj37uXYOerV5KhO_AfpBiOKJ4E3Wv4/s200/Akbar+king.jpg" t8="true" width="200" /> <img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLNTkZkQiEm-tBVTwkw-q_1sFL5YEO7TEK4fiF0Q7ctLg6OifE-409tdurdXxAKQ07SvKYd9_BO5eqJFl2TNYVsaUVMN18DCu3YHHHX8NsI0VjjmhMNInEqco3Ay4PkvJfE3rOKJuJtT88/s200/Akbar+forss.jpg" t8="true" width="200" /></div><div align="left"><div style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBo0QKlu1H2Q8Eja8mVHJu3jsxOCrqmi1E4KiA_bZWk3G9MUy8T9J0N1i04Btz8o-zEGRV71ZgunWEQ37j_FOXwbh4ZgxpNcM_BVwL4DPPatwpDTZLXp0G8fCnrxH23256QQiPAQchXe3f/s200/Akbar+Kushjebek.jpg" t8="true" width="150" /> <img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5zNQ6HiBTIeXfSe2QpLS6Ug1k7LtcZteHdv4oR5NBP1CeGTBQ8xxT59XS3tzcVAohMLUT6hEQj0aGoooILU0Iy2KzIfK0DhDkqwyn9rsbAL8FvGjgILy9tCCmiBSe2o7KHSTCKLCTwlhO/s200/Akbar+fury.jpg" t8="true" width="150" /></div></div><div align="left"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;">Next day, another birthday party, that of the Keen brothers (Palmer and <a href="http://www.keenonkyrgyzstan.com/">Dennis</a>) and also the last night out in Kyrgyzstan for that Alabaman stalwart Logan King. Logan's modus operandi for the night was as follows:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> <<I'm gonna get silly tonight>> </div><div style="text-align: center;">...and so he did.</div><div style="text-align: center;"> The party was full of new faces, interesting conversation and cheap Kyrgyz champagne.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUGHq5ZEYIqmRbGlZOfP8GOlXhwBLHuqSHKcnj3idJw8Zd459vNBQGLYYAwP5FN6vuxvSmMTkXJsOdaBbIY96pSzMwZcdQHUiBQI1jf-q4h1O2jYp0-kZbY-9RHXeHLmESy7N6BF2wADGe/s1600/The+moment+the+night+got+silly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUGHq5ZEYIqmRbGlZOfP8GOlXhwBLHuqSHKcnj3idJw8Zd459vNBQGLYYAwP5FN6vuxvSmMTkXJsOdaBbIY96pSzMwZcdQHUiBQI1jf-q4h1O2jYp0-kZbY-9RHXeHLmESy7N6BF2wADGe/s400/The+moment+the+night+got+silly.jpg" t8="true" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The exact moment that the night got silly </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">Around midnight a large party decamped to Chelsea Dance Pub. Now, I'm no fan of this particualar venue, a great big sweaty shed of a place with a clientele inclined to agro, and I find the idea of a Dance Pub frankly execrable, but it was Logan's last night so off I went.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="180" id="il_fi" src="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/203617_111891512227324_180509_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="180" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chelsea Dance Pub - How do you spell 'copyright infringement' again?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">And I must confess there were two rather intriguing sights to be seen that night, </div><div style="text-align: center;">The first, a massive flaming tower of booze:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7lLQDjH1BR2ecMG9CqAt1O5uKhjqf6CXUmJkxD3s9_4orqBKOAlV8PerzUjuUc1VHT9orjzzp70FsuckE67DTNt-7XmeMDT4-qSzFS6oxL4PndXZ_t-KdGyfxLOVSSrC_JoFPv99lwML/s1600/Flaming+tower+of+booze.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7lLQDjH1BR2ecMG9CqAt1O5uKhjqf6CXUmJkxD3s9_4orqBKOAlV8PerzUjuUc1VHT9orjzzp70FsuckE67DTNt-7XmeMDT4-qSzFS6oxL4PndXZ_t-KdGyfxLOVSSrC_JoFPv99lwML/s320/Flaming+tower+of+booze.jpg" t8="true" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">The second, some ladies doing a little, light chocolate-wrestling on the dancefloor</div><div style="text-align: center;">...you know, as you do:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgve2dfpa6hyWRynnMmLf6ca5YW4MNAz3jasRjqMeAacuHICYStJAeur0YTVmhInd2-EVmWPzQbZGOaf32DdBOcjADvHs34ltIWv5RvQiQJr609VduCdulP2M1duzyJ7frH6M2r_ZlJ3ObJ/s1600/Chocolate+pit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgve2dfpa6hyWRynnMmLf6ca5YW4MNAz3jasRjqMeAacuHICYStJAeur0YTVmhInd2-EVmWPzQbZGOaf32DdBOcjADvHs34ltIWv5RvQiQJr609VduCdulP2M1duzyJ7frH6M2r_ZlJ3ObJ/s320/Chocolate+pit.jpg" t8="true" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Scene of Battle</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">I can confirm that Logan, a man of his word, did as much getting silly as possible and rocked in a little after six in the a.m. Master King, we salute you sir, Bishkek will be a quieter and less colourful town without you.</div>El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-71127387242046974872011-05-26T07:13:00.000-07:002011-06-19T08:47:13.793-07:00Of King Charles, The Black Prince and The Game of (Somewhat Smelly) Kings.It is traditional in most cultures of the world to mourn the dead. In the case of the Bishkek ex-pat community the dead are any lost souls that have left Bishkek. As each person takes their leave of the Kyrgyz capital, they are granted a funeral/wake where people come to celebrate their time here and mourn their passing. At this team of year their are many funerals, a very suicide cult job-lot of corpses being swept away to their respective Ellysia (or Underworld) in great winged hearses. Today, I would like to mourn a specific member of the glorious dead, his name was King Charles.<br />
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Not King Charles of foreshortened head and Oliver Cromwell-baiting fame, this King Charles was a wanderer who has graced many of the world's more obscure corners, his royal chariot a truck, and his court an ever-changing gallery of adventure holidayists. <br />
His arrival in Bishkek was quiet and understated, he was a student of languages seeking to add Russian to his list through diligent, focused labour. His first evening out with us a week or so later was not quite so quiet and understated. It began with a few beers, followed by a few beers, leading to a few more beers and ended<br />
at a drunken houseparty, with Charlie informing randomers that Dan was his bastard son to a chinese lady. <br />
Now, every king needs a prince, and the horseradish sauce to King Charles' roast beef dinner was one Edward Charlton-Jones (a.k.a The Black Prince).<br />
My first awareness of Edward's arrival was when Eve said to me; 'Have you met the guy with the voice like an old-fashioned BBC presenter' and indeed he does have a marvelous fine public-school accent, with all the boyish charm to pull it off. Hailing from the unbelievably middle England sounding vilalge of Little Hawksley, he studied at Oxford, and is in possesion of that general all round affability that is the hallmark of the better type of public school boy (for non-Brit readers, in the mad world of British schooling, public schools are decidedly private, fee paying places). <br />
Soon after their taking up residence in the Students' rooms at London School, the little kitchen of intimacy that characterises the students flat at London School became a place of meeting, fine conversation and something of a gaming den, accompanied by coffee and cake and the occasional cheeky пиво (that's beer to those not in the know) Shithead was taken on as the game of choice and played unremittingly. Slowly but surely the game began to accrue extra rules. initially to assuage the gents' concern that they were slacking off work, so the Jack of Silly Words (when it's laid you have to look up a random silly word in Russian and remember it) and the Jack of Remembrance (when it's laid you can challenge anyone to remember any word from the Jack of Silly Words) were introduced. These extra rules began to gain terrifying momentum to the point where almost every card had some special meaning, and a story built up with cards dedicated to the people around. Thus, the Queen of Hearts became the Alice card, dedicated to Alice Janvrin, a fine anglo-French rose muchly admired by the gentlemen; everytime the card was laid you had to comment on what a very lovely card it was indeed. <br />
Both Edward and King Charles managed to combine this joviality and social lubrication with a hefty workload of language learning and a great love of bursting randomly into verse. These two gloriously came to a head at a school performance evening where both The Black Prince and King Charles himself performed a poem in Russian.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">El Rey Carlito en su majestad - leyendo poesia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>And why King Charles and the Black Prince? Well it's simple really. People at London School seem to soak up nicknames like plant roots soaking up water in a deset after the first rainfall in a year, and as their were two Charles's at the time, they needed to be distinguished. Well Charlie's natural regal quality dredged up King charles, this going extraordinarily to his head almost instantly, and the logical extention was for Edward to become Prince Edward, hence the Black Pricne.<br />
So there they be, gone but not forgotten. <br />
<br />
p.s. Honorary mention must almost be made of Ceci's death. On the night of her funeral she was having kidney stone issues and had to leave a few minutes into the party, Making her, as Max Bishkek wryly observed, the only person ever to get up in the middle of her own funeral and walk out.El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-55707367035608863572011-05-22T14:25:00.000-07:002011-06-19T08:54:32.414-07:00Of Kazakh Wine, Couchsurfing Parties and The Northwest Passage<div style="text-align: center;">Advance Warning: This entry will have precious few photos (at least those taken by me) because some utter swine called Ulanbek (How do I know his name? All shall be revealed) stole my camera (plus another camera, a phone, an i-pod, a tent bag and two camping stoves, the blaggard) while we were camping in the mountains of the Alamedin valley.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPwF8TdBF6ITj-KxcikZWINfwUUTIcE9IkazYG-k8WOxF5y-C8jpQWlPWdMMsksjlzdWmVdidxlK1Ni3aAJ744E7e17UODbm9iD8cgsTrPHc4NddzO6X6UjhXu4BwmOFrTIhFgpyGVX1K/s1600/Alamedin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPwF8TdBF6ITj-KxcikZWINfwUUTIcE9IkazYG-k8WOxF5y-C8jpQWlPWdMMsksjlzdWmVdidxlK1Ni3aAJ744E7e17UODbm9iD8cgsTrPHc4NddzO6X6UjhXu4BwmOFrTIhFgpyGVX1K/s400/Alamedin.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A stock photo of the Alademin Valley - definitely not taken by me </td></tr>
</tbody></table> </div>So. What news from Central Asia? The previous month has seen the fair denizens of the London School Flats take up <a href="http://www.couchsurfing.org/">Couchsurfing</a> with enthusiasm and aplomb. The catalyst for this was the arrival into the Bishkek fold of one Alec Forss. Restless wanderer, mountain man, lover of rollicking Canadian folksongs (of which more later), overenergetic puppy, Alec is many things to many men, but one thing he certainly is is an advocate of couchsurfing.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img class="blackborder" height="300" src="http://s3.amazonaws.com/images.couchsurfing.us/DHG2XVU/7803837_l_7b3486df98ff292e4a3295c1b473674f.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" usemap="#csimage" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Lesser-spotted Alec Forss, in his native mountain habitat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
It's an idea I've been interested in for some time but never been in a position to get fully invovled in. The idea is gloriously simple, if you have a spare couch (bed, bit of floor, Central Asian floor cushion) you offer it up to weary travellers who msg you to request a place to lay their weary heads for a night or two. In return, when you are travelling, other gracious hosts give you a place to crash for the night. <br />
Logan, with his usual all or nothing zest, took to it like white on rice, got signed up, set out his profile page with care and his first surfer accepted within about a day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img class="blackborder" height="240" src="http://s3.amazonaws.com/images.couchsurfing.us/3QG54I5/10605467_l_83b54c13ec651a01af3848b775bbe9fb.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" usemap="#csimage" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Couch - A pair of Tushuk (floor cushions)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
A few days later, surfer number 1 arrived in the form of Ingrid, a gently spoken, dryly humourous Norwegian with a penchant for the classics (she polished off a Jane Austen while she was staying with us) who was travelling overland through Russia and Central Asia. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsiu7a7AjKOYQPtoT8_tYFHYPr9NjqBz97h7WlItJNSemBhrmip3pGzOmq-VRAmVzTf63cSFrcluu1_5e_6VR8fIiKXaGTRiS1Y7hkbi5piEJ1rxBBI8HEln0AOI6YQWQ6eBkqm-Cb5YzB/s1600/ingrid+with+eagle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsiu7a7AjKOYQPtoT8_tYFHYPr9NjqBz97h7WlItJNSemBhrmip3pGzOmq-VRAmVzTf63cSFrcluu1_5e_6VR8fIiKXaGTRiS1Y7hkbi5piEJ1rxBBI8HEln0AOI6YQWQ6eBkqm-Cb5YzB/s320/ingrid+with+eagle.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ingrid holding a big ass bird - just 'cuase she can</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Her stay proved to be a delight. She introduced us to some belter Norwegian music including (to Logan's great pleasure) <span class="long-title" dir="ltr" id="eow-title" title="John Olav Nilsen & gjengen - Diamanter og Kirsebær"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_JWwF-3KnMo">Diamanter og Kirsebær</a> (Diamonds and Cherries) by John Olav Nielson. A number of fine evenings were spent drinking beer and chatting into the wee small hours, with much badinage and dollops of wry wit She even managed to get up and check out not one but two bazaars the morning after a binge which wound up around 7 in the am...a true trooper.. <br />
Our next visitor was </span>Julia from Kazakhstan, a charming computer expert from Almaty who had a few days before hosted our fine friend Edward Charlton-Jones (a former Russian student at London School and gentleman of the highest calibre).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN0UX-gebE-Yi08OVQOjZ04Jun0Byng4GZIF_dd9C9BbDys7bAu8hqXa7m2jMtp6y-RuEtKRPObtVb-iTYXOP-RfuB0ZrhVHhcEOo2ShN9qADgvMH1MihkFhWpVBIMOEMGcmK-d03XzfeS/s1600/2011_0505Couchsurfing0002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN0UX-gebE-Yi08OVQOjZ04Jun0Byng4GZIF_dd9C9BbDys7bAu8hqXa7m2jMtp6y-RuEtKRPObtVb-iTYXOP-RfuB0ZrhVHhcEOo2ShN9qADgvMH1MihkFhWpVBIMOEMGcmK-d03XzfeS/s400/2011_0505Couchsurfing0002.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ta da - The super-charming Julia from Kazakhstan</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
She arrived bearing gifts of Kazakh chocolate and Kazakh wine (both rather fine actually) and we reciprocated in this cultural exchange by introducing her to the wonder that is <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vFP-MktgOKU">Borat</a>. <br />
Once she realised that it wasn't meant to be an accurate representation of her country, but rather a massive pisstake of Western ignorance about Central Asia and a handy tool for revealing people's prejudices, she laughed along heartilly. <br />
I think Julia was slightly underwhelmed by her first trip to Kyrgyzstan. Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan have gone on opposite trajectories since the split of the Soviet Union. After some initial teething problems, Kazakhstan, rich in oil and natural resources, has flourished with a growing middle class and a shiny ultra-modern new capital city. In contrast, Kyrgyzstam, which enjoyed artificially high importance during the Soviet era, has suffered from a paucity of natural resources, little arable land and growing poverty, struggling through a series of violent revolutions and venally corrupt regimes. And Bishkek, although a pleasure to live in, is no grand tourist destination, with few major sights to see and only a sprinkling of museums and attractions.<br />
Nevertheless, she seemed to enjoy herself. We went out to a really nice traditional Kyrgyz restaurant, and I think she enjoyed the challenge of being in an English-speaking environment. <br />
Bare hours after I bid farewell to Julia, I was hard at work on prep for the next Couchsurfing adventure, London School's first Couchsurfing party. I cooked up a hearty stew of mince, onions, carrots, white wine, rosemary and thyme in the big party pot ready for the evening's festivities and then pottered off to do some of that teaching malarkay. <br />
Lessons over, my hopefulness for a big turnout was dashed upon the rocks of adverse weather conditions. The rain (a rare thing in Kyrgyzstan but proof positive of the old chestnut 'it never rains but ii pours') was bucketing it down so hard that the London School Flats had developed a not inconsiderable moat. The situation looked grim. <br />
I shouldn't have worried though, a few hours later, and 20 odd portions of stew served, I'm wending my way through a mass of revellers (I think we had about 35 peeps in total), these included friends, friends of friends and couchsurfers from the Phillipines, Japan, Kyrgyzstan and England; the last of whom, one Iain Webb, ended up becoming London School couchsurfer number three by crashing down on my Tushuk for the night (insert cheap pun of choice here).<br />
The next morning was a (relatively) early rise, a quick cafe lunch at Lola's and then off up into the mountains.<br />
The plan; three days trekking through and camping in the glorious Alamedin valley to take advantage of the long weekend. You can just imagine the beautiful views and stunning vistas which we photographed. Actually, you'll have to just imagine them since all our beggaring cameras were swiped.<br />
The team; myself, Logan King (on a rare foray out of Bishkek into that nature), mountain man Alec Forss (who earned the nickname Billy-goat Forss from Logan due to the way he bounded up a mountainside), a fine Melbourne lady called Katie (who's studying Russian at London School at the mo, whilst setting up the <a href="http://en-gb.facebook.com/pages/Central-Asian-Environment-Coalition/209228015765873">Central Asian Environment Coalition</a>), and our erstwhile couchsurfer/crashee Iain.<br />
The first day we wended our way along the left bank of a river for several miles past yurts and horses, finally scrambling through a good half hour of heavy, thorny vegetation and rocky outcrops, ending in a steep cliff fall over whitewater and no way forward. We decide to head back to a fire pit we saw about forty minutes back and set up camp for the night<br />
An hour or so later and the tents are set up, a fire is going, a noodly concoction is bubbling away on the stove and a bottle of cognac and cups of vodka and fanta are doing the rounds.<br />
As I was nearing the end of the bottle of cognac (my addition to the even's libations) Iain proposed roasting some bananas over the fire. Now, anybody worth their salt knows that the best way to cook a banana is to flambée it in brandy...so that is what we did. The last of the cognac was poured into a travel pan and we feasted on flambéed bananas (the taste for which I have to thank a Parisian banker in whose house I was a guest a few weeks many summers ago for). This was followed by open-fire-blackened bananas with chocolate inside (also rather tasty).<br />
And so, well fed and watered, the singing began. Now, Alec is a huge fan of the Canadian Folksinger <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=th-WDf42rG0">Stan Rogers</a>, whose songs were inspired by Canadian History and the daily lives of its working people, particularly those from east coast fishing villages, and Alec's enthusiasm for said artist has spread like a rather tuneful virus amongst the London School flock.<br />
In particular, we have taken to belting out <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=th-WDf42rG0">The Northwest Passage</a>, his celebration of the explorers who attempted to discover a northwest sea passage from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean.<br />
So that is what we did, two Brits, an American and an Aussie, belting out a Canadian folktune about the sea, at the top of our lungs, on a mountainside in Kyrgyzstan (a completely landlocked country). <br />
This was followed by a 'guess the missing word' quiz convoluted from Iain's bizarre imagination and a 'History of Philosophy' book, and then a limerick making circle. The things one cooks up to entertain oneself while camping are truly many splendoured. <br />
The next day dawned bright and sunny, which Logan appreciated mightilly. Everyone else languished in bed untill the sun had pottered off to be replaced by a constant mizzle and mist interspersed with occasional bursts of full-on, lashing-it-down rain.<br />
On an early-morning trip to clear his bowels Logan had dsicovered a series of well worn paths not much higher up the mountainside, so we take one of those routes up the mountainside. A few minutes in, at a paticularly spectacular view, I note that we've all left our cameras at the camp and wonder whether we should head back and get them. The collective decision is to keep moving. What fools we are!<br />
We cross a burn and trudge over pastureland in the persistent mist and mizzle, an experience a little like wandering through a cloud full of cows. After a few hours the rain grows heavier and we picnic beneath a large slanting boulder for shelter. The rain still sheeting down, and visibility increasingly low through the fog, we decide to head back to camp.<br />
We return to camp to find that a good deal of small but valuable stuff has been nicked; including cameras, an ipod, mobile phone, a tent bag and, intriguingly, a bag of haribo sweets. Much swearing ensues.<br />
By this time the ground is a great slurry of mud, but our alcohol supplies were all consumed the previous night, and this kind of bad news needs to be washed away with a bevvy or three, so me and Iain splodge off on the 2 and a bit hour round trip in search of beer, returning with dusk at our footsteps laden with 9 litres of Kyrgyzstan's very own (bloody awful) beer наше пиво (tip: drink арпа instead, it's miles better)<br />
We arrive in high spirits to find that Logan's tent has flooded and the fire is completely unlightable. Buggar and indeed buggaration.<br />
Not to be deterred, we decamp to the party tent to feast on a creative mix of raw fruit and veg formed into a four-course menu by some mysterious alchemy of Katie's doing. The night wended away nicely with beer aplenty, a four second trivia game (once again dredged from the depths of quizmaster Iain's imagination), plus a hearty second rendition of The Northwest Passage. The evening was further enlivened by Logan's phone ringing (the reception in the wilderness was surprisingly bloody good). Who was our mystery caller? It was the bounder who stole our stuff ringing us to show off his English. This extended to repeating 'Hello, I am Ulanbek' several times and giggling. <br />
<br />
What a total nobjockey!<br />
<br />
And so, the next morning, we made our way back down to the car park and took a taxi back to Bishkek, stopping at the roadside to buy a bottle of fresh kumyz, a traditional Krygyz drink made from fermented mare's milk. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">So, there you have it. The tale of London School's initiation into the wonderful world of couchsurfing. In the coming weeks we have at least three more couchsurfers staying, including the return of the legendary Max Bishkek, fresh from his month's volunteering as an English teacher down in Osh. He will be spending his final days in Kyrgyzstan before returning to normalcy and his dayjob in the Big Smoke that is London, in the guise of a humble couchsurfer. Stay tuned for the next thrilling instalment of the Bishkek saga.</div>El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-18551031939345377832011-04-10T07:24:00.000-07:002011-06-19T08:41:47.669-07:00Of Earthquakes, Opera and Hiking in Sary Chelek<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPD4DutymmzXV2FNQcwNI-MPsgJ0HHJZ9cPBqjY9THC0uGREN9j4Dy3R8fO3wBzg90JvDR7R7_l407nE084mlW1lGS310HUcTRxmMpqsgULmstuF5byw_a6FomdOsTFStM1XkZAOTrtdF0/s1600/wanderers+in+a+white+land.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPD4DutymmzXV2FNQcwNI-MPsgJ0HHJZ9cPBqjY9THC0uGREN9j4Dy3R8fO3wBzg90JvDR7R7_l407nE084mlW1lGS310HUcTRxmMpqsgULmstuF5byw_a6FomdOsTFStM1XkZAOTrtdF0/s320/wanderers+in+a+white+land.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wanderers in a white land</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I feel a judder and then a sensation of motion somewhat akin to being a bit squiffy after one too many glasses of pimms What has occured? Is it the lumbering passing of a convoy of trucks along Sovietskaya road below? No, I have just eperienced my first earthquake, a little brother to the hiedous behemoth which devestated Japan mere days before. And it is, frankly, a little underwhelming. Though this does not stop it spooking a few of my students, who inform me, 'this is not a good building to be in.'. Hhhm, not reassuring news. But then Iskender (a pleasure to have in the classroom and incidentally a big Chris Rea fan) breaks into a rousing chorus of Bobby McFerin's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5bNE-5TVAmg">Don't Worry (Be Happy)</a> and this inexplicably calms everyone down. <br />
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- / - \ - / - \ - / - \ - / - \ - / - \ - \ - / - / - \ - / - \ - / -<br />
I feel a judder and then a sensation of motion somewhat akin to being a bit squiffy after one too many glasses of pimms What has occured? I've fallen face first into a two foot drift of snow. That's what's happened. I've been carearing around in this, disoriented, cod-inebriated fashion for a good hour now, staggering along behind the rest of the group with my balance all shot to hell. <br />
Perhaps we should backtrack a little. The trip during which I am tripping is to the mountain lakes of <a href="http://www.kyrgyzstan.orexca.com/sary_chelek_reserve_kyrgyzstan.shtml">Sary Chelek Biosphere Reserve</a>. The planning for this trip was extensive, essentially consisting of a phone call to <a href="http://www.cbtkyrgyzstan.kg/index.php?lang=en">CBT Kyrgyzstan</a> where we were told it was madness to go trekking in Sary Chelek this time of year, that treks there didn't start til May and we'd be damn fools to attempt it. A phonecall to another rep, who may have been a bit tipsy and suicidally bored at the time, gave a slightly different opinion: <br />
<br />
<<Come over, it'll be fine!>><br />
<br />
So we headed to a map shop tucked round the corner of the Kyrgyz cartographic institure and clearly signposted with an A4 piece of paper saying 'Maps in English', and purchased a map of Jalal-Abad province in glorious technicolour...<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We head eastwords across the plain, traversing the wasteland of Gorgoroth to the very foot of Mt. Doom</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Over Gerorgian food (an extremely tasty, spicy stew type cuisne that I'd never encountered before) that night we (we being Dillon 'D-Solid' Cases, my fine co-northeasterner Stuart Colquhan and the newly arrived in town Alec Forss) arrange to meet at 7:30am the following day and get set off nice and early.<br />
I wake up sharpish next morning, brush my teeth, check I've got everything in my backpack. The doorball rings. It''s Alec arriving to inform me that although he had brought everything necessary for backpacking with him to Kyrgyzstan, he'd unfortunately forgot to bring a beckpack to put them in, so was going to have to regretfully bow out of this one.<br />
Undettered, I wend my way to the rendezvous point; Stuart and D-Solid's fine abode. I arrive at the flat at 7:30am prompt; the door is opened by a bleary-eyed, pyjama-d Dillon. He is not packed and has emails he needs to send. On the sofa lies a crashed-out Stewart, sporting a sign which says:<br />
<br />
<<Wake me immediately!>> <br />
<br />
This instruction being carried out, he precedes to open his eyes, gaze around and begin swearing volubly, this toxic stream of obscenity carries on unabbated for about an hour. It transpires that he's been drinking all night, got stuck in the middle of a heated row for which he spent several hours playing peacemaker, and has had approximatley an hour and half's sleep<br />
After a few hours of variously frantic and lackadaisical packing we head off to get essential supplies. These essentials include oranges (bloody expensive), sausages, goose liver paté and vodka. <br />
Stuart has realised he's forgetten to bring a hat and gloves, so we stop of at Osh bazaar, which is where we need to go to get taxis anyway. He disappears into the densely packed throng of stalls while me and D-Solid provide idle amusement to a few pre-pubescent bazaar kids who know two words in English and aren't afraid to use them...repeatedly, repetetively, seemingly endlessly. After half and hour, Stuart has not returned and we are beginning to get a wee bit concerned. Five minutes later, he appears with not a glove to be spoken of, with a hat that merely says 'ATTACK' in large letters on it and is a few sizes too small and informs us he has been shaken-down by the police and they've been practising their sleight of hand by slyly pocketing 500 som.<br />
Slightly, but not unduly, deterred we hop a taxi to take us to a the village of Kara Jigatch, where our homestay man is due to pick us up and deliver us to our evenings rest. It;s a considerable journey and we stop off at a pitstop cafe on the way, where I engage in a fine lagman (a Central Asian dish of thick noodle stew), Stuart has a fine roast chicken and D-Solid ends up with what could best be described as a lump of slightly dried-out spam.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLCkBQh9CQ4PLXZrh8dac6mKO3swA-JxUgcc3tOmp5UeHMChiI41EIdvtAHeYonhaOa1odqNwO8hkju7p93_z-fU_jjt8rggsd0dRNT_aodV3KG4prZm8Uq-dte1G3A9W_lsIok-TCZgh1/s1600/in+the+pitstop+cafe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLCkBQh9CQ4PLXZrh8dac6mKO3swA-JxUgcc3tOmp5UeHMChiI41EIdvtAHeYonhaOa1odqNwO8hkju7p93_z-fU_jjt8rggsd0dRNT_aodV3KG4prZm8Uq-dte1G3A9W_lsIok-TCZgh1/s320/in+the+pitstop+cafe.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">D-Solid, master of concealment</td></tr>
</tbody></table>At nightfall, we approach Kara Jigatch. But something is awry. Our man is nowhere to be seen, the light is switfly vanishiing, his mobile is swtiched off, we are stood next to a billiard hall and surrounded by boozed up Kyrgyz fellas, a phone call to our man's house confirms his wife doesn't have a damn clue where he is either. In desparation, we get a taxi to the homestay, and by taxi I mean a beaten-up old banger driven by two drunk Kyrgyz twenty somethings. They laugh, burst into song, stop to talk to friends, veer erratically around the road; the chance of us getting mugged in the dark, far away from any kind of assistance, seems high. We are now quite considerably deterred. <br />
But all is well, we arrive and the worries and weariness of our long journey is soothed with broth, bread and steaming hot tea.<br />
Next morning we meet our guide, a becapped and wellington-booted gentlemen called Juma, in the further end of his middle age. He tips us a nod, and we wander out of the village up into the mountains<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOxfXInxa7qK5pofl0mIAo4rS0CNY0iM_1_jK0m4axNLXldqg-TbvzGtFsBkrMlCaPoGowYC1mABgRG7kTmYFGGI8MNvWFXvhn9Hug6LqtCnSzlTjTlLY_A_w6gtsn8ms2quF1ZtC9hB7p/s1600/heading+out+.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOxfXInxa7qK5pofl0mIAo4rS0CNY0iM_1_jK0m4axNLXldqg-TbvzGtFsBkrMlCaPoGowYC1mABgRG7kTmYFGGI8MNvWFXvhn9Hug6LqtCnSzlTjTlLY_A_w6gtsn8ms2quF1ZtC9hB7p/s320/heading+out+.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heading Off</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We pass a few little farmsteads and hamlets, some livestock and some bemused cows<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu4lLOanyFmKyYMyMIEIjQmYgzG9vU_wHhyphenhyphenwVNchrFMJlLp2bZyr8EFX8arJb3IraU-le-_uUUyypLUBqYTmbEBgCmETTKCEiipwyOLNi0XjsprK7x5VrdN1P1zIfFW6LTLdBEQTe3EYjs/s1600/some+bemused+cows.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu4lLOanyFmKyYMyMIEIjQmYgzG9vU_wHhyphenhyphenwVNchrFMJlLp2bZyr8EFX8arJb3IraU-le-_uUUyypLUBqYTmbEBgCmETTKCEiipwyOLNi0XjsprK7x5VrdN1P1zIfFW6LTLdBEQTe3EYjs/s320/some+bemused+cows.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some Bemused Cows </td></tr>
</tbody></table>The initial going is not too bad, some inclines but not too steep, some log bridges to cross over streams, a few little fordlets to wade through but generallly nothing too strenuous...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBu0SDX9UOxQuG27OPfYTVLaJWSraqV8S_b4d-7VoXxAX2xoahHUq1Y3UPOqM6x1t2bTIGrbV9sjM_cwC7jUyQRIRjxNySBGmHOnVhX1r3M1tlmq98JqWMPG6bIxeUlbQyevgSzp_0OUsA/s1600/the+initial+ascent.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBu0SDX9UOxQuG27OPfYTVLaJWSraqV8S_b4d-7VoXxAX2xoahHUq1Y3UPOqM6x1t2bTIGrbV9sjM_cwC7jUyQRIRjxNySBGmHOnVhX1r3M1tlmq98JqWMPG6bIxeUlbQyevgSzp_0OUsA/s400/the+initial+ascent.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV0XdBDCD42_HN7u4p6JwwVNuxUEKTP0HuegP6RqADIOyk5XYWbFE8dM3DA1hVrnMNmeG18I8ObihfrdKjaa4fthxO351R3SsSVaWtcSBDxInnrOlegKAAGel0ur1ZVCviZUo9_SIXWzeK/s1600/A+gnarly+tree+-+gnarly%2521.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV0XdBDCD42_HN7u4p6JwwVNuxUEKTP0HuegP6RqADIOyk5XYWbFE8dM3DA1hVrnMNmeG18I8ObihfrdKjaa4fthxO351R3SsSVaWtcSBDxInnrOlegKAAGel0ur1ZVCviZUo9_SIXWzeK/s320/A+gnarly+tree+-+gnarly%2521.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A gnarly old tree - Gnarly!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>But then we reach the snow and my coordination goes haywire. In places two feet deep, every step felt like 10 steps on normal ground, feet sunk into the snow, the tent kept falling off my backpack and I was swaying like an uncoordinated drunk with a wooden leg. The fact that my other companions, including a man at least a quarter century older than I, seemed to be making light work of it, made me feel like a hobbit struggling up Caradhras whilst Legolas the elf lightfoots it effortlessly over the top of the snow.<br />
As night fell, we were still some 40 minutes short of our chosen destination, but decided to camp by a smaller lake <br />
We set up camp and Juma lit a small fire, whipped out a cooking pot and proceeded to whip-up the kind of stodgy, filling, carb-heavy magic that you need after a hard days trekking.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhglqlFZtVknTCmx2ZMfR-1kCzhTizagNvKexOCOBMACZ8JkLrhme6ddTqcbOEc0OoB9Z2nHmAfhwuR9OqBXLBz_rxi-Hh_rLah1HKzo-iBKulzFUi8dJGn7bM2AzJBu_brnekCsFhkoyPI/s1600/the+steaming+pot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhglqlFZtVknTCmx2ZMfR-1kCzhTizagNvKexOCOBMACZ8JkLrhme6ddTqcbOEc0OoB9Z2nHmAfhwuR9OqBXLBz_rxi-Hh_rLah1HKzo-iBKulzFUi8dJGn7bM2AzJBu_brnekCsFhkoyPI/s320/the+steaming+pot.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Dog tired, we roll into bed. Just as I am beginning to drift off into the realms of the unawake, the rain starts. It proceeds to rain (or snow, or sleat) solidly all night. At 4am, we awake to find the outer tent area flooded, and our shoes and bags sopping wet. Buggar!<br />
Morning dawned, crisp and clear, but we ignored it completely and slept on through til 11:30. When we finally dragged ourselves out of our pit, it was to discover that Juma had miraculously managed to get a good fire going with wet-through, green wood and was warming up some чай (chai = tea). We also got a good look at the stunning frozen lake we'd glimpsed in the half light; great concentric circles of different thicknesses of ice created swirling patterns over the lake and there was one end where the lake was not frozen, where the water formed a shape that could best be described as a touch phallic<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLsUFDiRvHUapO-arIpj94oLZL5cq6j-4EbN7IAlDihmG_U_L5eY6qRiE6bYDPNeZSBBUKvP1AmStgaNpgXpKompAVJuGHUg9n-v_LUEpBiUNsYiXCeygqhfnHCgRQzVDJQ_r8RRK8Ushs/s1600/the+willy+shaped+water.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLsUFDiRvHUapO-arIpj94oLZL5cq6j-4EbN7IAlDihmG_U_L5eY6qRiE6bYDPNeZSBBUKvP1AmStgaNpgXpKompAVJuGHUg9n-v_LUEpBiUNsYiXCeygqhfnHCgRQzVDJQ_r8RRK8Ushs/s320/the+willy+shaped+water.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><blockquote>The willy-shaped water</blockquote></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Juma whiled away the breakfast by whittling me a walking cane to try and counterbalance my total inability to stay upright.<br />
We trekked the 40 minutes to the main lake, a stunning great alpine vista of snow-capped mountains and denuded trees still far short of springs first budding.<br />
We sat for some time by the lakeside musing on the transient nature of travelling life. D. Solid explained to us his theory that keeping relationships going had been made more complex in the last fifty years or so by two factors; globalisation and feminism. It is an itriguing theory, which probably has a fair ammount of truth in it, but as he pointed out, more complex doesn't necessarilly mean worse. We learn from Stuart that one of the former London School teachers, who had a fling with a German girl while living in Bishkek, had just moved to Munich to be with her, having kept contact through a good few of months of him living back in the states. More difficult indeed, but not impssible.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu0IXMX4gMrZ-dqTC35zOuYKZARCr5QbvieMDoK5MdAkq5gvX7LyezXeoVTos6YikJKB-D04ORhE22XkUs-tRNxcHtojMBkpvMBp8SrAnnCzcVombCWBY235bedWmcuZ3ZV0z9p8ICoTDp/s1600/Saruy+Chelek.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu0IXMX4gMrZ-dqTC35zOuYKZARCr5QbvieMDoK5MdAkq5gvX7LyezXeoVTos6YikJKB-D04ORhE22XkUs-tRNxcHtojMBkpvMBp8SrAnnCzcVombCWBY235bedWmcuZ3ZV0z9p8ICoTDp/s320/Saruy+Chelek.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsD_W6YPhgNqcl4O4G3EpEoWdpyd8uBOwCO8qPay5X-hc4ukJUWY3KtVKFcIKfXDHX_ahgCCK75J7I4lggD6c3uwoubgo5AtGAwXxBac46NQmR6c185PSFNxi_XSA2YbuMrLj8OpzPfMfO/s1600/Stewart+Colquhan+-+Gentleman+Adventurer.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsD_W6YPhgNqcl4O4G3EpEoWdpyd8uBOwCO8qPay5X-hc4ukJUWY3KtVKFcIKfXDHX_ahgCCK75J7I4lggD6c3uwoubgo5AtGAwXxBac46NQmR6c185PSFNxi_XSA2YbuMrLj8OpzPfMfO/s320/Stewart+Colquhan+-+Gentleman+Adventurer.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stuart Colquhuan - Gentleman Adventurer</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpVTQvpFxW1iFlzxiCxUW-aHVkoHuAYNudj0mljIig9Vp7IHmWbNgGl8ACgnPBu1elINU6Bec2FSp2RWXpiPHqJtgEEVJHll2QWIKD4_7fI24s5pxwuKCMh14fl_TbhXKxjnq15UZ61LAb/s1600/before+the+frozen+lake.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpVTQvpFxW1iFlzxiCxUW-aHVkoHuAYNudj0mljIig9Vp7IHmWbNgGl8ACgnPBu1elINU6Bec2FSp2RWXpiPHqJtgEEVJHll2QWIKD4_7fI24s5pxwuKCMh14fl_TbhXKxjnq15UZ61LAb/s320/before+the+frozen+lake.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Myself - doing that smiling, posing, nonsense</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Having taken our heady fill of intelectual debate and emotional ramblings, we equalised the mood somewhat by throwing stones at the lake and prodding it with a big stick. That done, we took our leave of the grandeur and trundled back to camp.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRIAOd1hY2G5ffjrmOeOtYRChyphenhyphenSkty92l5aVoQss4Wvk6emTxCHt3WY8Jn_Dke1524d8g6f8HI3C6flWaRRA0-0mjfmn3h5xmN9gh6f-hbefQvo8OxlYutP991h0_nFAnkNCOzO-wonGFW/s1600/Spearing+the+ice.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRIAOd1hY2G5ffjrmOeOtYRChyphenhyphenSkty92l5aVoQss4Wvk6emTxCHt3WY8Jn_Dke1524d8g6f8HI3C6flWaRRA0-0mjfmn3h5xmN9gh6f-hbefQvo8OxlYutP991h0_nFAnkNCOzO-wonGFW/s320/Spearing+the+ice.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
The rest of the day past by with us trying, with fairly limited success, to keep a fire going that Juma had begun and perfected with seeming ease before wandering off to prep the tea. The evening saw us curled up in the bloody-chilly confines of our tent (thanks for the hot-water bottle mum, you are a lifesaver) playing a game of Texas Hold 'em Poker by the light of a single mobile phone. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4h39mb_M-N7by_8qbeEFSiJjTBoSjtr52LDqkysismssPkO9L2sfpcSDg7GtiQTsHTSX6mF9jcFpIi5-2yxwSGsEkPLfOlDO8iR9utEEJdepRbQ2IyPq3aPELevkTkaA8rktXX3J4se_a/s1600/keeping+the+home+fires+burning.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4h39mb_M-N7by_8qbeEFSiJjTBoSjtr52LDqkysismssPkO9L2sfpcSDg7GtiQTsHTSX6mF9jcFpIi5-2yxwSGsEkPLfOlDO8iR9utEEJdepRbQ2IyPq3aPELevkTkaA8rktXX3J4se_a/s320/keeping+the+home+fires+burning.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Keeping the home fires burning (just)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The walk back down was a much more gentle affair, with rolling slopes rather than steep inclines, which all went well until I got cramp and shooting pains in my right foot, causing me to exclame every few hobbled steps, like some half-mad, invalid, drill sergeant <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8zI0TsSEWvfN6X-wINdTjF-5d28Qbopgu3LcbLeyS2MquHvUMV0vc9gEhUuzFSvedq1lEK2_BiLe0oMMB0Fto4K12wXNEFJKpSJ8WkJucPoGdsLZVAvl7KZZSDnWMDT7U9UgREujdewQz/s1600/wild+garlic+.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8zI0TsSEWvfN6X-wINdTjF-5d28Qbopgu3LcbLeyS2MquHvUMV0vc9gEhUuzFSvedq1lEK2_BiLe0oMMB0Fto4K12wXNEFJKpSJ8WkJucPoGdsLZVAvl7KZZSDnWMDT7U9UgREujdewQz/s320/wild+garlic+.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wild Garlic growing by the wayside </td></tr>
</tbody></table> We stopped on the way to pick some wild garlic that Juma pointed out on the roadside. The stinging, allium, tartness of the leaves was a great pleasure to taste and D-Solid and Stuart gathered a loud with the intention of making wild garlic soup on their return.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ZVR4Hnxo-Yj7cHiWX4Tkx7Ib2AFIETUqM6LJ_6HqMg1jTIFQRMKi6IS-n1-dFYt1skXmyObfYJC5RCl7e601UVcTyAsvElnqbRky6-SDUFh8IZvDYspL_RHsYqH8CTb_oqp17Ov5R3aZ/s1600/gathering+wild+garlic+.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ZVR4Hnxo-Yj7cHiWX4Tkx7Ib2AFIETUqM6LJ_6HqMg1jTIFQRMKi6IS-n1-dFYt1skXmyObfYJC5RCl7e601UVcTyAsvElnqbRky6-SDUFh8IZvDYspL_RHsYqH8CTb_oqp17Ov5R3aZ/s320/gathering+wild+garlic+.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gathering Wild Garlic</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Our return leg was no less eventful. We accepted a sum of 5500 som to take us back to Bishkek, from a village guy who clearly didn't want to go all the way. Stuart's lack of haggling incensed D-Solid, but I was inclined to be on Stuart's side, we could afford it and this was just some poor village fellow who couldn't afford any extravagances, only essentials. When we discovered that his 80s monstrosity of a car had tinted windows and a souped up sound system complete with dayglo tweeters and big-ass subwoofers, I felt less positively inclined. We reached the crossroads town of Tosh Komur and he had a quick chat with another taxi driver who agreed to take us back the rest of the way for the agreed sum. No rats were sniffed until a moment before the guy sped off, when Stuart jumped out to check the details. Too late the cry went out! The guy was no more than a cloud of dust and a burst of dopler-effected Kyrgyz dance music toss. We had been jipped for a thousand som. We ended up paying the same ammount, but had to share the taxi with an extra passenger. Curses were laid on the double dealing swine, the taxi driver was amused at our naivity. In fact, amused turned out to be his default setting and the rest of the journey back was highly convivial. That is until, about twenty minutes outside of Bishkek, a chunk of the back of the car fell of with a resounding screach and thud. We pulled over to the roadside, a cloth was laid on the ground, and the driver borrowed my walking stick to knock the still half-attached lump of vehicle onto the ground and deposited it in the boot (Americans read 'trunk'). Crisis averted, we made our way back to our homes and warm beds, or in my case made my way back to Anton's Bar for a few bevvies.<br />
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In other shamelessly unrelated news crudely tagged on the end, I had my first operatic experience in the form of a ticket costing the princely sum of £2.80 to go and see La Traviatta at the Opera and Ballet Theatre. It was a real pleasure, the opulence of the setting not entirely met by some of the male leads reedy voices. and the chorus being sung in Russian while the leads warbled away in Italian took a bit to get used to. But the Prima Donna had a cracking voice and the music was stirring and powerful. I have not the slighest clue how they could be breaking even with the event, as their were four extravagent sets and not that many more people in the audience than were onstage, but it was a ine evening.<br />
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So, mountains, mishaps, earthquakes and opera have been the flavours of my last few weeks. El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-33302673234783386442011-03-10T05:58:00.000-08:002011-06-23T05:35:40.264-07:00Of Decadence, Decline and Fall(ing asleep)<div style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><u><span style="font-size: large;">The Heavy Duty Bit</span></u><br />
For a large majority of the citizenry in Post-Soviet republics, the reality of liberty and free trade have not been the heady explosion of self-determination and consumer shopping spree contentment that early optimism hoped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The liberalisation of the markets has resulted in a massive flight of capital elsewhere and in a seismic increase in the gap between rich and poor; while a small elite have amassed extraordinary wealth, the masses have had to deal with rising levels of unemployment and underfunded, decaying public services.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
Kyrgyzstan has been hit particularly hard by this shifting post-soviet landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As an important location for military testing<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> and popular Soviet holiday destination, Kyrgyzstan punched above its weight in the USSR, and the Soviets engaged in construction projects in Kyrgyzstan that the country could not have hoped to have funded on its own. </span>Many people consider the late 70s and early 80s to be a heyday for Kyrgyzstan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In contrast, it is now a small, isolated nation bullied by big bruiser neighbours like Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan that have considerably more natural resources and material wealth.<br />
The power vacuum left by the crumbling iron fist of Soviet rule has been quickly filled by organized crime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of the bigwigs in this murky underworld are the same well-placed officials of the former Soviet Republics, and their heirs in oligarchy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There has been an alarming rise in violent retributive crimes, prostitution, gambling and human trafficking throughout the former Soviet republics.<br />
This is clear enough to see in Bishkek, bookmakers proliferate throughout the centre of town and the city has a swathe of casinos totally out of proportion with its population (even before you consider the low earnings of the average Bishkekian).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
The flow of human cargo from country to country (for forced labour, domestic servitude, commercial sex etc.) is an opportunistic hydra that springs up in one part of the world, drains it of its most precious resource and then disappears when the going gets tough, only to rear another ugly head in some other farflung corner of the Earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So the rise in human trafficking from<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>South East Asia in the 70s; was followed in the early 80s by a glut of trafficking from Nigeria, Uganda and Ghana; which neatly sashayed in the mid-late 80s and early nineties into a dip into the Latin American market with large numbers trafficked principally from Brazil, Mexico and the Central American States.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The impact of illegal trafficking was, if not negligible, at the least fairly low in the Soviet Union, but with the collapse in 1991 came a fertile new recruiting ground for modern slavers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The perfect pool as well, a steady flow of young, strong, attractive, well educated people, in the depths of poverty and buoyed with dreams of The West<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>fuelled by an influx of Western films, music and television.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It begin in Poland, Romania, Hungary and the then Czechoslovakia, by the mid-90s it had shifted to Bulgaria, Moldova, the Ukraine and Russia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most recently the focus has shafted east, with Georgia, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan becoming prime meat markets for traffickers. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">None of which was going through my head as I watched dumbfounded whilst a hollering banshee of a woman (who may have been a prostitute) grabbed and tore at the hair of an employee at a private banya, with a khakied up security guy trying to control an raging bull of a man of quite inordiante bulk (who may have been a pimp). No, my main thoughts ran as follows:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <<What in the holy fuck is going on, is there anything I can do? Will doing anything just make the situation worse? will doing anything make my face and body worse? What kind of </span><a href="http://wiki.answers.com/Q/What_is_a_quilombo"><span style="font-family: inherit;">quilombo</span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"> (both literally and figuratively) is this?>></span><br />
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My questions are answered as the second security guard appears at the door carrying a beating stick, wipes his sweating brow and casually waves us over to our private banya rooms. Clearly, this is business as usual. <br />
The layout of our private banya gives a good indication of the wide range of activities catered for, there is a sauna and shower room, a plunge pool, a tv rooom, a full sized Russian Billiards table, a massage table, and two double bedrooms (with convenient wipe-clean plastic covers).<br />
And so, trying to ignore the drama unfolding outside, we get down to the important business of stripping down to a vaguely toga-esque cloth and alternatiely sweating, swigging beer and water and playing the fiendishly difficult game of Russian billiards (take a pool table, make it considerably larger and the pockets significantly smaller, increase the size of the balls and make all but one of them white - its not a game for the light hearted or impatient). When we emerge from our pit of decadence to pay the bill all is quiet. Aggresive negotations have clearly been concluded satisfactarally (though to whose satisfaction is an open question). SNAFU. To paraphrase a common cliche:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <<T.I.B. - This Is Bishkek.>></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img alt="" class="aligncenter size-medium wp-image-567" height="225" src="http://bishkekblog.files.wordpress.com/2011/02/russianbilliards.jpg?w=300&h=225" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="russianbilliards" width="300" /></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">...and its Maximus Bishkekius to play a difficult white (i.e. any of them)</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><u>The (Rather More) Light Hearted Bit</u></span> </span></div><div style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There is an Old Chestnut which says that the fall of the Roman Empire was a result of its own growing decadence, the former discipline which allowed it to expand and conquer in all directions became debased in an orgy of alcohol, sexual proclivity and overeating and like an aging general’s belly the muscle and sinew of the Empire became softened with fat.<br />
If this is the case, the Westerner in Kyrgyzstan is in for a fall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I submit as exhibit A, 'The Logan', a challenge recently witnessed<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This herculean event came about when Max noticed that Logan, a man of considerable metabolism, tended to order two full chicken dishes plus rice at our local fast food Chinese place (in the Vefa Centre, our local Turkish run shopping centre/mall and an opulent den of sin and iniquity if ever there was one).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This set off debate between Cole and Max ended in Cole laying down the gauntlet of 'The Logan' to Max: to wit, could they begin with Logan’s favourite instant pot mashed potato and then move on to eat two full Vefa Chinese Chicken in Dough portions, plus fried rice in one sitting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Logan being a great fan of personal challenges (and ridiculously competitive) decided he would up the ante by doing all this but eating three portions instead of two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dan joined in on the action but in a state of some disrepair as he’d been at a party till the wee small hours the night before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the General gave an inspirational speech to his aspirant consumers, battle was joined.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Chief Consumers square up</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotoTheaterCaption" class="spotlight" height="300" src="http://a3.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/183398_10150140201745396_501490395_8119845_104992_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The master with his disciples</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table> <span style="font-family: inherit;"></span>The waitress taking the 11 orders for a table of 6 gave us all a quite reasonable look of disdain and mild disgust, but soon the food was flowing in true decadent banquet style.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The feast is laid before us </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="181" id="il_fi" src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRMF2zZIN38O8BcWjuzg2PYvZKTqJh7WbZQ8UR-1yPNTQkuoCQJow&t=1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="279" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A debauched Roman feast - I think you'll agree the similarities are striking. </td></tr>
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</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotoTheaterCaption" border="0" class="spotlight" height="200" src="http://a6.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/184912_10150140203655396_501490395_8119882_2800471_n.jpg" width="150" /> <img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotoTheaterCaption" class="spotlight" height="150" src="http://a2.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/181698_10150140204295396_501490395_8119894_6483435_n.jpg" width="200" /> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The unconscionable overconsumption ended in a merry score draw, with Cole, Max and the master himself all polishing of their supersized meals with aplomb.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotoTheaterCaption" class="spotlight" height="300" src="http://a5.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/180688_10150140206530396_501490395_8119934_5523171_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Job Done</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sadly, things did not end so well for Dan, who ground to a despondent halt after a pitiful one and quarter portions.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img alt="" aria-busy="false" aria-describedby="fbPhotoTheaterCaption" class="spotlight" height="320" src="http://a4.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/184039_10150140207220396_501490395_8119944_6209819_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="240" /></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Failure (and last nights alcohol intake) inspire abject despair</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And so, bleary eyed and full bellied, the competitors slouched and slothed there way home with a post-competition nap in their sights. </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img height="228" src="http://img.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2008/03_02/romeDM1403_800x458.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Fall of Rome - a salutary warning to us all?</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">p.s. Just in case you think this was going to be a looking-up-one's-nose piece entirely about the oddities, extremeties and excesses of others, here's my addition to the general picture of decadence and depravity. At about 5 in the morning, having supped a plentiful quanitity of beer over a 9 hour period. I find myself dog-weary in our friendly, local strip club (I'm painfully aware of the potential hypocrisy of the bookends of this article, but we've chatted with the strippers and they're mostly smiley, happy students training to be police officers and suchlike). As a parade of scantilly clad girls gyrate in front of me, I do the only reasonable thing, pop myself onto the floor and have a good nap. Prompting the owner to observe </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> 'What is he doing!? Sleeping...ah well, he must be gay.'</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me at my classiest and best.</td></tr>
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</div>El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-55065272529830474312011-02-16T05:03:00.000-08:002011-05-22T12:28:38.443-07:00Of Noraebang 노레방, Spag Bol and Flaming Hot MetalA variety of Muslim and Chinese sources (dating from the 7th to the 12th Century) describe the Kyrgyz (at that time making their long trek south from the Siberian North, picking up a bit of that their Turkic language and culture along the way) as a race of feirce, nomadic warriors, red-haired, with fair complexions and green-blue eyes. A long time intermixing with other Central Asian peoples and the not insignificant influence of one Jenghiz Khan and his Mongol cohorts has given the modern Kyrgyz a more typically asiatic appearence, to a European eye superficially like a chinese person, but with a longer face and wider eyes. <br />
However recent DNA studies show a remarkable genetic legacy of this earlier time, with 63% of modern Kyrgyz men sharing Haplogroup R1a1 (Y-DNA) with Tajiks (64%), Ukrainians (54%), Poles (56%) and even Icelanders (25%). Haplogroup R1a1 (Y-DNA) is believed to be a marker of the Proto-Indo-European language speakers and goes some way towards explaining the distincly Indo-european red hair and green-blue eyes noted by those ancient Chinese and Muslim fellows.<br />
The modern ethnic mix of Krygyzstan is no less intriguing, although predominantly Kyrgyz, there are not insignificant populations of ethnic Russians, Ukranians, Uzbeks, Uyghurs, Dungans and Kazakhs. As a result of being part of the USSR, where whole populations were routinely dragged halfway across the world with the merest flick of a bureaucrat's pen, Kyrgyzstan now has some ethnicities from even further afield. <br />
This is visible in the fact that there is a German bierkeller in Bishkek called Steinbrau, brewing a range of German biers and run by ethnic Germans who have lived in Bishkek for several generations.<br />
There is also a not inconsiderable Korean population, principally in Bishkek, and I've taught a number of Korean students. The Story behind this is that in 1937, the Stalin regime, fearing that the Korean community might form a "fifth column" in support of the Japanese who were then occupying Manchuria and Korea just across the borders, ordered a mass deportation of all 36,442 families from Sakhalin, Vladivostok and the Russian Far East to Central Asia, casually shifting a total of some 171,181 people thousands of miles to help prevent them from allying with a nation that they cordially despised.<br />
Which longwinded ethnographic preamble serves to explain how when Ceci was having a little leaving do a few weeks back (to mark the fact she was leaving her job with the UN and going back to Sardinia for two weeks), I found myself enjoying a dish of 비빔밥 (Bibimbap, a sizzling, spicy Korean dish, with rice, meat and veg mixed together with a raw egg) and engaging in a little light 노레방, or as you might know it, Karoake<br />
Although most of the world knows the act of amateur songbirds hollering along rambunctiously to a backing track, preferably out of time and out of tune, by this portmanteau of the Japanese words <em>kara</em> 空 "empty," and <i>ōkesutora</i> オーケストラ "Orchestra", the Koreans have their own word for it, “noraebang” (노레방) which literally means “song room.”. This alternative term is maybe something to do with the aforementioned fact that Japan and Korea have what could be described as a hate-hate relationship. Invading someone's country and raping their culture can give you that attitude, just ask the Irish.<br />
And thus, there we were, tucked away in our own private room, with discrete servers popping in from time to time to see if we require a recharging of our glasses, and a large selection of songs in Korean, Russian and English available for us to merrily murder.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTwzOzBk2ykD5U71s6HqCyaIZIZtiGcV_1q_B1zuqoBip20RIxt8BPrQcGSWXZUu6Ejt7iPY-rfQ0Vmtp1FQ2FTttYyRGfXcdT0vunC5fSQwxKeRp70aBIF_3353E5ZgO3rEmpxEXGsZPJ/s1600/Giving+it+the+beans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTwzOzBk2ykD5U71s6HqCyaIZIZtiGcV_1q_B1zuqoBip20RIxt8BPrQcGSWXZUu6Ejt7iPY-rfQ0Vmtp1FQ2FTttYyRGfXcdT0vunC5fSQwxKeRp70aBIF_3353E5ZgO3rEmpxEXGsZPJ/s320/Giving+it+the+beans.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giving it the beans - <br />
growling, purring and hollering some classic 80s rock<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picking them songs<br />
(note the hated Japanese word sneaking in there in the background)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF3_Rf4x8WtSDAT__e0TJhnjHKuW9VuYbA7DAzGyCEm5PMeVZR7BHhC3H8t_GYqpMhzWrH7f8dZRpTubDpUQ6u9-jT4kq2VGmCMaSHYkwHMoJDVxD2uEGSMrYIK-7GyWigUtRqmjqPG-1O/s1600/Max+belting+it+out.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF3_Rf4x8WtSDAT__e0TJhnjHKuW9VuYbA7DAzGyCEm5PMeVZR7BHhC3H8t_GYqpMhzWrH7f8dZRpTubDpUQ6u9-jT4kq2VGmCMaSHYkwHMoJDVxD2uEGSMrYIK-7GyWigUtRqmjqPG-1O/s320/Max+belting+it+out.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Max Bishkek belting out a tune in a commanding baritone.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkuPhsEpHoMzs5oaxKgQfGpWtFY40DloWIf9fnRNdwxvZIEPIDJNPa6EgtMBL2sw6N2v_XzZOjEN59ZcFLQR6p7XzDhoiCV4QoR7hlK6mfPAO00SIW62Yah_Byu7TSa4by0uARc5cc2i04/s1600/Girls+getting+soulful.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkuPhsEpHoMzs5oaxKgQfGpWtFY40DloWIf9fnRNdwxvZIEPIDJNPa6EgtMBL2sw6N2v_XzZOjEN59ZcFLQR6p7XzDhoiCV4QoR7hlK6mfPAO00SIW62Yah_Byu7TSa4by0uARc5cc2i04/s320/Girls+getting+soulful.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ala, Ruta and Ceci getting all soulful</td></tr>
</tbody></table> A large part of the joy of the experience comes in the combnination of tinny, midi backing tracks (80s synthesizer distorted guitar sound = priceless) and in the utterly incompatable backing videos. The pinnacle of this came when Metallica's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-LOT_7psWnc">One</a>, a harrowing thrash-metal account of an incapacitated Vietnam veteran's empty existence and yearning for death, was backed by a natty dance routine performed by some squeeky clean <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/K-pop">K-pop</a> girls. </div><br />
/ - / - / \ - \ - \ <br />
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I woke up the next morning with a searing, burning, soar throat and the urge to organise a bit of a gathering. This came partly from my great enjoyment of playing host, partly because I still don't feel I've got enough use out of my big-ass floor cushions/table cloth/tea set combo, and partly from my continuing quest to get to know the local teachers and get all the ex-pats and locals to get on like one big, sickening, Walton's-esque, happy family. <br />
To this end invitations were liberally spread around and on the saturday afternoon of the party, I found myself in the supermarket, buying the biggest, fat-ass cooking pot they had on offer, and a variety of ingredients including 2 kgs of mince. The aim of all this to-do was to cook up a monster-sized serving of Spag Bol (or Spaghetti Bolognese if you must), a perculiarly British take on Italian cuisine, basically being a British-style mince stew with nominal pasta and parmesan cheese to give that authentic Italian flavour. <a href="http://www.ciao.co.uk/Recipes_for_Main_Courses__Review_5436105">Here's a sample recipe</a>, although the variations are quite considerable.<br />
The fridge packed to bursting with beer, coke and various juices (though, it must be admitted, mostly with beer), and the pot of Spag Bol bubbling away nicely, the first guests began to trickle in; first came Australian Dan, a softly spoken, dryly-witty, geologist; then Logan (American), Alexa (Canadian), Maxton (Scottish), Edward (English), Kurt (another American). The room was starting to look worryingly anglophone. Things reached crisis point when two local students arrived, took one look in, hovered at the threshhold looking awkward and left after 5 minutes. Disaster! My best-laid plans were in tatters, all had gone awry and the party was going to be the ex-pat scummiest of ex-pat scum parties, with narry a whiff of cultural exchange. <br />
But my prophesies of doom turn out to be unfounded, a very few moments later, a steady trickle of native teachers begin to arrive to assuage my fears, the prodigal students returned some 20 minutes later bearing gifts, snatches of Russian tongue began to intermingle with the various accentual flavours of English to be heard, then Eve arrived and struck up a conversation in Kyrgyz. A few hours later, many and varied peeps have arrived, some 20-odd bowls of Spag Bol have been handed out, beverages have been consumed and much mixing and matching of conversational partners has taken place. I breath a sigh of relief and allow myself to abandon hostly duties, have a tinkle on the ukulele and get down to some solid boozing and chinwagging.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUXCfs8fTg6EtWSYqubowFljrwW1QxQxMwyuqJDfpAEnzCY-M0BiJDUGr2yQBhu5O1qN3lSPoHmOQ7rjZ5JZCJfMWJDDLIgdzCaAlinarVKTMPss7CXgMpRY8CN7HvTVydkPNnUyGlvikN/s1600/Party+time.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUXCfs8fTg6EtWSYqubowFljrwW1QxQxMwyuqJDfpAEnzCY-M0BiJDUGr2yQBhu5O1qN3lSPoHmOQ7rjZ5JZCJfMWJDDLIgdzCaAlinarVKTMPss7CXgMpRY8CN7HvTVydkPNnUyGlvikN/s320/Party+time.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The party in full swing</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Slowly the guests meandered off to their beds or to other engagements (Dinara: a mad-as-a-bag-of-badgers, Kazakh party-girl had to potter off to the opening of a GQ/Playboy bar, for example). In the wee small hours of the morn, the hardcore of peeps that remained decided to take a taxi to the Anti-valentine's metal extravaganza at Metro pub.<br />
We arrive in time to enjoy the dulcet tones of Kyrgyzstan's very own Rammstein cover band.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ni3qwsvvdYrRTu0rgYYYMWtHRl3AYI3WTSlmJwCLeOaji3ZFfbU3e_5kt2juV-18wqfzSt-vgGMc7APe6pmDYF-xp_EaM_m2SojKBK_jSFfq_58BbuUVgbdnoaMUw3OmYZ9qZa3T0X-H/s1600/Rammstein+vobrt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ni3qwsvvdYrRTu0rgYYYMWtHRl3AYI3WTSlmJwCLeOaji3ZFfbU3e_5kt2juV-18wqfzSt-vgGMc7APe6pmDYF-xp_EaM_m2SojKBK_jSFfq_58BbuUVgbdnoaMUw3OmYZ9qZa3T0X-H/s320/Rammstein+vobrt.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Rammstein covers band - tight as a monkey's nuts in a Siberian snowstorm.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
Halfway through the set, the securtiy begin to push the crowd back to leave a performing circle vacant for the entry of a pair of Fire-<a href="http://www.homeofpoi.com/Poi">Poi</a>ists...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguP0Q5u_l26HYFkeP7vRxuFM98HHeaXrcT2qNyP72fOMdJ_ph1EgVPpuFHUAI5owLn-coTGq2erSvCsuAZC4KQTgMOlVJC_Mzmif-N_go3wnhMmpRJRaYSwLzJPJXMMAqOWGDLJxDH9MU7/s1600/Firepoiage+dva.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguP0Q5u_l26HYFkeP7vRxuFM98HHeaXrcT2qNyP72fOMdJ_ph1EgVPpuFHUAI5owLn-coTGq2erSvCsuAZC4KQTgMOlVJC_Mzmif-N_go3wnhMmpRJRaYSwLzJPJXMMAqOWGDLJxDH9MU7/s320/Firepoiage+dva.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inset appropriate Arthur Brown/Bloodhound Gang/Coal Chamber/Johnny Cash quote here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Kj8cVyUbY9qHLw4AfuOV8DTrH3soC701_p1rItIOKhsNdgRC_9CDXVmXZuYGDoBdf2KsANux2pASGjMZn72UHAwKlW3ONMNgeAvVt78DT8Xtjaxuo-9pRqnGjh37-4XJ29i4RqDZceT5/s1600/Firepoiage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Kj8cVyUbY9qHLw4AfuOV8DTrH3soC701_p1rItIOKhsNdgRC_9CDXVmXZuYGDoBdf2KsANux2pASGjMZn72UHAwKlW3ONMNgeAvVt78DT8Xtjaxuo-9pRqnGjh37-4XJ29i4RqDZceT5/s320/Firepoiage.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
I take a moment to ponder the wonder of watching an art/dance with its origins in the Maori culture of New Zealnd, performed to the sounds of an ethnic Russian band performing covers of a German band playing an originally British music inspired by American music with its origins in the meeting of African and European musical cultures; whilst standing in a principally ex-pat bar in the depths of Central Asia. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Multicultural ponderings over, I headed into the main bar and met a girl from Valencia and a Belgian girl who'd lived in Paraguay, giving me a chance to dust off my extremely rusty Spanish and give it a spin (to triple mix my metaphors)<br />
On our return to the theatre of war, We are greeted enthusiastically by the drummer of the next band up, who reliably informs us that he is the only drummer in Kyrgyzstan who can really do double bass drumming. And to be fair to him, he was a little machine of steady, hammering power. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrzmuzR3gVpedASAWbqDsI1oOi-mjwLAtFKraEXM_79Buciqw8VXDhMh-lxDvrogxrK8qx-kXLNfAfy3RoSlKPYkbXKR6Pkwbf8nXjRQE3vbv4xFRgjtxKAaEQ1dfP9p_CrfMmmWnmKwkA/s1600/Hardcore+band.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrzmuzR3gVpedASAWbqDsI1oOi-mjwLAtFKraEXM_79Buciqw8VXDhMh-lxDvrogxrK8qx-kXLNfAfy3RoSlKPYkbXKR6Pkwbf8nXjRQE3vbv4xFRgjtxKAaEQ1dfP9p_CrfMmmWnmKwkA/s320/Hardcore+band.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The only band in Kyrgyzstan with a drummer who can <br />
really do that double-bass drumming - apparently.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">Once again, we end our tale in the wee hours of the morning that most respectable people never encounter, stumbling out into the cool morning air, all circle-pitted out, drenched in sweat which is probably not exclusively ours and ready to retire to our beds. <br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">p.s. I have of late discovered that The Kyrgyz Republic has a very intriguing range of toiletries and general cleansing products which my flatmate Daniel Mahony seems to have a knack of hunting out. Here are a few examples:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQmdFsfOlJmPSvDHWuLAzhwSBAfCa-il29-uSsJhdpbMOYVA4cd795iy_0f3xjpU9LF6o7tu-KDBMZQFnTgmYrLhYFM0c_fmiyh63O65BY7-6Vs8NKWKE4IrsjjalyhzgsuvLmsFdsNvRN/s1600/Oak+mouthwash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQmdFsfOlJmPSvDHWuLAzhwSBAfCa-il29-uSsJhdpbMOYVA4cd795iy_0f3xjpU9LF6o7tu-KDBMZQFnTgmYrLhYFM0c_fmiyh63O65BY7-6Vs8NKWKE4IrsjjalyhzgsuvLmsFdsNvRN/s320/Oak+mouthwash.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why bother with dull old mint when <br />
you can have Oak-flavoured mouthwash</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Or how about some beer-flavoured shampoo</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3MnR1ikSE-r6o9SEym0CNNXeHxIPN0L4-0GJtMD0Is2IQRIBRtT4vDCz5474oUGQqpYcA-O-JufBK9AHmXEdWnC2x5Eopt2Wlp_b7IbQRMVI1jHhrZk20E90hWpEQyxChAdQgNltsOHkl/s1600/barf+bleach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3MnR1ikSE-r6o9SEym0CNNXeHxIPN0L4-0GJtMD0Is2IQRIBRtT4vDCz5474oUGQqpYcA-O-JufBK9AHmXEdWnC2x5Eopt2Wlp_b7IbQRMVI1jHhrZk20E90hWpEQyxChAdQgNltsOHkl/s320/barf+bleach.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And what serendipity that the name of this bleach <br />
is also one of the main things it will be used to clean up.<br />
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</div>El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-71214862411426626792011-01-24T10:29:00.000-08:002013-10-22T18:30:13.734-07:00Three Vignette's - The Banya, The Tea Party and Mirbek Atabekov<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><i><u>Vignette The First</u></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <<Thank you for coming to our coutry during these troubled times.>></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It's been a common refrain, variations of which I have heard at regular intervals since my arrival in Kyrgyzstan, though I confess this is the first time I’ve heard it from the mouth of one of Kyrgyzstan’s top pop stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, not directly from the mouth of the great <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gFgVwt_dapA">Mirbek Atabekov</a>, but via the expert translational skills of Jana, onetime barmaid at the bar in which we are currently seated.<br />
Indeed, as she had only resigned from said bar job mere hours earlier, Jana probably wasn't expecting to be back so soon. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> So when she casually mentioned that Mirbek was there whilst explaining about her bust up with her boss, and the western numbskulls she had the misfortune to associate herself with, instead of being consoling and supportive, became randomly excited and dragged her back to the scene of her recent unpleasentness, she was bemused to say the least. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxF202vkCXjf7uiHVeHV7gGdCq_4xBXlgm6xY3MESkrl4u7Q0mRyVDldFE4fv1flg-3JP4fojfFjH67WTeEB4us4ip8zZlnSONquhNUOQT_aDXCAPETtxJZsCDneVLb25q7yT9-R03o9Is/s1600/Jana+me+and+logan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxF202vkCXjf7uiHVeHV7gGdCq_4xBXlgm6xY3MESkrl4u7Q0mRyVDldFE4fv1flg-3JP4fojfFjH67WTeEB4us4ip8zZlnSONquhNUOQT_aDXCAPETtxJZsCDneVLb25q7yT9-R03o9Is/s320/Jana+me+and+logan.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jana, Logan and myself - shiny happy people</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">But she is a trooper, so along she went, tempted Mirbek over with her womanly wiles and proceeded to translate his expressions of gratitude for our presence in his country.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I am no missionary of the West, sent to spread the word unto a blighted and benighted population; I am here to experience, learn and enjoy at least as much as to teach, share and give.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Indeed, I’m mightily sceptical of the benefit of going anywhere with the sole intention of shoving your altruism in people's faces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And my worst experience of hardship in this nation has been getting hassled one evening by a drunken rabble of Kyrgyz guys who thought we were ethnic Russian and wanted to pick a fight, which ammounts to no more hardship than a night on the lash in most towns of the UK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <br />
So I feel on considerably more solid ground when the conversation moves on to the topic of girls. Mirbek informs us that the girls of his native Talas are highly physically appealing by the subtle bodilly motions of a big thumbs up and sticking his tongue out and waving it about vigorously. Then the secret agent assigned to protect Mirbek shows us his gun and Mirbek wanders off with several of the attractive ladies that have been seeking his attention all night, promising to return later and have a photograph taken with us. </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">He doesn't.</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
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<i><u><span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span></u></i><br />
<i><u><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Vignette The Second</span></u></i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTnlXxyuC3baR0LLdItk5ET3NTK5zedeHvRXtSfBs4WJxOihM5PyUDuEsG1DOlWsUY7kQfWWMUfOYqvVaaDhXbt9nC1SVbdSkcKtBUDeELC1so21I6CPTWKkm1hzAv_nR_ueb4jYTXGCj-/s1600/2010_1026kyrgyz0014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTnlXxyuC3baR0LLdItk5ET3NTK5zedeHvRXtSfBs4WJxOihM5PyUDuEsG1DOlWsUY7kQfWWMUfOYqvVaaDhXbt9nC1SVbdSkcKtBUDeELC1so21I6CPTWKkm1hzAv_nR_ueb4jYTXGCj-/s320/2010_1026kyrgyz0014.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Classroom 14 - my (very) humble abode</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I arrived here a few months back, my bedroom had ceased to be a classroom bare days before. It was spartan to the point of being barren. My level of redecoration since then has been so minimal that the words 'Classroom 14' still remain clearly marked above my door. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So a few days ago me and Max headed to Osh Bazaar in search of some soft furnishings to make the room feel a bit more lived in. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now, all the accounts of Osh Bazaar I have been regaled with have made it sound like a very Sodom and Gomorrah of a place, a <a href="http://www.hieronymus-bosch.org/">Hieronymous Bosch painting</a> come to life, where dead dogs lay rotting beside fruit and veg stalls, human shit can be found proudly deposited in the centre of pathways and dog-fighting dvds can be purchased at bargain basement prices. Now, although I saw none of this on my visit, I can confirm that it is a veritable rabbit warren of narrow, twisting pathways and rampant commercialism, where the wares of the stalls bow in on you like ghouls on a fairground ghost train. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We both hunt down what we are seeking, Max a pair of Tracky Bs (that's tracksuit bottoms for the unitiated) and myself a pair of long, decorative Central Asian floor cushions and a tablecloth. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV8Zhv-rQt9yEDFKt5RnoWYincqSn5iDBSZbx0JpQMy7SVhxdiaup_4RO4aa_WOdfDLw0qCeaES771H-1Z9Z-WCs5sDb1MgCVKe-dQ0tbQW6wH3WYIAl2MZft2fXrJcAwFFsnoGKW1qlRO/s1600/cushion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV8Zhv-rQt9yEDFKt5RnoWYincqSn5iDBSZbx0JpQMy7SVhxdiaup_4RO4aa_WOdfDLw0qCeaES771H-1Z9Z-WCs5sDb1MgCVKe-dQ0tbQW6wH3WYIAl2MZft2fXrJcAwFFsnoGKW1qlRO/s320/cushion.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Purchase made</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Set off with a tea-set, it made my hovel look almost liveable. So I decided to invite a few peeps over for a dinner paty.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNWAVielGBa_tn9NiYqkEYs6hyphenhyphenFvThhrG3Uaep38dSReTJtMOPF5CFmKEKesF9Iz0YNCo6XM51jd8pATB0s0ZdYWRcD4MeMiFNR_dZ1AZ_SzqYF7cW-aL_QtG54NBWC1UWUpd6PHIVhFXY/s1600/partyfood.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNWAVielGBa_tn9NiYqkEYs6hyphenhyphenFvThhrG3Uaep38dSReTJtMOPF5CFmKEKesF9Iz0YNCo6XM51jd8pATB0s0ZdYWRcD4MeMiFNR_dZ1AZ_SzqYF7cW-aL_QtG54NBWC1UWUpd6PHIVhFXY/s320/partyfood.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Despite my best attempts to cremate the pasta I was preparing, all went fine and dandilly, with genial conversation being exchanged to the gentle sound of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4BU-t9McBns&feature=related">Tom Waits hollering</a>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i><u><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Vignette The Third </span></u></i><br />I am standing, naked as a newborn babe, drenched in sweat, beating one of my colleagues repeatedly with a handful of crudely interwoven branches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Surprisingly, this is not, as it seems, a scene from a low-budget, German porn film. No, this is all part and parcel of the joyous sensual overload that is Banya. A form of turkic sauna which includes a positvely arid hot dry room, a hot wet room where sitting down for more than about a minute puts your buttocks in serious risk of third-degree burns and a plunge pool so baltically cold as to make your testicles want to take a permanent vacation in the warm cosiness of your internal organs; all whilst surrounded by fat, perspiration soaked, middle-aged businessmen. </span> The experience, all told, is surprisingly invigorating and you leave with a sensation of healthilly revitalised and cleansed wellbeing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: x-large;">T</span>hese three vignettes provide a brief snapshot of my January in Bishkek. It's been a relatively quiet month, but it seems no month in Bishkek can pass by entirely uneventfully.</span><br />
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El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com0Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan42.870022 74.5878829999999242.683841 74.265159499999925 43.056203 74.910606499999915tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-27562229261045611572011-01-03T23:32:00.000-08:002011-01-05T00:14:13.875-08:00New Year in Osh / Новый год в Оше (Pt2 Ozgon, Gulcha and other shenanigans)<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"></div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A mural on Kurmanjan Datka Avenue in Osh</td></tr>
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We are walking down a nondescript corridor on the American second floor of a building that has seen better days. The building is two storeys high, so there is no British second floor. We are seeking the Osh <a href="http://www.cbtkyrgyzstan.kg/">CBT (Community Based Tourism)</a> office which the guidebook says is located in this building on the American second floor. But it is nowhere to be seen. Eventually we knock on a door to make enquiries. The door is opened by a middle-aged lady in surgical whites, behind her is what appears to be both a doctors' and a dentists' surgery combined. The bright light emanating from the room is glaringly painful in the stygian gloom of the corridor. She looks at us, impassive. Max enquires:<br />
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<<Excuse me, would you be able to tell us were the tourism office is?>><br />
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She responds, blank faced:<br />
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<<The place you are looking for is on the second floor.>><br />
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and closes the door, plunging us back into semi-darkness. If at this point a dwarf had meandered down the corridor and begun talking to us backwards, I would not have been surprised. This is the first, and hopefully the last, time in my life that I've felt like I've stumbled unwittingly into the dark recesses of David Lynch's psyche. <br />
We make our way out into the light of day and the bustle of Osh's Kelechek Plaza. Max does what he always does at such moments (and indeed at every available opportunity), he gets out his i-phone. Now, Max is truly obsessed with this piece of kit, and with all the other gadgetry he has in his i-collection. He mentions them so often, and with such regularity, that I am beginning to believe he's been sent undercover by Steve Jobs to singlehandedly expand Apple's influence in Central Asia. A little bit of conspicuous i-phonic internet surfing locates the <a href="http://www.cbtkyrgyzstan.kg/">CBT website</a> and confirms that the office has been moved to the first floor (British) of a hotel nearby. When we locate said office however, it turns out that nobody is in. Max rings the number written on the door to be greeted by a chap called Talant who tells him that everyone is on holiday but he could certainly arrange a new year's trip into the mountains to stay in the Alay Valley if we wanted. We agree to call back tomorrow morning to finalise the details.<br />
Job done, we hop in a taxi to take us to the town of Ozgon, 55km north-east of Osh. Our taxi driver is a cheerful Uzbek chap who happily points out the various sites on the way. As we are passing through an area on the outskirts of Osh still derelict from the June riots, he shows us in an equally offhand way the enormous scar he has on his belly from being knifed during the troubles. The amiable manner in which he does this somehow makes the whole thing more, rather than less, shocking. <<What's the situation like now?>> Max asks. <<Back to normal.>> he replies. Long may it remain that way<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqRk3tfrFVeG-OvW-AuMy-VT8AdvSS-RS_15ZmgNXT5Rd_MIVE9cOjci4t6Y9Ktx8Xj02CpyVAPcpRhfYQhUh9ky-7AZu32cwwX9QCu1BTDeaRxaqF9TvuU6a1NSrqgFJgbBBy_vmr9KEd/s1600/Uzbek+taxi+guy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqRk3tfrFVeG-OvW-AuMy-VT8AdvSS-RS_15ZmgNXT5Rd_MIVE9cOjci4t6Y9Ktx8Xj02CpyVAPcpRhfYQhUh9ky-7AZu32cwwX9QCu1BTDeaRxaqF9TvuU6a1NSrqgFJgbBBy_vmr9KEd/s320/Uzbek+taxi+guy.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A merrily harrowing taxi ride to Ozgon</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Ozgon itself has had its fair share of troubles. In the summer of 1990 violence broke out between Kyrgyz and Uzbek factions over issues of land tenure. The violence was short lived but between 300 and a 1000 people lost their lives. No outward mark of that violence remains today however, the town is pleasent and lively, with an atmosphere that makes one feel instantly relaxed. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdVAuu4tFxnfs0hQpazJyXXA0uyFue9uUE0l6Obvgz9mhBIQZNlewtndUE5XBbh1hPYuH709UwMdwTyTVTP0wvIS66HO9bX2rfVnK9uN45ExZ-2daX4Ih9tf9rfSvvkXBnaRO4mPi8AbM/s1600/Ozgon+Maiusoleum.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdVAuu4tFxnfs0hQpazJyXXA0uyFue9uUE0l6Obvgz9mhBIQZNlewtndUE5XBbh1hPYuH709UwMdwTyTVTP0wvIS66HO9bX2rfVnK9uN45ExZ-2daX4Ih9tf9rfSvvkXBnaRO4mPi8AbM/s320/Ozgon+Maiusoleum.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The three Mausolea - with inscriptions in Kufic and Naskhi script</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4urouvadIyvUSOqNeG4q0yYGV-mJ6EIBejMrSUD08dnaa1cSbwAEeESSYAgYQ348BlMRJ7xCXHCjjwAwUmMjTocgiIwooLo2dMkEquGqWWt53B-6L3nd2A3yCHzU_EDuT8kphNqqh-u2K/s1600/mausoleum+close-up.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4urouvadIyvUSOqNeG4q0yYGV-mJ6EIBejMrSUD08dnaa1cSbwAEeESSYAgYQ348BlMRJ7xCXHCjjwAwUmMjTocgiIwooLo2dMkEquGqWWt53B-6L3nd2A3yCHzU_EDuT8kphNqqh-u2K/s320/mausoleum+close-up.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>The mausolea we have come to visit date from the heyday of Kharakhanid Mavarannahr ('The land beyond the river') in the 11th and 12th Century. A time when Ozgon was one of the largest cities in the Fergana Valley and a centre of Silk Road activity. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2pld3gqbkGZMbQZ8vWl2ZyyePCG79c9M8WJcotAhZI6UTQhjncwEHU3JIBJSupyOHLp50fQczjjw9qFaMueHtekoAt7wbrEwkTyonizfJGfyIBcg3JijIjKg_jZKu_e6OiHbMwaipyrY/s1600/ozgon+minaret.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2pld3gqbkGZMbQZ8vWl2ZyyePCG79c9M8WJcotAhZI6UTQhjncwEHU3JIBJSupyOHLp50fQczjjw9qFaMueHtekoAt7wbrEwkTyonizfJGfyIBcg3JijIjKg_jZKu_e6OiHbMwaipyrY/s320/ozgon+minaret.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An 11th century minaret also found onsite</td></tr>
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</div>The central of the three Mausolea was probably built for Nasr Ibn Ali, the founder of the Karakhanid dynasty, who died in 1012/13. <br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">The mausolea are clearly viewed with much pride in Kyrgyzstan as they gloriously adorn the Kyrgyz 50som note.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7HzljQIzizxXeLk1LuAdKxkHdrNsKw9U5KemUE1JUAh93avIDoMnw360XFfc8vYns8yTCI4zZ63PrlYb8_M5WGnkS8r-VmvNp1IyGtr0EdgGK77iSi5Iqf6XNjC4Dp8iXz1MOYsbWHGO9/s1600/50+som.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7HzljQIzizxXeLk1LuAdKxkHdrNsKw9U5KemUE1JUAh93avIDoMnw360XFfc8vYns8yTCI4zZ63PrlYb8_M5WGnkS8r-VmvNp1IyGtr0EdgGK77iSi5Iqf6XNjC4Dp8iXz1MOYsbWHGO9/s320/50+som.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">As we wander away from the mausolea, a bunch of teenagers sitting on a bench listening to music on their mobile phones (it is reassuring to know that the world over teenagers are teenagers) shout a cheery greeting to us:</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><<Hello Baby!>></span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Too much American music and not enough English lessons methinks.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Returning to the town we are tempted into a cafe by Shaslyk (succulent, spiced junks of meat on a skewer) grilling on an open barbecue outside.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The proprietress posing proudly</td></tr>
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">After a hearty lunch of nan, shashlyk, chai and laghman (a noodle dish with many varieties) we had a wander around Ozgon's bazaar. Got laughed at by children whilst taking a photo of the cornucopia of nan on sale (this is fair enough as it's the equivalent of a Kyrgyz guy coming to the UK and taking a photo of Tesco's bread aisle) and hopped a taxi back to Osh, </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The gates of Ozgon Bazaar</td></tr>
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQkRfFUifQx3Yiy9RBLxgO_JWfWCkq9Sv51RXQLatgtSiXoUGGIVWHVbaSL6CjuwxrAzsNCO_PVZfd6KPBUslAlIXUQnVd5iw01EV14p-vweLQaoyK2MN9lFU5MH9rjW_AGz7BP4m1FB5/s1600/Ozgon+Market+nan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQkRfFUifQx3Yiy9RBLxgO_JWfWCkq9Sv51RXQLatgtSiXoUGGIVWHVbaSL6CjuwxrAzsNCO_PVZfd6KPBUslAlIXUQnVd5iw01EV14p-vweLQaoyK2MN9lFU5MH9rjW_AGz7BP4m1FB5/s320/Ozgon+Market+nan.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>The following day finds us in a taxi bound for the small town of Gulcha in the Alay valley. An hour and forty minutes of wending our way through stunning mountain scenery on a route which would eventually take us into China and we are there.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjACQ_8NvsFbwGZ4RqW1cu4rSSI9d-Z_oS-NrwVzAJ9xiwiwMzDeVsM_BP0FkftjU5p2722Vqh-wLx112RvxP3vRnTGBZ_t6v_LhBDpg-ZwyaIZ3Vld03ej0xBm3VWz0QHXeBbR1j83S9yU/s1600/On+the+way+to+Gulcha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjACQ_8NvsFbwGZ4RqW1cu4rSSI9d-Z_oS-NrwVzAJ9xiwiwMzDeVsM_BP0FkftjU5p2722Vqh-wLx112RvxP3vRnTGBZ_t6v_LhBDpg-ZwyaIZ3Vld03ej0xBm3VWz0QHXeBbR1j83S9yU/s400/On+the+way+to+Gulcha.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the road to Gulcha</td></tr>
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This is true rural Kyrgyzstan, cows roam the streets, you can hear the bleating of sheep from every homestead and the backdrop in every direction is a stunning panorama of snowcapped mountains.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8gY-XyLB8A2adtmTZz27IFHLeyJJfM1VyuFZHCQE98y3bCvPwMwu5eYUSppluGFtYsppRVSy4MsQstn5_7XekbMzS4C_EYuG80dFvPPNIe5D8HNrOxpATVYRPy7q2CN9vHy6LoEFf938/s1600/Gulcha+cows.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8gY-XyLB8A2adtmTZz27IFHLeyJJfM1VyuFZHCQE98y3bCvPwMwu5eYUSppluGFtYsppRVSy4MsQstn5_7XekbMzS4C_EYuG80dFvPPNIe5D8HNrOxpATVYRPy7q2CN9vHy6LoEFf938/s320/Gulcha+cows.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roaming the streets of Gulcha</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We are led into an attractive family home and ushered into a side room where we are served a lunch of freshly baked bread, fruit from the family orchard, honey from a relative's aviary and plentiful supplies of hot chai.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chilling, waiting for lunch to be served</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX7zlPmd8G-3pldzpthp9lLB3Zy7Wkc3RnLgW6jp-PYnG4sTMXQZEv1m9RXP0ryQhji1ocRx-BCcyfSpnFIH4Tn9uQvmuc4GlkGIUvo3DG1wyabICZM-YCq49fSN2OD4uHI4wJveMZaXM1/s1600/chai+sipping.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX7zlPmd8G-3pldzpthp9lLB3Zy7Wkc3RnLgW6jp-PYnG4sTMXQZEv1m9RXP0ryQhji1ocRx-BCcyfSpnFIH4Tn9uQvmuc4GlkGIUvo3DG1wyabICZM-YCq49fSN2OD4uHI4wJveMZaXM1/s200/chai+sipping.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chai Sippin' Boy</td></tr>
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div> <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">The man of the house comes in to welcome us to his home and tell us that his son will take us for a tour of the town. He introduces himself as Alaybek, which translates roughly as 'Man of the Alay Valley'. So, we have inadvertently become guests of the anthroporphic personification of the area we're visiting...intriguing. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking the mean streats of Gulcha</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">In the centre of town preparations for the coming New Year's celebrations are well underway, a giant Yolka or New Year's Tree is set up and Djed Moroz and his granddaughter Snegoorochka are interacting merrily with all and sundry (any similarities to the Christmas celebration are purely incidental and imply no copywright infringement whatsoever). Our arrival inspires a similar reaction to the arrival of the Beatles tour bus in a small town in the USA in the mid-1960s...I get the feeling Gulcha does not get foriegners wandering its streets casually very often.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghcIMuIGreR1O_qwOSPTXQWyO8UhGzGuLiMpm4T4BhXONhU2AOK4mlmUTfh6rWuSehwWVscv6M5YfhlUcCRadsccPONN7apfeFQcBdTez2YWNM8-lzKdSI01ohiEXJDazA0VHy6MFDh2jK/s1600/Yolka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghcIMuIGreR1O_qwOSPTXQWyO8UhGzGuLiMpm4T4BhXONhU2AOK4mlmUTfh6rWuSehwWVscv6M5YfhlUcCRadsccPONN7apfeFQcBdTez2YWNM8-lzKdSI01ohiEXJDazA0VHy6MFDh2jK/s320/Yolka.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Yolka in all its glory</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOBOdUxYTWwQ2VA4GU0yzRLmTbUWUvA-93PRKaNgHzPWq4aMYiehJGdCd3OqYqT3KvI8IiIK08oOJzwkj8Zy6ARlouYMu_OEbyVUKfj4l8munatCYXFNlYmf9twufk7jLuZqoutWMpoTL/s1600/Us+with+Djed+and+Sneegoorochka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOBOdUxYTWwQ2VA4GU0yzRLmTbUWUvA-93PRKaNgHzPWq4aMYiehJGdCd3OqYqT3KvI8IiIK08oOJzwkj8Zy6ARlouYMu_OEbyVUKfj4l8munatCYXFNlYmf9twufk7jLuZqoutWMpoTL/s320/Us+with+Djed+and+Sneegoorochka.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Posing with Djed Moroz and Snegoorochka</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">We buy some presents and a bottle of beer each at a nearby grocers, potter through the town back up to our Homestay house and take an afternoon nap. By late afternoon, the merest hint of boredom is beginning to set in. Max proposes a game of scrabble on (of course) the i-phone. We are one move into the game when we are ushered into the main room to be greeted by an extended family gathering and a feast of herculean proportions. Very little scrabble will be played tonight methinks.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVf4LlJ71iakBcyWryJZo9QKW9tLfF2pscCcDr1W6LjPIfxQoqgIUn9tXSKYGShMpR6efV-DT1d4h7DPe4aPCIflXM7HlzRRqd0mn-gAi4TF_NhwHCRn6vh87xrRHTQjMYLCgg3AQk4nyH/s1600/New+year%2527s+feasting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVf4LlJ71iakBcyWryJZo9QKW9tLfF2pscCcDr1W6LjPIfxQoqgIUn9tXSKYGShMpR6efV-DT1d4h7DPe4aPCIflXM7HlzRRqd0mn-gAi4TF_NhwHCRn6vh87xrRHTQjMYLCgg3AQk4nyH/s320/New+year%2527s+feasting.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The New Year's family gathering</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Introductions are made, conversation and chai flows, much food is consumed. Like all great feasts and banquets, it becomes an endurance contest, everything you could possibly want to eat is there in abundance and you want to eat it all. Just when we thought we could fit not a morsel more food in our mouths, the main course of Plov (a rice dish which originated in Uzbekistan) is brought out. In this type of endurance contest the meal always wins. But the battle is a hell of a lot of fun nonetheless.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our genial hosts - Alaybek and Alynkan</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Although he has not drank alcohol for many years, Alaybek generously provides us with glasses of Kyrgyz wine and toasts begin to flow. Alaybek begins to philosophise:</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><<Back in the days of the Soviet Union, we used to get drunk and we would laugh and sing. Nowadays, young people get drunk and they fight. It must be they drink bad alcohol nowadays.>></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Blame it on the Jaguar. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">We perform a rousing chorus of Auld Lang Syne for the family's benefit (conplete with crossed hands and half-remembered lyrics) and then everybody decamps outside to watch the fireworks and see in the new year with sparklers and Champagne.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfGnJSIDxIGGTLWAmo4sJYUVtuhAUMUyrEOAo6YrSNa4VTFDtAowHmTlja6IwiIbd0R-n8CacPH4Lisen37tjLuHwVS8Vdl9guUUe85NFXAd7gX_u5AtCrPIDdwBn37tjtD05cX2X8rhxq/s1600/Alaybek+pouring+champagne.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfGnJSIDxIGGTLWAmo4sJYUVtuhAUMUyrEOAo6YrSNa4VTFDtAowHmTlja6IwiIbd0R-n8CacPH4Lisen37tjLuHwVS8Vdl9guUUe85NFXAd7gX_u5AtCrPIDdwBn37tjtD05cX2X8rhxq/s320/Alaybek+pouring+champagne.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alaybek pours the champers</td></tr>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuJIDhLZVCXfMbj8-wr4L6jupHw-wyWj9H-bD3wBuvFTy42gBqLpqNE_a_3CH5OnN6nK4YJbxE9q9lM1EBFI_jr0tDkeF-dxdMbnj-vabcJ4RSsi-o0GxLh5JiTjPhUkDV9EbZsuAWZT05/s1600/Sparklers.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuJIDhLZVCXfMbj8-wr4L6jupHw-wyWj9H-bD3wBuvFTy42gBqLpqNE_a_3CH5OnN6nK4YJbxE9q9lM1EBFI_jr0tDkeF-dxdMbnj-vabcJ4RSsi-o0GxLh5JiTjPhUkDV9EbZsuAWZT05/s320/Sparklers.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">The next day we thank our hosts vociferously and make the return journey to Osh with smiles on our faces. The day is spent wandering and checking out museums. The evening is an epic affair in which we consume 10 litres of liquid (5 of water, 5 of beer) during a mammoth 3 hour session in our guesthouse's private banya (a turkic style sauna room/plunge pool combo).</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhskWzwPcU19ep99za2Q7Wp6NaNF3EZZ-s6NNKHi81dLRZdYR3DmamNRh-lWKOGpJIpu0oLNHpUGB2EL4WbRIernsPnzBnNUGqfvS_hUQIvguN-pcSVht3XX2pouVTPtTKmaD3QeRZE28Ob/s1600/Banya.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhskWzwPcU19ep99za2Q7Wp6NaNF3EZZ-s6NNKHi81dLRZdYR3DmamNRh-lWKOGpJIpu0oLNHpUGB2EL4WbRIernsPnzBnNUGqfvS_hUQIvguN-pcSVht3XX2pouVTPtTKmaD3QeRZE28Ob/s320/Banya.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">All in all, a fine end to a fine holiday. Our rickety old Soviet plane touches down at Manas Airport and we take a taxi back to Bishkek content in the knowledge that we flouted all safety warnings and the worst of our suffering as a result was a little indigestion from overeating. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some photos courtesy of Daniel Mahony</span></div>El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-75441881695933674272011-01-02T14:05:00.000-08:002011-01-03T19:38:05.615-08:00New Year in Osh / Новый год в Оше (Pt1 arrival in Osh)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwrOrupmCm5nitOReMUb63Rd6zpWbMUEYZ6-ed3y19xsdPJ29o-XUvO6Un_ch4LVIc3tweKlhmqP_Ol6CzNcdfO6DE86ChAafESOrk8rHlZGBj_GtG09j3rOqppWTL4r5sEgsqeKtzd8gW/s1600/destruction+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div align="center"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
<em>We advise against all but essential travel to the Oblasts (Provinces) </em><br />
<em>of Osh and Jalal-Abad.</em></div></div><div align="center"><a href="http://www.fco.gov.uk/en/travel-and-living-abroad/travel-advice-by-country/asia-oceania/kyrgyzstan">British Foreign Office Website </a></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHQ2GuZDVRGunF1Du9ozWkdB87_h6O10U8LRMCLNGr5Tws4Jn5A_quHHj-5Ai865zGO6xycxC8Dsh4osrnaTlEyCUo8gmsASSfqo7-7q-y3IL7VoubxwxvP2KURaT7O2OFFjtL-fvS_m9m/s1600/Osh.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHQ2GuZDVRGunF1Du9ozWkdB87_h6O10U8LRMCLNGr5Tws4Jn5A_quHHj-5Ai865zGO6xycxC8Dsh4osrnaTlEyCUo8gmsASSfqo7-7q-y3IL7VoubxwxvP2KURaT7O2OFFjtL-fvS_m9m/s400/Osh.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div align="center"></div>I am sitting in an Airplane that does not comply with accepted international air safety standards, about to fly to a city that my government strongly advises me not to visit, to celebrate New Year there in spite of the fact that the Krygyz aurhotities have banned all fireworks, celebrations and public gatherings in said city. Many people would consider this a distinctive decision, perverse even. But I am not many people, when the idea was suggested to me I thought, <<Wow, that does sound interesting... I'm in.>><br />
The engine sputters into life, wheezing like Darth Vader with a 50 a day habit; gradually settling into a regular rattle and thrum:<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><<wooey-yey-wooey-yey-wooey-yey>></span></div><br />
My erstwhile companion Max Bishkek, observes with interest that the pilot's cabin visible through the slightly parted curtains looks remarkably retro and 50s. We all realise simultaneously that this is probably because it does indeed date from the 1950s. The plane wheels clunk and clatter as the plane leaves the ground. <br />
And so, here we go, bound for a new year's date with the city of Osh.<br />
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The year is 1042.a.d. and the streets of Osh are bustling. The Karakahnid ruler Muhammad 'Ayn ad-Dawlah has recently ascended to power in the great city of Bukhara many miles to the west. It is the height of summer and trade is booming. The many eateries and drinking holes that line the alleyways of the bazaars are packed with an eclectic mix of soldiers, merchants, pilgrims, moneylenders, missionaries, traders, nomads and thieves. A caravan of valuable spices has just arrived from Bactria (Balkh in modern day Afghanistan), A merchant is bartering with a trader over the price of a consignment of lacquerware. Another merchant packs his newly acquired sacks of pistaccio nuts from Persia onto his beasts of burden ready to be taken east to the secretive Chinese Empire for sale at a lucrative profit. The sound of the call to prayer can be heard emanating from the minaret of a nearby mosque. In farms in the surrounding area Bombyx worms, driven by the fuel of mulberry leaves, are industriously dribbling gossomer threads from their salival gland to produce a cocoon which will shelter them during their arduous metamorphosis into a moth. Little do they expect to be unceremoniously plunged into boiling water so that the threads of their cocoon can be woven into a sensuos, soft, strong, long lasting cloth which is cool in warm weather and warm in cold weather, destined to travel far to the west, maybe as far as distant Byzantium. It would probably be of little comfort to our friend Bombyx Mori to know that the name given to this cloth it was so pivotal in creating would come, some eight centuries later, to symbolise the whole transcontintal network of trade routes of which Osh was a key point, when a 19th century German geographer called Ferdinand von Richthofen coins the phrase 'The Silk Road'.<br />
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The year is 2010.a.d. and the streets of Osh are burning. It is the 12th of June and ethnic tensions between Kyrgyz and Uzbek inhabitants of the town have spilled over into terrible violence. Gangs of young Kyrgyz men with firearms and metal poles are rampaging through Uzbek neighbourhoods, burning down houses and businesses. Uzbeks are streaming from the city in droves in a desperate attempt to reach the border with Uzbekistan a few kilometres to the north-west. Young children are crushed underfoot, screaming, trampled to death in the streets in the mad dash to escape. The Kyrgyz government and military admit to being powerless to stop the violence. The Russians have refused pleas to provide military assistance. The sky is rank with acrid black smoke. <br />
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The year is 2010.a.d. (for a few days more at least) and the streets of Osh are ...normal, if still a little subdued. It is the 28th of December and three British tourists are arousing a certain ammount of attention among the local populace. A man has just approached us, claiming he can guess our ages, got both mine and Max's age spectacularly wrong and asked for a hundred som for the privelage of his predictions (he didn't get it). The buildings we walk by are a mix of beautiful old architecture, Soviet brutalism and modern craziness.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfCO6uelix8Bh2S4K9NodH4go-3eKsiBVh7hf5g8L0pNlz1zTrQ6zYI1GZED51XAtmje04QbrZz8Qt7Sa_XJjga4fjqylJsZzbxe7UjANCQSvCqZnBWgWWO5vp1tPQ5jq8dtvlKydwtvVx/s1600/Kyrgyz+radio.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfCO6uelix8Bh2S4K9NodH4go-3eKsiBVh7hf5g8L0pNlz1zTrQ6zYI1GZED51XAtmje04QbrZz8Qt7Sa_XJjga4fjqylJsZzbxe7UjANCQSvCqZnBWgWWO5vp1tPQ5jq8dtvlKydwtvVx/s200/Kyrgyz+radio.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sleek shiny glass of the <br />
Kyrgyz Republic Radio building</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg3LSTAZl2RgwASEfGoxlpQX3kXr0WMyWccxGM_IsrOiNaJ6d9mEYpXZG47Q0Yl_fdMEMBfC9ip8xn97HTDzwThIM2b-X_LYzmLvmWPJsrCC7PD0Az-PKpa3HjGnCYsP_i2UHEDUFFrrWk/s1600/Streets+of+Osh.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg3LSTAZl2RgwASEfGoxlpQX3kXr0WMyWccxGM_IsrOiNaJ6d9mEYpXZG47Q0Yl_fdMEMBfC9ip8xn97HTDzwThIM2b-X_LYzmLvmWPJsrCC7PD0Az-PKpa3HjGnCYsP_i2UHEDUFFrrWk/s200/Streets+of+Osh.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The streets of Osh </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The imposing frontage of Osh University </td></tr>
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Although the situation has calmed considerably, and the streets have normalised to a greater or lesser degree, there is still plentiful evidence of the recent troubles; the burned out buildings dotted around the city a visual testament to societal scars which may take generations to truly heal.<br />
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<img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwrOrupmCm5nitOReMUb63Rd6zpWbMUEYZ6-ed3y19xsdPJ29o-XUvO6Un_ch4LVIc3tweKlhmqP_Ol6CzNcdfO6DE86ChAafESOrk8rHlZGBj_GtG09j3rOqppWTL4r5sEgsqeKtzd8gW/s200/destruction+1.JPG" width="200" /><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe2Y_IU8Njc5qq81hSC9wjfjcIOij09SPDdGI90jTAOva43uzVuCdFrE_7NLC61cn-awJCynS992RLI3-h_Bo1JUoxmrl1P-yzqxEYZNQN80uaKjSSBFI-uBzytVhhp78qaPBAaQLiY7iq/s1600/devestation+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe2Y_IU8Njc5qq81hSC9wjfjcIOij09SPDdGI90jTAOva43uzVuCdFrE_7NLC61cn-awJCynS992RLI3-h_Bo1JUoxmrl1P-yzqxEYZNQN80uaKjSSBFI-uBzytVhhp78qaPBAaQLiY7iq/s200/devestation+5.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4mcuqNAq-W62rOAp_9kaCnpZuNP0Nj5_gsWaQ2ETAVMLapSkLNKq5GbDst7thPK-E1Z5mrQp3NyFYQZYqEoXaRQwC5f7D3LxKxr9RrDaRcl_oH4aZyjWk8vyR-XNj4Nzp1FQ31mM7op8e/s1600/devastation+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4mcuqNAq-W62rOAp_9kaCnpZuNP0Nj5_gsWaQ2ETAVMLapSkLNKq5GbDst7thPK-E1Z5mrQp3NyFYQZYqEoXaRQwC5f7D3LxKxr9RrDaRcl_oH4aZyjWk8vyR-XNj4Nzp1FQ31mM7op8e/s200/devastation+2.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Nowhere is the devastation more evident than in the city's main bazaar, the Jayma or Osh Bazaar, where it seems every other stall is empty or burnt out.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6MOiJgxcBPJFRKwVeFPpILMwInU8EjLFv8Uo-MTqz_X209y4qfHR7SGTUwkN35LHKXL71ah-d8BrD9lGgjWDaDaG7q4wm7ZuVDADLKJzn9BBodhtQH-TDhECt2uzhWx1Hcysc0wgJ6lvu/s1600/Devastation+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6MOiJgxcBPJFRKwVeFPpILMwInU8EjLFv8Uo-MTqz_X209y4qfHR7SGTUwkN35LHKXL71ah-d8BrD9lGgjWDaDaG7q4wm7ZuVDADLKJzn9BBodhtQH-TDhECt2uzhWx1Hcysc0wgJ6lvu/s320/Devastation+3.JPG" width="320" /></a> </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Tmku8nuMn7I-Cuydf6cQH-IZ_l12Iuiz9-JCGyU7u1tW9-7lFwZ7F5BhJsTVBQ0EAaHwQHbNMRLqZ2bxv4K53gICnqbzhRW1d8hcRf9WzPdWHOP2DmBboq_Mh6xjOt7_ktsfvTOjW8Wg/s1600/devastation+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Tmku8nuMn7I-Cuydf6cQH-IZ_l12Iuiz9-JCGyU7u1tW9-7lFwZ7F5BhJsTVBQ0EAaHwQHbNMRLqZ2bxv4K53gICnqbzhRW1d8hcRf9WzPdWHOP2DmBboq_Mh6xjOt7_ktsfvTOjW8Wg/s320/devastation+4.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Riverside Cafe in ruins - Osh/Jayma Bazaar</td></tr>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But there are still things to be sold, and this is Central Asia so sold they shall be. And it's an indication of the hardiness of Central Asian trade, and the variety of wares available, that I can buy traditionally embroidered cushion covers whilst Max buys some truly eyebrow raising 'Wolf Come' viagra.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Genuine Article </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkV79TkpfuIcMCkQJ5jVadelQdvaFx-ePuCSFbUrB30YaFWPiG-C_9SLY4iSLjPXhbaLZ3nHCQ_LxXukD4hq2ojXLAEv1-ho6f9DqWIz2BJa7U_KnE9MbC9iOkdadM6O6nP7mJ0oWeMp7b/s1600/Wolf+Comes+viagra.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkV79TkpfuIcMCkQJ5jVadelQdvaFx-ePuCSFbUrB30YaFWPiG-C_9SLY4iSLjPXhbaLZ3nHCQ_LxXukD4hq2ojXLAEv1-ho6f9DqWIz2BJa7U_KnE9MbC9iOkdadM6O6nP7mJ0oWeMp7b/s200/Wolf+Comes+viagra.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Warning: may induce pack behaviour</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Our first destination was the Taht-i-Suleiman (Solomon's Throne) A jutting mountainous outcrop of rock above a large muslim graveyard, that dominates the centre of the city. So named becuase the fabled King Solomon is said to have visited Osh and slept on top of the mountain. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0aq2ebxE-JIBQOrbBij8VPad9Lt7z1DjmMl1WAI_E0CY0MS8aKMeIpQ3XBAYApJEclkSqZfmf1LLCjRb_2x0zsXYXoDW9Lg53y_An8ySndeJj-9HWipc0kFacE4XVTZ6nQgSGQ40wkU9t/s1600/steps+up+to+solomon%2527s+mount.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0aq2ebxE-JIBQOrbBij8VPad9Lt7z1DjmMl1WAI_E0CY0MS8aKMeIpQ3XBAYApJEclkSqZfmf1LLCjRb_2x0zsXYXoDW9Lg53y_An8ySndeJj-9HWipc0kFacE4XVTZ6nQgSGQ40wkU9t/s400/steps+up+to+solomon%2527s+mount.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steps leading up Solomon's Throne</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At the top of the slope lies Babur's House, a Muslim shrine and place of pilgramage (particularly for Uzbeks) originally constructed by Zahirrudin Muhammed Babur, a descendent of Tamarlane the Great and founder of the Indian Mughul Dynasty. The current form of the shrine is sadly not the late 15th century original but a reconstruction due to earthquake damage, but it is still attractive enough.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Babur's House</td></tr>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If you are feeling a little lacking in sexual oomph, there is a long, smooth, sloping chunk of rock, thought to resemble a pregnant women, just behind Babur's House. Sliding down this feet first is said to be beneficial for your health and confer fertiflity.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDGRmWZXQqE45unxHyEhwWGns2q06PUYrTDKPRgjfRsxFQx-Z_3si3oNQaAYObD9T5To769wHs8ET_Sl-6qVNLlR6ncNta_vApIFFKBc0L8o3eLDIx6aNhe6Ijlx6MsuuIF8VtugIN7agB/s1600/BDM+and+The+stone+of+potency.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDGRmWZXQqE45unxHyEhwWGns2q06PUYrTDKPRgjfRsxFQx-Z_3si3oNQaAYObD9T5To769wHs8ET_Sl-6qVNLlR6ncNta_vApIFFKBc0L8o3eLDIx6aNhe6Ijlx6MsuuIF8VtugIN7agB/s320/BDM+and+The+stone+of+potency.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniel Mahony and the Rock of Potency </td></tr>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Funnily enough, a female admirer texted Dan not long after his sliding experience so maybe there's something in it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Having climbed the mount, we made our way back down towards a mosque close to the bottom of the slope. We were intrigued to find ourselves in the middle of what appeared to be a building site. We were even more intrigued when a work-stained and wiry gent in overalls came up to introduce himself and invite us in for a look. It turned out the mosque was being totally reconstructed and this chap, who's name was Rashid, was resposible for the electrics (as well as a good chunk of the building and guard duty). He showed us round his work with great gusto and pride and it was intriguing to see a great religious building </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">mid-construction. Also intriguing was the realisation that the main direction of prayer was pointing westward, not east, towards Mekka. It's strange how these little details bring home to you the realisation of how far you are away from home.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkqk4Fbbdxrv3GoammBKFbw0ethcQRS3UWUtCkj7oXA7htWCoZSuyyOSNrmPykY9TPqtxl12b3IkcAWUAQlahy7SEPe62FmOIoMqQrBdVfXEkfs2sqbOQ9r8Dh3XQ-sDQid4azmKBGunZ2/s1600/Rashid+the+builder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkqk4Fbbdxrv3GoammBKFbw0ethcQRS3UWUtCkj7oXA7htWCoZSuyyOSNrmPykY9TPqtxl12b3IkcAWUAQlahy7SEPe62FmOIoMqQrBdVfXEkfs2sqbOQ9r8Dh3XQ-sDQid4azmKBGunZ2/s200/Rashid+the+builder.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rashid the many skilled </td></tr>
</tbody></table><img border="0" closure_uid_sbfk17="1341" height="200" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoSKG64IUq0Fr49j3JKJb59nCNsrmFK8J54605sr6XUEbln8b682r98gSRVedkPt7GgJctWyJGuCHRsK8gAHC2ua96Wvb9WV5L9-x27PbE4jdcaQOahqTlHTH8raKWfcJe6ogxC2VTYXe3/s200/Minaret+mosque.JPG" width="150" /> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1X-4CXffHIClSIPNG-plT0ks109qdBXp5Xvwh34GT3oIc_w72bWOqjD_zGAAwJxXK1VbEqq4PGldhjYXD4e8NWqjXtQ-bQUcU3aBCD8aFxOSiPQWMxX1ewaowEjlMpwV2FKzQY1IUDYR2/s1600/Inside+the+mosque.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1X-4CXffHIClSIPNG-plT0ks109qdBXp5Xvwh34GT3oIc_w72bWOqjD_zGAAwJxXK1VbEqq4PGldhjYXD4e8NWqjXtQ-bQUcU3aBCD8aFxOSiPQWMxX1ewaowEjlMpwV2FKzQY1IUDYR2/s320/Inside+the+mosque.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside the Mosque </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1m0CC5HyfnhyRKhFspE3yBuroUQsn4xHh24lE8_G7qOifs2wUAm0F5Y86Chrp_vTS7h-G32TBdrPentxp8XWGgELRKTArYdJ10WFL-0wJkwhdfbq5PN9mQZRWJpL5hesqy9ZPHYuKNDrx/s1600/The+mosque+outside.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1m0CC5HyfnhyRKhFspE3yBuroUQsn4xHh24lE8_G7qOifs2wUAm0F5Y86Chrp_vTS7h-G32TBdrPentxp8XWGgELRKTArYdJ10WFL-0wJkwhdfbq5PN9mQZRWJpL5hesqy9ZPHYuKNDrx/s320/The+mosque+outside.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The exterior of the Mosque </td></tr>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Having thanked Rashid vociferously for his time and enthusiasm we stopped of at a traditional Chaikana, for chai (that is 'tea'), soup and some simply glorious, warm fresh nan (that is 'bread').</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwLLnRZFNi3U9XJr9zhl-ZM6IBMDXUfffUVzLoX30SeH8OHP52WBB1QVCYqgi6GmmK0PxxCkH603wZTayzTzjFD6eZm1hy0tPN0lRuFQasZ4qPMD17N5FMEHLBwMOfweWNqCBhsrqF0up9/s1600/Chai+pouring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwLLnRZFNi3U9XJr9zhl-ZM6IBMDXUfffUVzLoX30SeH8OHP52WBB1QVCYqgi6GmmK0PxxCkH603wZTayzTzjFD6eZm1hy0tPN0lRuFQasZ4qPMD17N5FMEHLBwMOfweWNqCBhsrqF0up9/s200/Chai+pouring.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maxton pours</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0JVv3jrkbxp3cUcPvd9stIxiLNd0b_BSvxkfMuByR2rfBGWUq__OIF0wgAuGoZnbK09cbTNEyIB7VV7s5ECaN2yUnSVPQW0CfWoEKsL-oVr0cFnP97mluRckh7IWUkBR-iyTQI5Gu9Jzi/s1600/Uzbek+style+raised+seating+plats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0JVv3jrkbxp3cUcPvd9stIxiLNd0b_BSvxkfMuByR2rfBGWUq__OIF0wgAuGoZnbK09cbTNEyIB7VV7s5ECaN2yUnSVPQW0CfWoEKsL-oVr0cFnP97mluRckh7IWUkBR-iyTQI5Gu9Jzi/s200/Uzbek+style+raised+seating+plats.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Traditional Uzbek Raised Seating Platforms</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkk8X3mnkuwGq6jz2doK0U8HYPT7meDgE_166khLqWcfH8WMWSDN8ytjgmK2BmhfsNyHaYSRlrh-jWt8jepD8Di7vlcmIf3djcs-99QgEEh8kKzCz_0GSsJ4kHHTfaIOBw2ZMfVWKnQCQA/s1600/The+best+nan+in+kyrgyzstan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkk8X3mnkuwGq6jz2doK0U8HYPT7meDgE_166khLqWcfH8WMWSDN8ytjgmK2BmhfsNyHaYSRlrh-jWt8jepD8Di7vlcmIf3djcs-99QgEEh8kKzCz_0GSsJ4kHHTfaIOBw2ZMfVWKnQCQA/s200/The+best+nan+in+kyrgyzstan.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I want the finest nan known to humanity<br />
I want it here and I want it now</td></tr>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The rest of the day consisted of a little more wandering followed by a stop off in a cafe where a lady from Osh University thanked us for coming to Osh, also trying to convince us to come and volunteer to teach English for a month or so at the university (they are despereate for native speakers to help the students improve their speaking skills), all whilst we were drinking beer and cognac and eating rich chocolate. After which we retired to our guest house, freshened up, popped out for a bite to eat for tea. and then retired early in preparation for the next day's activities.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoSKG64IUq0Fr49j3JKJb59nCNsrmFK8J54605sr6XUEbln8b682r98gSRVedkPt7GgJctWyJGuCHRsK8gAHC2ua96Wvb9WV5L9-x27PbE4jdcaQOahqTlHTH8raKWfcJe6ogxC2VTYXe3/s1600/Minaret+mosque.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Thus ends the account of our Arrival in Osh, tune in again tomorrow for the next thrilling installment, with our trip to Ozgon to explore Karakhanid Mausolea, a David Lynch-esque episode in search of a tourist office and a journey to a small town in the Alay Valley.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoSKG64IUq0Fr49j3JKJb59nCNsrmFK8J54605sr6XUEbln8b682r98gSRVedkPt7GgJctWyJGuCHRsK8gAHC2ua96Wvb9WV5L9-x27PbE4jdcaQOahqTlHTH8raKWfcJe6ogxC2VTYXe3/s1600/Minaret+mosque.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some photos in this article courtesy of Daniel Mahony</span></div>El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-30658087799593921862010-12-26T17:09:00.000-08:002011-09-28T03:32:11.950-07:00Christmas in Bishkek<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLinF0gkWdjZR529ip5lIaapEnQGqPUbDnPufkQ1xoz3dInadjcXhjPvQ9shSZkBAS4E6LsWLlzgQYrV9J0TqRksXmlxxz-RswxGG9dUfzyix7jg7swTz5QCRUEDbPX32WQujI-U7kQEIv/s1600/dyed+and+devil.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLinF0gkWdjZR529ip5lIaapEnQGqPUbDnPufkQ1xoz3dInadjcXhjPvQ9shSZkBAS4E6LsWLlzgQYrV9J0TqRksXmlxxz-RswxGG9dUfzyix7jg7swTz5QCRUEDbPX32WQujI-U7kQEIv/s320/dyed+and+devil.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Devil on Santa Claus's knee<br />
- which is a neat visual summary of what follows</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">It</span> 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. <br />
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. <br />
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. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc_bx3nE2oug7-aBBhOwu-dx6VYgj6VBxdV_aB5FGcK0upI53bfGIwdgoTQAJQBoUUiZtlQX-4XmZ1o4unNa0OXtDQ3plWU4KRYmgBkRw6ERrlWsJHTRHWWSYa4o31k5IpJMLDLBjFbKUr/s1600/Anton%2527s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc_bx3nE2oug7-aBBhOwu-dx6VYgj6VBxdV_aB5FGcK0upI53bfGIwdgoTQAJQBoUUiZtlQX-4XmZ1o4unNa0OXtDQ3plWU4KRYmgBkRw6ERrlWsJHTRHWWSYa4o31k5IpJMLDLBjFbKUr/s320/Anton%2527s.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drinks at Anton's - a Bishkek institution</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The cellar bar in question is Anton's, Bishkek's premier location for carousing with guitar, piano and voice; imbibing of scarily cheap beer and experiencing of some seriously questionable toiletry facilities. The experience of entering Anton's is difficult to describe in words. But if you imagine the moment from Silence of the Lambs where Clarice first descends into the cells of the high security mental asylum where Hannibal Lector is held, to the collective gurns, gawps and grimaces of the inmates, and add an incongruous moment where she bumps her head on an oddly located set of rusty windchimes, you will be getting pretty close.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapXiWCkxuuvGlkEqu5lK_IB2R_K6-VzCGu3hp7Pkiseonie37v2JEFGZGTrXsb9RI4ibPH4_dVqI-HXILeYDvsKoC-Leskugp8qJCtOeuDGvAknjPRS6-70BdeMo85FxX9Yww25L07uMc/s1600/Anton%2527s+loo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapXiWCkxuuvGlkEqu5lK_IB2R_K6-VzCGu3hp7Pkiseonie37v2JEFGZGTrXsb9RI4ibPH4_dVqI-HXILeYDvsKoC-Leskugp8qJCtOeuDGvAknjPRS6-70BdeMo85FxX9Yww25L07uMc/s1600/Anton%2527s+loo.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anton's Bog - Not for the faint of heart (or the sensitive of nose)</td></tr>
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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) <br />
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<<Yes, I have ears here and ears here. I AM A MONSTER>><br />
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Slightly taken aback he mumbles a garbled response. Without a moments hesitation (in English mind you, her second language)<br />
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<<Yes, it is funny. It is very funny.>><br />
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The man slinks off, tail between his legs, dismissed. A true masterclass in sleaze management.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">It</span> 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 (<span class="hps" closure_uid_nf61d1="63" title="Click for alternate translations">Новый</span> <span class="hps" closure_uid_nf61d1="64" title="Click for alternate translations">год)</span> trees with tinsel and so on and so forth). The plot is (approximately) as follows:<br />
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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<br />
<br />
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...<br />
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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.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">It</span> 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.<br />
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...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKpshfBxiomgvlkWYzp9DLQveF_DySn8Y4MPweLn6gA8cBeRlF3QZPzNiQ7VmUpZPxMCRGcgEBnuFwQ-cYlSbwBFu9wPdUi4RRjLrpd-3AVXYObQa9L5-YxkRd8FmMdwADa-E487Cy31Zg/s1600/prepping.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKpshfBxiomgvlkWYzp9DLQveF_DySn8Y4MPweLn6gA8cBeRlF3QZPzNiQ7VmUpZPxMCRGcgEBnuFwQ-cYlSbwBFu9wPdUi4RRjLrpd-3AVXYObQa9L5-YxkRd8FmMdwADa-E487Cy31Zg/s320/prepping.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dan prepping</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDETJ3rhNCgjdVDf871Ih8fE7XUYXom_2XeNwOcM358MHo7z4hW2_5OxarbkxEL-Q-JaCa5imC7uPpRvF3p5cBpgrGHhLI_83q8VapFi3cEOFA3tDnyUnPpU2MSgBRvxwQY0K7za2O5N0T/s1600/peeling.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDETJ3rhNCgjdVDf871Ih8fE7XUYXom_2XeNwOcM358MHo7z4hW2_5OxarbkxEL-Q-JaCa5imC7uPpRvF3p5cBpgrGHhLI_83q8VapFi3cEOFA3tDnyUnPpU2MSgBRvxwQY0K7za2O5N0T/s200/peeling.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cole Peeling</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPJyCRBLwdpHuDqI1uQejw8RMuBCisvYV2PdGzaXpFkmKZD9mEy6zpJeFlhkQeTZbIhk-zAqEM8eSiZaH8Ib3Ugy5KThq7IPgzDrNnavyIx9R96_B94aeWXDDGzm2jgKx5YxiyLO5qcxgf/s1600/carving.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPJyCRBLwdpHuDqI1uQejw8RMuBCisvYV2PdGzaXpFkmKZD9mEy6zpJeFlhkQeTZbIhk-zAqEM8eSiZaH8Ib3Ugy5KThq7IPgzDrNnavyIx9R96_B94aeWXDDGzm2jgKx5YxiyLO5qcxgf/s320/carving.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kevin carving</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijY1cX4xAQuoOs1IlI8oCGuNkoozXhGmMWfOyZb4VPgIUFm21d7WmdZmfjl_FvfPxxqqm3ZfXHKhLfnILTvpMZcT8mUueVotq5_C0UYvEaT7v4bXiO8MWhbXUJLNe8tFj5OekPaStWNuuU/s1600/mulling.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijY1cX4xAQuoOs1IlI8oCGuNkoozXhGmMWfOyZb4VPgIUFm21d7WmdZmfjl_FvfPxxqqm3ZfXHKhLfnILTvpMZcT8mUueVotq5_C0UYvEaT7v4bXiO8MWhbXUJLNe8tFj5OekPaStWNuuU/s320/mulling.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Max mulling</td></tr>
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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).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk0bWuHtxqPy2jqs2tiObtUmOr6CIRSaFRqRC0YT7ZKRG9yiohzSTlFh1WkNEVrkYiPaRr5li04x4YAYHBDgLN2ZzEfjg0qh2PzkQTiYUVW7k5cibRGlQv6nTzJPu3Oms1hAhk_W-BIo90/s1600/tucking+in.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk0bWuHtxqPy2jqs2tiObtUmOr6CIRSaFRqRC0YT7ZKRG9yiohzSTlFh1WkNEVrkYiPaRr5li04x4YAYHBDgLN2ZzEfjg0qh2PzkQTiYUVW7k5cibRGlQv6nTzJPu3Oms1hAhk_W-BIo90/s320/tucking+in.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tucking in</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIvqqh4LZ_TJvjNY7YhHIJx5D7ZYFGipS5GkQAfww-VdSpKn2gr_GbTbk9Dhtg_8j1UNOR9kDZIVXOsV2fXw3hsc3QWztNR5WV5WPFUsvM8xKHWRdjfel6yKEWUe2_L2Gf-G0wwptJ6RHH/s1600/spot+welding+in+the+background.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIvqqh4LZ_TJvjNY7YhHIJx5D7ZYFGipS5GkQAfww-VdSpKn2gr_GbTbk9Dhtg_8j1UNOR9kDZIVXOsV2fXw3hsc3QWztNR5WV5WPFUsvM8xKHWRdjfel6yKEWUe2_L2Gf-G0wwptJ6RHH/s320/spot+welding+in+the+background.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Supping post-christmas dinner champagne - yes that is indeed a man spotwelding bars onto the window in the background.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>A few moments later, Eve returns bearing a roll of tape and sporting a rather fetching Santa beard, Logan is both thankful and nonplussed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS4_cRgKzD5x920Xutf5eflpH9xctBJ42NRXpOMnBn-tKBHnfIpdoqFf2rmYLgstpcR6-2E2TXMp5kyZ2Hu1GXlb_6qiICC1PF_MKAG5iEL0S59p7nGhvBeNQ9H_oSQwlvh-Fk6suQtZro/s1600/santa+eve+arrives+logan+despairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS4_cRgKzD5x920Xutf5eflpH9xctBJ42NRXpOMnBn-tKBHnfIpdoqFf2rmYLgstpcR6-2E2TXMp5kyZ2Hu1GXlb_6qiICC1PF_MKAG5iEL0S59p7nGhvBeNQ9H_oSQwlvh-Fk6suQtZro/s400/santa+eve+arrives+logan+despairs.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Santa Eve arrives - Logan despairs</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">It</span> 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. <br />
We are engaged in a glorious Christmas tradition known as the White Elephant.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCLhrN-wFZbJZgjz-1qXkTbicYgXUfEkhZ-Dyz3ofOqMUQluBh6OIG9SX_IqHturHGtcqQYDQD_F3RhBr6nhuIxSLmWXgEZLLv91naA_JawlTApV7oRpJRKOCsex7jizBJYURcqzdMDrK1/s1600/jyldyz+with+rug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCLhrN-wFZbJZgjz-1qXkTbicYgXUfEkhZ-Dyz3ofOqMUQluBh6OIG9SX_IqHturHGtcqQYDQD_F3RhBr6nhuIxSLmWXgEZLLv91naA_JawlTApV7oRpJRKOCsex7jizBJYURcqzdMDrK1/s320/jyldyz+with+rug.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jyldyz showing off the rug (before putting on the rug)</td></tr>
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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. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxNG0NllyKl1AMMYB5sOc3mCyUbOZlOm7MJfmNJZb9ismr5eUVM6Fc3FQkifiZ5ZqEDSPUaF6U8QOCXdUI4UDvj-VzTa8mHBWF_JdwjNRjNkpp0JdbeDvzD7Vd29wRV_HsiFlbEthD3-Lz/s1600/jyldyz+picking.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxNG0NllyKl1AMMYB5sOc3mCyUbOZlOm7MJfmNJZb9ismr5eUVM6Fc3FQkifiZ5ZqEDSPUaF6U8QOCXdUI4UDvj-VzTa8mHBWF_JdwjNRjNkpp0JdbeDvzD7Vd29wRV_HsiFlbEthD3-Lz/s200/jyldyz+picking.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jyldyz picking the next name out of Djed Moroz's hat.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlN2fkwT0RnVi3wWCo5dFSH93NpJiLoYJLSTkzX3go04oRd9RMBZwO0v_Em9EaMlIP9yIXdw4txhWvokB_hDVRkVvXRadFYYkSw4ypQy32qZ460mTQTiNzcTiRH3jdb1qIncOSDqUjNsBK/s1600/aobama+viagra+facial+expression.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlN2fkwT0RnVi3wWCo5dFSH93NpJiLoYJLSTkzX3go04oRd9RMBZwO0v_Em9EaMlIP9yIXdw4txhWvokB_hDVRkVvXRadFYYkSw4ypQy32qZ460mTQTiNzcTiRH3jdb1qIncOSDqUjNsBK/s200/aobama+viagra+facial+expression.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Max showing off the Obama viagra<br />
- Yes I'm afraid you did hear that exactly right. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqsUi3qthATjmmDVF44QiyHJ-FxHWTrFo2aS4D_Lnh5V3omMvSVMPNmz7NL13SS_PuH8ULe61utLXlF-EcPmLgY5MqLDqVEACepKgGssU7KAjzaOVompvwQ4bkaNduwp6e23cVDKC8MA1/s1600/Ruta+with+hat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqsUi3qthATjmmDVF44QiyHJ-FxHWTrFo2aS4D_Lnh5V3omMvSVMPNmz7NL13SS_PuH8ULe61utLXlF-EcPmLgY5MqLDqVEACepKgGssU7KAjzaOVompvwQ4bkaNduwp6e23cVDKC8MA1/s200/Ruta+with+hat.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruta sporting a fetching pirate hat<br />
- though who got it in the end I wouldn't <br />
even care to hazard a guess<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx47-AeEqH79x8zWuS5rV7ydlWyyXgKvdl117GB01h12765tpow2iTwT_DNXtpnS5fthUvP9SVHyYDoIcIQJxIbmlvtp2ur-2qaFuOydxr1bqhNSLCKPesRoqf1oVqH11rrroBrFGFYE4Y/s1600/ylyt+surveys+his+good.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx47-AeEqH79x8zWuS5rV7ydlWyyXgKvdl117GB01h12765tpow2iTwT_DNXtpnS5fthUvP9SVHyYDoIcIQJxIbmlvtp2ur-2qaFuOydxr1bqhNSLCKPesRoqf1oVqH11rrroBrFGFYE4Y/s200/ylyt+surveys+his+good.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="profileName ginormousProfileName fwb">Улукбек (Oolukbek) ponders his </span><br />
<span class="profileName ginormousProfileName fwb">potential present</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table></td></tr>
</tbody></table>For me, the highlight of the White Elephant experience was when Aaro picked at random Logan's now legendary Jaguar Rocket (i.e. two cans of Jaguar energy drink strapped to a bottle of vodka with the aforementioned gaffer/duct tape). Now, although to most sane people Jaguar is the very urine of Beelzebub himself, we have already discussed in a previous blog how to Aaro it is pure nectar from the gods, a very ambrosia of sugary, caffeine-rich, alcoholicity. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9P36fEKgMRPRb_-u504OKHPRjWlSbUhEZvGWux7Frq59agUVUPvdeTl2fu3OetgwDawYg-4tFUkyzuGArRlw45nBA_-L4U5eJCgkxAhr8yeLiO1dNISteSjNUkzOvKTsJ-eIC2u086E9o/s1600/aaro+selects.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9P36fEKgMRPRb_-u504OKHPRjWlSbUhEZvGWux7Frq59agUVUPvdeTl2fu3OetgwDawYg-4tFUkyzuGArRlw45nBA_-L4U5eJCgkxAhr8yeLiO1dNISteSjNUkzOvKTsJ-eIC2u086E9o/s320/aaro+selects.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aaro selecting his future Brutus </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
So when Max chose to snatch it from his loving grasp, it caused Aaro to utter a wail of genuine despair.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0WgP-MdYef72W0m3naKoPzrgeSyxFKiQBa8Zx8EshQy8AGLIA-tbUt3iS8uk6fVBbOaB7nOe-BlYbFIdiR8qzjvQpouDGPqoY_jIafgD1TvNlmmMRVMzdykO-tlMiNfKdd09UpdECj65-/s1600/the+legendary+jaguar+rocket+max.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0WgP-MdYef72W0m3naKoPzrgeSyxFKiQBa8Zx8EshQy8AGLIA-tbUt3iS8uk6fVBbOaB7nOe-BlYbFIdiR8qzjvQpouDGPqoY_jIafgD1TvNlmmMRVMzdykO-tlMiNfKdd09UpdECj65-/s320/the+legendary+jaguar+rocket+max.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Max raising the legendary Jaguar Rocket in exaltation<br />
- Aaro despondent</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div style="border: currentColor;">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...</div><div style="border: currentColor;"><br />
</div><div style="border: currentColor;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVRMP7U951nBVjX2bI44WFk8ATDC1-DWd58tn5gO1STJb7wEoEma7bCP-cqexIc_94BshdHhs8_Jkwt83In5NWDPAStVrTvDvIrGbiGEO1oSh9W7tLH67Y8WAi0vLzCJbmP4yrw2BD53Ts/s1600/ceci+white+elephant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVRMP7U951nBVjX2bI44WFk8ATDC1-DWd58tn5gO1STJb7wEoEma7bCP-cqexIc_94BshdHhs8_Jkwt83In5NWDPAStVrTvDvIrGbiGEO1oSh9W7tLH67Y8WAi0vLzCJbmP4yrw2BD53Ts/s320/ceci+white+elephant.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ceci - a very classy lady</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border: currentColor;">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.</div><div style="border: currentColor;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNfWHxaiUGIlQ8-tPIy6_d26D3ymMN4C-ctelgLZXqCjnZR4j8pl8Mlx0YQwWWcWcXClGUK5IBDr1bldOZP-fMkH_TiqtbtmradUZZwHu9bQ1PJe-7jIw2mKzFmhkL8CWBT1wgoHrlSgmp/s1600/danceage.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNfWHxaiUGIlQ8-tPIy6_d26D3ymMN4C-ctelgLZXqCjnZR4j8pl8Mlx0YQwWWcWcXClGUK5IBDr1bldOZP-fMkH_TiqtbtmradUZZwHu9bQ1PJe-7jIw2mKzFmhkL8CWBT1wgoHrlSgmp/s320/danceage.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Danceage</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border: currentColor;"><br />
</div><br />
<div style="border: currentColor;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">It</span> 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. </div><div style="border: currentColor;">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...</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2xoFfbkQvtV1uTzICaA7bQ9GPSgafL8WnkCwurlc2mJL8TMkaz6pk8EGph3lXxE_AxKH03MH0VPNoR7Gzh_uB0LUqvnL0pHMN0yYWDvreaNRcJJD-kTevDbMqAQjBohgTPfAripb_Tfx/s1600/in+the+snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2xoFfbkQvtV1uTzICaA7bQ9GPSgafL8WnkCwurlc2mJL8TMkaz6pk8EGph3lXxE_AxKH03MH0VPNoR7Gzh_uB0LUqvnL0pHMN0yYWDvreaNRcJJD-kTevDbMqAQjBohgTPfAripb_Tfx/s320/in+the+snow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border: currentColor;"><br />
</div><br />
<div style="border: currentColor;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">It</span> 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. </div><div style="border: currentColor;"><br />
</div><div style="border: currentColor;">And so, </div><div style="border: currentColor;"><br />
</div><div style="border: currentColor;"> <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night</span></div><div style="border: currentColor;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some photos in this article courtesy of Daniel Mahony</span></div><div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Credit for the photo of Anton's loo goes to Aaro Vitalo, a braver man than I </span></div><div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: left;"></div>El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-86115119700188732252010-12-19T02:35:00.000-08:002010-12-28T05:52:26.885-08:00Karakol<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIe_7EDzrMwQUH6ZIPtxnhHl27zmcHaIKwbG2pEcUx1aCDt4J0A-EhHYTFKgoZei79xWyoRwXmNDhw5Hhqa4ts_Omi-vTFn9097DCrRjpUny982_-KnMv6R0RtMeAQEOJC2-phyphenhyphenFhxlBe/s1600/vie+the+first.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIe_7EDzrMwQUH6ZIPtxnhHl27zmcHaIKwbG2pEcUx1aCDt4J0A-EhHYTFKgoZei79xWyoRwXmNDhw5Hhqa4ts_Omi-vTFn9097DCrRjpUny982_-KnMv6R0RtMeAQEOJC2-phyphenhyphenFhxlBe/s320/vie+the+first.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>It is 8:20pm on a frosty friday eve. The last garbled grammar explanation of the day has escaped my lips; all thoughts of the past simple, conjunctions and teacher/student talk time ratios can be shelved untill monday rears its ugly head. As I slip my textbooks into my bag and say my last 'have a good weekend's, there is but one thing on my mind. That one thing is the imminent approach of a moment where I will willfully strap two bendy planks of wood onto my feet and throw myself down a mountain. <br />
A nightbus to a cheeky weekend's skiing lies tantalisingly close, but it is not quite time for that yet. First there is the matter of a super-early christmas meal before Stuart (a Geordie and a gentleman) heads off to do his Air Stewardly duties, throwing a girdle round the earth, not to return until 2011 has arrived, had a few beers, put its feet up on the table and thoroughly settled in.<br />
Stuart's description of it was 'I've invited one or two people out to eat at the Turkish retaurant on Gorkava'; so when we arrive after work to a near empty restaurant without even a distant whisper of rowdy ex-pat banter, we are momentarilly nonplussed. <br />
The puzzlement increases when the waitress beckons us over to a door at the back of the restaurant which leads to the toilets. What could this all mean? Is this what waitressess have to lower themselves to for a decent tip around here?<br />
As we follow her through the door puzzlement skips bafflement and jumps straight onto wide-mouthed, fish-faced incredulity as we are led through not to a urine covered, Turkish-style, squatty toilet, but to what can only be described as a mediaeval nightclub, with a bizarre mix of wood-panelled walls and flashing, swirling scanner lights from a sizeable lighting rig.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijw7yqyjRT_YNyEQnixojjUNT_u-tpYnjRWVHTs2_dte5hTUo2WU4cxX9hn0s47r89j5pnlhUYAGwaa3hoEEZRIsbEcE3iuBhVaXT9HSMi2aLaqgfykagWPXANvWqJ3smwPawYz7tsN_5o/s1600/lighting+rig.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijw7yqyjRT_YNyEQnixojjUNT_u-tpYnjRWVHTs2_dte5hTUo2WU4cxX9hn0s47r89j5pnlhUYAGwaa3hoEEZRIsbEcE3iuBhVaXT9HSMi2aLaqgfykagWPXANvWqJ3smwPawYz7tsN_5o/s320/lighting+rig.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
We reach the top of the stairs to be greeted by the one or two people that Stuart invited. Here they are:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO3SzfwJLEuqQELv3r2X3ivhyVYx8WIDBZcUMkvgLiaqcqgvncZQJG_UL764yhnl9SSBTV8muloNFsJ68WQkXGm4O9PCu6rr3-m_6m1Ij2wkD5uH_ZucV0FRJ0SCA3WUuySnpcOOVCJuYy/s1600/earlyturkishcerimbo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO3SzfwJLEuqQELv3r2X3ivhyVYx8WIDBZcUMkvgLiaqcqgvncZQJG_UL764yhnl9SSBTV8muloNFsJ68WQkXGm4O9PCu6rr3-m_6m1Ij2wkD5uH_ZucV0FRJ0SCA3WUuySnpcOOVCJuYy/s320/earlyturkishcerimbo.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Needless to say (but since this blog principally consists of me saying needless things I will continue undettered by the sheer needlessness of it all) our intimate gathering passed by in a seasonal flurry of vodka toasts and merriment. At approximately ten of the clock, Aaro (laid-back, Finnish, a great lover of filthy alcoholic energy drinks), Ceci (Sardinian, anglophile, a great wearer of funky, printed t-shirts), Logan (Alabaman, gregarious, a great lover of Boxing, American Football, Rugby and other sports that involve people's faces being forcefully readjusted) and I say our fond farewells and head off to the West Bus Station to catch a nightbus to Karakol.<br />
The journey lasted aboiut 7 hours or so, though would have been considerably shorter if the driver hadn't stopped every 40 minutes of so for a fag break. I appreciate that tobacco can be highly addictive but if I'd been prewarned I could have bought him some nicotine patches and thereby chopped about an hour off our travelling time.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD3p_9J2H23x799Ner2mTZXksUNhNtuZVqP3Sxx3BeGKhcqb7Uwy1qFEF_1-TXxzeJAhiY_49RiaO4mlnjsnG_QASMZVY-5NcnT_dVBU51oXLOKmp9wwXykUcNuafJktH8uGamXBiacKsr/s1600/2010_1212karakol0010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD3p_9J2H23x799Ner2mTZXksUNhNtuZVqP3Sxx3BeGKhcqb7Uwy1qFEF_1-TXxzeJAhiY_49RiaO4mlnjsnG_QASMZVY-5NcnT_dVBU51oXLOKmp9wwXykUcNuafJktH8uGamXBiacKsr/s320/2010_1212karakol0010.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Fortunately, me and Logan wiled away the time in highly productive fashion, by creating the 'Country Music Scale'; by which you can tell how Country any song is by checking how many items from the following list it includes:<br />
<br />
1) <span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Love</strong> </span>(bonus points for the words 'southern belle' or 'cowgirl')<br />
2) <strong><span style="font-size: large;">Roots</span></strong> (your hometown, the state you're from, Southern Pride)<br />
3) <span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Alcohol</strong></span> (particularly whiskey or beer, which is almost always <br />
'ice-cold')<br />
4) <span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Trucks </strong></span><span style="font-size: small;">(bonus points if you mention the tailgate)</span><br />
5) <span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Religion </strong></span><span style="font-size: small;">(top marks if you 'thank god' for your beautfiul cowgirl, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> for being born </span><span style="font-size: small;">in the South, for being able to afford a </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> truck, </span><span style="font-size: small;">or for how ice-cold </span><span style="font-size: small;">the beer you're </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> currently drinking is) </span><br />
<br />
If it doesn't mention at least two of these five things, no matter how much pedal-steel guitar you smother it in, you know it's just not a true Country Song. If it mentions four of the five things, it's as Country as doffing your cowboy hat to a perty lady whilst sipping sweet tea in a truckstop cafe. <br />
Having put the world of traditional American music to rights we arrived in the misty early morn in the fair town of Karakol. <br />
Karakol is, I believe, the fourth largest town in Kyrgyzstan and the excellent hiking, skiing, mountaineering and horse trekking available nearby makes it probably Kyrgyzstan's tourism capital. Being Kyrgyzstan's tourism capital is, however, a little like being Jamaicas most popular snowboarding resort, and there is little in the handful of dusty streets of cafes and convenience stores that make up the centre of Karakol, to indicate you are in a tourist hotspot. <br />
Having said that, the town, which was founded as a Russian military outpost in 1869, has its fair share of attractive, timber, gingerbread houses, including the pretty little guest house in which we stayed (complete with gloriously out-of-tune, honky-tonk piano)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-k_8mTgyuNFJEAXkX3GlPc8cbXgni8WHNjOhl849Rgg5P78gHJLXwnc6FvhZFSo6FzxQviJZv-Q3ngLEE0rgrH5_-3V3yTtRoP9bg6bQlzp4XknnWMkGmCec-6hO29_HXk_ONzAzy44BG/s1600/guesthouse.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-k_8mTgyuNFJEAXkX3GlPc8cbXgni8WHNjOhl849Rgg5P78gHJLXwnc6FvhZFSo6FzxQviJZv-Q3ngLEE0rgrH5_-3V3yTtRoP9bg6bQlzp4XknnWMkGmCec-6hO29_HXk_ONzAzy44BG/s320/guesthouse.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The living room area of the guesthouse - a severe textile overload</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Having not skied for about 14 years, I was feeling a certain ammount of apprehension on the taxi ride up to the ski resort. I needn't have worried. On the first run down I fell on my backside half way down and my right ski came apart, forcing me to walk back down the slope. On my second atempt my ski pass beeped twice on the automatic barrier to the ski lift, which meant I just had to sit around for 10 minutes waiting for the others to ski back down to me. At this point, Aaro, in his infinite wisdom, decided that that was sufficient preparation for me to tackle a black slope, and took us up a ski lift which went...and went...and went...and kept on going...and going, right to the top of the mountain. This caused Logan, who had never been that high before in all his livelong days, to invent his own distinctive style of backwards skiing, which for some reason made it far easier for him to stomach the insane, might fall off the side of a mountain any minute, black slope experience.<br />
And so, I soldiered on, chewing the snow every few minutes, down the mountain, thoroughly enjoying my own total inadequacy for the task. All told, the first day's skiing was a pleasent madness. <br />
We got back to the guesthouse about five and decided the only reasonable response to the day's events was to begin drinking. We ran into a Coloradan guy who'd been staying at the guesthouse for several months while he developed a cross-country ski route with a series of yurts as waystops (while we were skiing, he'd been constructing a toilet). He suggested we go eat, so we headed to a restaurant and the alcohol began flowing (although admittedly it was beer, which many Kyrgyz people deign to regard as 'real' alcohol). After a quick stop off at a mini-supermarket (shopping list: more beers, Jaguar alcoholic energy drink, a can of Manchester Gin & Tonic, cheep Russian champagne and a glass grenade of vodka) we reconvened in the guesthouse and engaged wholeheartedly in a merry session which was fully burned out by midnight. Sleep happened and then another half-day of skiing, this time on slightly more sane and achievable slopes.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCGbe-zG8N3pmx4r6LbsADORIITZefwvL5Z1I8Tv3a-REi7UNeHaBxcj51e1pv0crkpkDNgj7pN36_5cFja3KZa9JGJY5WBqICzr5YanXwOGYpEgsbQ2Rl2Y4sE9oVTqY3dJk4RZlOzwQ/s1600/hotel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCGbe-zG8N3pmx4r6LbsADORIITZefwvL5Z1I8Tv3a-REi7UNeHaBxcj51e1pv0crkpkDNgj7pN36_5cFja3KZa9JGJY5WBqICzr5YanXwOGYpEgsbQ2Rl2Y4sE9oVTqY3dJk4RZlOzwQ/s320/hotel.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The hotel on the slopes - pleasingly pointy</td></tr>
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And so, another crazy weekend drawing to a close, we took the ride back to Bishkek in a very flashy Marshrutka (with wood panelling and flat screen TV no less). Shortly after nightfall, we arrive into Bishkek West Bus Station, then all that was left to do was hop into a souped-up, sports-car taxi driven by a gangster rap loving Kyrgyz guy who kept calling us brat (Russian for brother) and wend our way back home to bed.<br />
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p.s. I strongly suggest you follow <a href="http://bishkekblog.files.wordpress.com/2010/09/img_4808.jpg">this link </a>and look carefully at it. Really, it is worth your while.El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-4974449798541114132010-12-08T22:18:00.000-08:002011-05-22T12:27:23.067-07:00Of Wild Times, Felines and The Coming of The Big ChillIt has arrived. After an apparently unseasonally warm November, my first Kyrgyz snow has finally arrived. And arrived in some style; on friday the heavens let rip and verily did cover the land with not so much a blanket as a TOG 13.5 duvet of snow. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6z3D8UNYdPn_CGosOGeiZKtnh-bDQj0bxnQnLVyvEX70cLLzt7Wn3WyUwuY4LllF7Ud-PfKtEQzEBDixxqT-i23w9rPPTxKjyPhODzlij347V8uYevPVMhXjAAY0VlCC5QY9jOqkwrGV2/s1600/falling+snow.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6z3D8UNYdPn_CGosOGeiZKtnh-bDQj0bxnQnLVyvEX70cLLzt7Wn3WyUwuY4LllF7Ud-PfKtEQzEBDixxqT-i23w9rPPTxKjyPhODzlij347V8uYevPVMhXjAAY0VlCC5QY9jOqkwrGV2/s320/falling+snow.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here be the snow as she do fall </td></tr>
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This, combined with the large ammount of parkland and foliage in Bishkek town, has given me the vaguelly disconcerting feeling that a faun mihgt accost me at any moment, or I might see a sled mushing by driven by a disgruntled dwarf. This feeling has only been compounded by this piece of graffitti in the big underpass on Sovietskaya.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZGMZUa_-UXs1FtTFZuuc6QuEGNALPxQ6MNkHReTWC4VRmKBnneSg1fYHLhKk_RflTsvDfjt2eB-jrY5Mt2z9wBgnDRITuJkb1sVUqRnB5zcgX48a6oDGEaL4FxqauR6eFTefRvh6bEur5/s1600/Aslan+Graff.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZGMZUa_-UXs1FtTFZuuc6QuEGNALPxQ6MNkHReTWC4VRmKBnneSg1fYHLhKk_RflTsvDfjt2eB-jrY5Mt2z9wBgnDRITuJkb1sVUqRnB5zcgX48a6oDGEaL4FxqauR6eFTefRvh6bEur5/s320/Aslan+Graff.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
The Lion is away on business, but his name is still in the mind of streetwise beavers with a can of spraypaint to hand.<br />
Incidentally, while we are on the topic of felines, I would like to draw your attention to a genuine Kyrgyz election poster....<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb1dzSjtj_vPIBPprHe75XLyOj4zx_kPK6quNic1bsljpjDXeAwsNLRVvpr3VaWT8AcXrkXQ1InAwgL5r9fhD88frZpnk2yA137Dn1ZsS0zI-wCsM_p1yqw0vL4FG22N0JtmfOnazvBYtV/s1600/ilyas.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb1dzSjtj_vPIBPprHe75XLyOj4zx_kPK6quNic1bsljpjDXeAwsNLRVvpr3VaWT8AcXrkXQ1InAwgL5r9fhD88frZpnk2yA137Dn1ZsS0zI-wCsM_p1yqw0vL4FG22N0JtmfOnazvBYtV/s320/ilyas.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Political propoganda par excellence</td></tr>
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This is surely the ultimate way of gaining votes (and heavy duty political credibility); have yourself snapped in a boyband pose showing off your guns next to a big cat. Oh Mr Brown, if only you'd been pictured with a tiger, your fate could have been so different now.<br />
The duvet has died back to a thick wooly blanket now, but the Giant has walled his garden, the White Witch rules the land and the Big Chill is here to stay, three months of solid post-soviet winter. It's a strange experience though, I've walked contentedly (wrapped up like a good boy though mum, it's ok) through temperatures of -15 and lower, but not felt as baltically cold as I've felt in the UK before at much higher temperatures. The lack of lashing rain or biting winds makes the experience much easier to bear, and the stillness of the cold gives everything a rather fairytale quality, as if you are being provided with the concept of cold, without having it thrust in your face. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi-582c1hi1AvZfRnVGBI0IqzlVZavpjsReu5mql30ug004un5cJH9ckmXei7jqxdcxf2tJofOf1gZFtgG8loAUv0EpOA298-PsbnQr6xuqdoM9-39Rs4NXJRFBcJCJQ7w4cHcvkqeRbYN/s1600/erkindik++narnia.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi-582c1hi1AvZfRnVGBI0IqzlVZavpjsReu5mql30ug004un5cJH9ckmXei7jqxdcxf2tJofOf1gZFtgG8loAUv0EpOA298-PsbnQr6xuqdoM9-39Rs4NXJRFBcJCJQ7w4cHcvkqeRbYN/s320/erkindik++narnia.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The still winter morning in Erkindik Boulevard - the statue is pointing the way to Cair Paravel </td></tr>
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And indeed rain (or rather its other lower temperature precipitation brothers snow and ice) has done nothing to stop play, the last week or so in Bishkek's ex-pat bubble has included a cast of German nihilist philosophy loving prostitutes, 'never have I ever' drinking games in English theme pubs, Cuban cigar toking Alabamans, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/#!/photo.php?fbid=10150092089621881&set=a.10150092085076881.270533.513481880">a clinic offering a range of VD tests under the title 'Sex in the City'</a>, White Russians, Geordie shenanigans and a plethora of vodka toasts. All in all, just another quiet week in Central Asia.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWLbelIxNveZoVzzmZgisoAO7YViRYp9h_CDMjUT0FsDK6nNqlSTan3siJdrev2INCLTCZeE6Fy_1l9l8rZX0JgsqkWPVixR2kmC058wF826WxU9ILmDudwf2vZwD2J4NgQOiftAcTWvXb/s1600/view+from+london+school+window.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWLbelIxNveZoVzzmZgisoAO7YViRYp9h_CDMjUT0FsDK6nNqlSTan3siJdrev2INCLTCZeE6Fy_1l9l8rZX0JgsqkWPVixR2kmC058wF826WxU9ILmDudwf2vZwD2J4NgQOiftAcTWvXb/s400/view+from+london+school+window.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view of the first snow from a London School window. The Builders' ambitions of completing the work before the snow hit sadly unachieved.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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And so, once again I must bid you all adieu for a few days. There is a strong possibility of a night bus to Karakol tomorrow, following by a weekend of skiing, so I may have shenanigans to report soon enough. Untill then, farewell to all and to all a good night.El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-45667939364631633082010-11-28T20:36:00.000-08:002011-05-22T12:26:04.199-07:00Of Presentations, Celebrations and the Modern Silk Road in Action <br />
Amidst an impenetrable stream of utterance that sounds like it's being made by someone made apopleptically angry because they've had their tongue superglued to the bottom of their mouth, emanates a solitary familiar combination of vowels and consonants. 'Brian'.<br />
Hold on, 'Brian', I do believe that's my name. I snap myself out of the distant reverie that is my constant companion about a minute after starting to listen to speeches in a language I don't even begin to comprehend. I have a job to do...I'm no daydreamer who's just wandered in off the street....I am a role model, a teacher, a representative of my country in a foriegn land. My job on this day is to present a certificate for an essay competition being run by the London School, my erstwhile employers. The prize the winners will receive is a few months of free English tuition at London School. Such a prize! The English language, the key to the world. The password that allows access to treasure troves of literature, education, trashy internet postings and job opportunities. How strange that this melange of influences, this mongrel tongue born of a mongrel isle should have emerged as a worldwide lingua franca. Had not the inhabitants of a goldilocks isle (not too small, not too big, just right) at a goldilocks distance from a continent on the up, chosen, for reasons of their island status, to put more money and effort into its navy and its maritime activities than its land-based capabilities at a crucial period of it's history; had it not possessed at that point a highly flammable powder devised in a faraway Empire to the East, content in its own intrigues and vastness, and a few thousand handkerchiefs full of germs unknown to the antibodies of the people of a continent kept isolated for thousands of years by the vast expanses of two great oceans; and had that nation (by this point those nations, due to a bit of squabbling over taxes and some soggy tea) not held pre-eminence at a time of super-rapid expansion, invention and ingenuity; this obscure linguistic corner of the great Indo-European tree of languages might have remained a curio, rather than the world-eating behemoth that it has become today.<br />
That is not what I was thinking at that moment though. O no. Not for me such lofty ponderences. What I was thinking at that point was...'Whoah! That kid has an immense mullet!'<br />
And so I shuffle up to the front to present a bit of fancy paper to my bemulleted essayist. I have been told that I must say some 'good words' to him by way of encouragement and praise. I have a paragraph of biographical information to inspire me. He likes cooking pizza and wants to be a lawyer and goes to school number 13 (all the schools here seem to be numbered which feels somehow 1984esque).<br />
From these titbits of info I cobble together my good words, which went thus:<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">Well done, I hope you use your newly learnt English skills well. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Whether as Kyryzstan's top lawyer of as Bishkek's most famous pizza chef'</div><br />
Amazingly, this fine addition to the illustrious annals of British wit and humour actually gets a laugh. Other teachers have attemped subtle biting irony, self-dprecating wit and bone dry sardonic misquotation to the ringing silence of incomprehension. The rule is, my dear readers, when speaking to an audience that barely knows the language you are speaking, subtlety goes out the window and broad is best.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvuAJ_pQoaf0_agOimF9t55I77GjJRxtlyt0QRBqtF6GOKk_BoNXGvwqfx9rfsNgZqrS3BbdlH4p3zWTGA9ZGQtnqb4wv08_tgwtZGzOCBfB2z91eKPRYqw8SfZ0FVtQTkXyeVQT0Ko-GP/s1600/the+audience.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvuAJ_pQoaf0_agOimF9t55I77GjJRxtlyt0QRBqtF6GOKk_BoNXGvwqfx9rfsNgZqrS3BbdlH4p3zWTGA9ZGQtnqb4wv08_tgwtZGzOCBfB2z91eKPRYqw8SfZ0FVtQTkXyeVQT0Ko-GP/s320/the+audience.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The audience, enthralled by the proceedings</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhznyNpGVWqKa1gA7_7Kfcy7G4Tsepe6djNQ3PsygNOyUEt1XI_SOLR2Hu0Yg6uMFEMXh3XjPdd4LddZDYj9XL5LDYzt-GQn16I7B6JaswWw7o6MEQ-Ve3xdp1Iqx7BhRQhJEmA-3pW_Brf/s1600/max+presents.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhznyNpGVWqKa1gA7_7Kfcy7G4Tsepe6djNQ3PsygNOyUEt1XI_SOLR2Hu0Yg6uMFEMXh3XjPdd4LddZDYj9XL5LDYzt-GQn16I7B6JaswWw7o6MEQ-Ve3xdp1Iqx7BhRQhJEmA-3pW_Brf/s320/max+presents.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Max, presenting the grand prize with a polished speech</td></tr>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And so, my duties as an upstanding citizen and pillar of the community completed, we move on to a bit of cultural celebration. Though not a Central Asian cultural celebration, this one has travelled a few thousands miles to get here. For saturday was the day on which the ex-pat Unitedsatesers and their invited guests celebrated that fine American tradition of Thanksgiving, with all the trimmings, including roast turkey, american sports on the tele and specially imported cranberry sauce. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A good time was had by all, despite the apparent evidence of the one photo I could get my hands on of us sitting around looking seemingly rather glum.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU9QjZ4PgpLtEoajwtaeJ6D8v31pmnB0QMSqG8c5u6T-m_Wbt1hO188TymF92GhqrvDhWW2AdSelzXmUMJb90LwgbQYx3L2uo6bg-gEIQOusUX0DwgEgv3D6OYpYgeRnXOGP78gUT7ug-J/s1600/thanksgiving.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU9QjZ4PgpLtEoajwtaeJ6D8v31pmnB0QMSqG8c5u6T-m_Wbt1hO188TymF92GhqrvDhWW2AdSelzXmUMJb90LwgbQYx3L2uo6bg-gEIQOusUX0DwgEgv3D6OYpYgeRnXOGP78gUT7ug-J/s320/thanksgiving.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanksgiving photo - scenes of chaotic revelry confusingly absent</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The next morning I awoke with a belly still full of Turkey, yorkshire puddings (cheers Kiwi Ben for giving Thanksgiving a Brit spin) and pumpkin pie ready to experience a far more local cultural phenomenon. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Dordoi Bazaar lies a short bus ride outside of Bishkek and is reputedly the largest market in Central Asia. Now, saying it's 'the largest market in Central Asia', is like saying it's 'the most outrageous dresser in Japan' or 'the fattest person in the US'. It truly is enormous, a township of packing-crate shops that runs as far as the eyes can see (and then some).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3wTnbWruZm-GEPIxIwJRgLNto7sOzP_9lnj8SmfmBYdN8MFtR9jfCCZ07IxHNK_dAU9Gu81uTiXKkcgfzJdl4u18EkgYP6m58ivkx5APxE1zRVXtp5-I43AZs4KZHM3_6L4MKOGXqkYxr/s1600/Dordoi.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3wTnbWruZm-GEPIxIwJRgLNto7sOzP_9lnj8SmfmBYdN8MFtR9jfCCZ07IxHNK_dAU9Gu81uTiXKkcgfzJdl4u18EkgYP6m58ivkx5APxE1zRVXtp5-I43AZs4KZHM3_6L4MKOGXqkYxr/s640/Dordoi.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Within this seething cauldron of capitalism one can find on sale pretty much anything one might desire (and plenty of stuff one definitely wouldn't desire) hats, scarves, gloves, clothes, spices, household goods, ballerina's outfits, traditional Kyrgyz hats, Brtish football tops, American baseball caps, the finest Chinese tat, little batgirl outfits, giant pots and pans for commercial kitchens, knicks and knacks and bric-a-brac, fur-lined boots, skipping ropes, plants and flowers, christmas decorations (in a Muslim country), a thousand knock offs and, if you're lucky, one genuine article. Mingled in with all this dizzying variety there is an extraordinary ammount of repetition, there is even a huge section dedicated exclusively to the sale of footwear and actually called 'SHOE WORLD'</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvboGYf1RC9-8Vc1JgyOUMqrAx1Ab05-_usrzmDsaRqFkjt8RSSPE3c0nnAasx9iEbRY3DOOXukbiCQEKLmtmnUjecHwbmiItwzvpZ0OAq6S7WRRPMBryonvYD919Z7lKMl3ouiYsdr2x/s1600/Shoe+world.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvboGYf1RC9-8Vc1JgyOUMqrAx1Ab05-_usrzmDsaRqFkjt8RSSPE3c0nnAasx9iEbRY3DOOXukbiCQEKLmtmnUjecHwbmiItwzvpZ0OAq6S7WRRPMBryonvYD919Z7lKMl3ouiYsdr2x/s400/Shoe+world.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shoe World - sponsored by Emelda Marcos. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> To avoid being crushed by the mass of people, the canny shopper gets himself into the slipstream of relative calm behind the unstoppable hurricanes that are the guys pushing wares around on great big metal trolley-type affairs (you can see one in the photos above). You can then allow yourself a moment to take in the shear surreality of the whole thing. At one point I found myself wandering, packing crates of sharp suits on one side, packing crates of thigh high leather boots on the other, a ray of sunlight shimmering dazzlingly in a haze of cigarette smoke, with a stream of bubbles floating past from no apparent source, when a blind accordian player strolled past. Now, if that's not going to give you an out of body experience, then nothing will.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But for me the highlight of the experience, and a neat metaphor for the confluence of influences and east-meets-west meltingpottery of the whole thing, was when my compatriot Dan found this Kazakhstan Tracksuit:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A couple of sizes too small, a couple of decades out of fashion, celebrating a neighbouring country but probably manufactred in China, and with some gloriously substandard stitching, how could a man resist buying such a treasure. The answer, in Dan's case, is that he couldn't.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Clutching bags full of random items, some useful some less so, and our pockets significantly lighter, we hopped a bus from the great, noisy, vast chaotic shoppers heaven of Dordoi back to the London School.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And that is where I leave you for now. One final thing before I potter off. I would like to introduce you to Dirt Woman, the London School teachers' black cat. She is a woman, she is invariably dirty, she is aptly named. She may be pregnant, she may just be getting fat from eating too much. Only time will tell... </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-47332232917019968772010-11-14T20:49:00.000-08:002010-12-19T03:51:46.731-08:00Of Red Days and Turkic TowersIt somehow seems an apt demonstration of Central Asia's melting pot of influences from East and West and indeed all points cardinal that I spent last saturday visiting an ancient Turkic tower, eating Chinese food, watching Russian heavy metal bands and ten-pin bowling.<br />
Central Asia has always had an eclectic mix of cultural influences, being the backbone of the ancient Silk Road. Confusingly this is not a road or made out of silk. It was a network of trading routes stretching from China, through Central Asia, the Arabian Peninsula and North Africa to Europe. Along this route were traded textiles (including silks) spices, walnuts (more about this in a later blog I think), and all manner of goods and wares.<br />
Conaequently, the cities and stop-off points of the Silk Road played host to traders from all manner of nations and consequently an easy going, cosmopolitan attitude developed. As long as you have stuff to sell or buy from us, the logic went, you can look howsoever you want, and kneel down before any idol that takes your fancy.<br />
And so I find myself about 40 minutes by marshrutka (privately owned van/minibuses that ferry people about, imagine a juddering tin of sardines fried out of a cannon, but slightly less comfortable and comodious) from Bishkek wandering through the Kyrgyz countryside in search of the Baruna Tower. This was formerly a minaret from a mosque in Basalagun, a city founded by the Karakhanids in the 10th century and an important link in the Silk Road chain. This being Kyrgyzstan and me being me, when I and my travelling companions arrive at this cultural attraction we find ourselves sharing it with a merrily drunk and rowdy Russian wedding party.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilxtLp02VhCgWZqka1LNsmh12pba4eF8M0RLR-PQ2VXIPd0rh6pOfFhTl4tIwEITrHOjf0AMg0d3M1f7jtrbEJRKVUe3QRBbtBQ4qVZ309qFjBKYL_eX2HZnXjFcBhVhZe4HaxeMTha5Xd/s1600/100_2604.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilxtLp02VhCgWZqka1LNsmh12pba4eF8M0RLR-PQ2VXIPd0rh6pOfFhTl4tIwEITrHOjf0AMg0d3M1f7jtrbEJRKVUe3QRBbtBQ4qVZ309qFjBKYL_eX2HZnXjFcBhVhZe4HaxeMTha5Xd/s320/100_2604.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>The tower collapsed as a result of a series of earthquakes (the last being in 1900) and was faithfully and painstakingly reconstructed Soviet-style in the 1970s, with no cupola, some rather modern mortar and a nice shiny, clunky metal spiral staircase which does the authenticity of the site the world of good. As a result its only half the original size, 26m not 46.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdMYKr45Ps-ha0tSl1t8qzKYvBYZIsER7FlfBTFnkK82sl_wLJZDVnA2kthsuairXA1vzuArPBpOuQj4T07K9F6EJo3biZA0p5y2Owtd7iXihdTtdRYoErNBdVekE503q5_SLIc8_ZVZ-/s1600/Baruna+tower+with+spirals.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdMYKr45Ps-ha0tSl1t8qzKYvBYZIsER7FlfBTFnkK82sl_wLJZDVnA2kthsuairXA1vzuArPBpOuQj4T07K9F6EJo3biZA0p5y2Owtd7iXihdTtdRYoErNBdVekE503q5_SLIc8_ZVZ-/s320/Baruna+tower+with+spirals.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Burana Tower - cheap soviet fix up job comes at no extra cost</td></tr>
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On the other hand the sound of a call to prayer emanating from a mosque in nearby Tokmok ululating on the wind gave a slightly goosebump inducing quality to the whole thing<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Tokmok Mosque (I think) providing appropriate atmospheric chanting <br />
(probably not for the benefit of passing tourists though)</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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By all accounts Basalgun was a pretty impressive city, excavations indicate it stretched over a 25 - 30 km square area, they've found Chinese coins, Nestorian christian crosses, Indian Cowries and magical charms so a big tick in the cosmopolitan box (see some of the finds in the dinky little musuem onsite). The poet Jusup Basalgun took his name from it and he's now on the 1000 som note so a big Kyrgyz thumbs up there:<br />
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Ghengis Khan even liked it so much that not only did he rename it Gobilik (good city) he had the good grace not to rampage through it raping and pillaging and then raise it to the ground, so it must have been quite something. <br />
A lot of people complain that the Baruna Tower is not very impresssive because it's just not big enough which is a concept I rather like, as if the ancients who built the tower having built it high enough for every man in the city and its environs to hear the sonourously droning call to prayer, might have thought to add a few more storeys on for the benefit of tourists a millennia later. Admittedly the Soviet fix up left it smaller than it was but only by 20 metres so I think the point still stands. <br />
By the site there is also a collection of amazing ancient holy point/burial ground markers called Balbals; which date from the 6th to the 10th Century AD. They reminded me of the description of the Pukkelmen in Lord of the Rings, with their time-weathered faces staring intensely out at you.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>All in all twas a fine visit and a pleasent bit of genuine culture to mix in with the craziness of my time here so far. I also visited the Ballet for the first time two days back (got interviewed for Kyrgyz tele while I was there which was surreal to say the least) so my existence has not been a complete cultural void.<br />
I'm going to try and avoid getting overly bogged down on the tedia of English Teaching Existence, but I feel one moment in my teaching so far is worth mentioning. We were working on emotions and character traits and someone was saying 'be nasty to someone because of their ...' so I introduced the word 'flaws'. Cue rapid dictionary riffling...silence...me moving onto the next point....more silence....slight giggling in the corner...me waffling on some more....an intrepid soul asks the question everyone has apparently wanted to ask for the last five minutes<br />
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<<Brian, does 'flaw' mean 'ladies' red days'>><br />
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errr...hhhhhhmn, nope. That would be a period. I am truly intrigued to find where he got his dictionary from. <br />
And so we come to poker night the first. I've been putting off going to the poker night for a few weeks but thought <<what the hell I get paid tomorrow, in for a penny in for a pound>><br />
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It's my opinion that you should never gamble more than you'd normally spend on a night, the time you spend gambling not ammounting to more than the beer you would have drank instead. It is good I feel that way because I was roundly thrashed and knocked out first but as this left me with losses ammounting to about 4 pound 10p I was not overly troubled.<br />
The final was that age old Revolutionary War Grudge Match between the UK and the States, their was only ever gonna be one winner. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0HPSSRIvq8QIl08oEEohGkKnttiRmqGmYYSwWrIm5sibc0OEX5PptKtKYOt02hw300ClcB0lr1QgbeAW1aa9sJQHJoMAc7MHGZK_UixY4YPc-GdTVSIN7BIuEUaPLdHBldkwXj2HwOMH/s1600/The+states+finalist.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0HPSSRIvq8QIl08oEEohGkKnttiRmqGmYYSwWrIm5sibc0OEX5PptKtKYOt02hw300ClcB0lr1QgbeAW1aa9sJQHJoMAc7MHGZK_UixY4YPc-GdTVSIN7BIuEUaPLdHBldkwXj2HwOMH/s200/The+states+finalist.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">U.S.A A.O.K</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSHZrHZIoHY6xldZ3zd0AVN7I-5xHB95uv1t57OnX1yCuGb043lTrRfT6cjkh1T9AGys8DcqZlvbJJfnAJRcq0WAQLjrjCwpjZ-dCmgHk7IAEGYjubdHYvnwdNw3z6NvLuJZEb3j_eFNoq/s1600/the+uk+finalist.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSHZrHZIoHY6xldZ3zd0AVN7I-5xHB95uv1t57OnX1yCuGb043lTrRfT6cjkh1T9AGys8DcqZlvbJJfnAJRcq0WAQLjrjCwpjZ-dCmgHk7IAEGYjubdHYvnwdNw3z6NvLuJZEb3j_eFNoq/s200/the+uk+finalist.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">UK - yeah not too bad </td></tr>
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Surprisingly it turned out to be the UK<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">VICTORIOUS</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">VANQUISHED</td></tr>
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And, to finish off on a light-hearted note (as opposed to the hard hitting journalism of the rest of my work). I was having a wee wander around the quiet suburban neighbourhood about a block away from the London School, and I discovered this singular piece of architectural frippery:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnKycgQu0QhpF4oOGiupe81t1DiHeLYSwgtCTACvzV_pGnhjMI8C0xfgOz9hL5ezz_F2_5mAGrxHeKJm5a8QSmWNK3FL8FpsNQNMBdC3Bl5wdFvnJE44gELKlYaO89sfB7YahhIxtiXRzW/s1600/100_2648.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnKycgQu0QhpF4oOGiupe81t1DiHeLYSwgtCTACvzV_pGnhjMI8C0xfgOz9hL5ezz_F2_5mAGrxHeKJm5a8QSmWNK3FL8FpsNQNMBdC3Bl5wdFvnJE44gELKlYaO89sfB7YahhIxtiXRzW/s320/100_2648.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
one of those rather pleasing curveballs life occasionally lobs at you without warning.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIXIHC2JEa8BaV6BYEX9DGzkU1UXHOZ6aCnD-Vn8lzCDdOuz6puN7Q16BXTyOkhWAw0_S_XxbP2C6GN4e2T9WD30tS1sEZl3Grze47Ga-CbC_-g27YiOEQk9X3eMzqLEzv31-pWfdqAkTh/s1600/poker+second.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIXIHC2JEa8BaV6BYEX9DGzkU1UXHOZ6aCnD-Vn8lzCDdOuz6puN7Q16BXTyOkhWAw0_S_XxbP2C6GN4e2T9WD30tS1sEZl3Grze47Ga-CbC_-g27YiOEQk9X3eMzqLEzv31-pWfdqAkTh/s1600/poker+second.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a></div>El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-11610359603082096392010-10-31T05:55:00.000-07:002010-11-14T23:37:24.828-08:00Of Mountain Lavender and The Red Right HandAnd so we pick up the story on a mountainside in the Ala Archa National Park, a surprisingly short journey (maybe 40 mins by car, ishy ish) south of the Kyrgyz capital Bishkek. So here we are, standing in snow and yet sweltering from the pounding Central Asian sun (like the sun everywhere else but with less clouds to get in the way), surrounded by breathtaking, picture-postcard, alpine views and, carrying on the refreshing, mountain breeze, the scent of lavender. This lavender grows in thick clumps all the way along the three mile waterfall walk we are following, filling the air with rich loveliness.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYlLbAugAWBhNx3BQgfLX-jRXjRc3rxFtz1d25p3c10ZTB12DQGwiXR0X0NLThKieBkpGwfZzYysHB-PiDdhM22dAepI2OsVLoVDMFvxFxb9GXn8QrPW1fev9fmpEbufjIRi2ONQ0lj-Ad/s1600/mountain+lavender.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYlLbAugAWBhNx3BQgfLX-jRXjRc3rxFtz1d25p3c10ZTB12DQGwiXR0X0NLThKieBkpGwfZzYysHB-PiDdhM22dAepI2OsVLoVDMFvxFxb9GXn8QrPW1fev9fmpEbufjIRi2ONQ0lj-Ad/s320/mountain+lavender.JPG" width="298" /></a></div><br />
An idyllic situation you might think, dear reader, one of peace and harmony with nature, the gentle solitude of the mountain trail. But all is not well: my breathing is laboured, my head clouded and slow. I can walk only short distances before I have to stop to catch my breath and regroup my meagre physical resources. The dreaded effects of altitude sickness are clutching at me. I explain to Max, a laconic Stirlingshire gent, sometime journalist for The Guardian, and London School teacher, that I am confused and bewildered. I've never suffered from altitude sickness before, and I've reaching far higher altitudes. He nods wisely and with gentle understanding. I master myself again and we trek on, chewing the fat about a variety of topics, from building to Central Asian politics to the whys and wherefores of taking sabbatical years. <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrm0yLGEpSmBcGllgMlm92SnMqEks8Fu9aBkah78L8bw27z33JtsnBdIL3FE9YIiEcalLhKgrhKjrQ3TYMaT_L43sMasvivwwcnFStn6mIRL57fs-OIQ35G7J8b2g3spGwkVbENeePinUU/s1600/mazandrock.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrm0yLGEpSmBcGllgMlm92SnMqEks8Fu9aBkah78L8bw27z33JtsnBdIL3FE9YIiEcalLhKgrhKjrQ3TYMaT_L43sMasvivwwcnFStn6mIRL57fs-OIQ35G7J8b2g3spGwkVbENeePinUU/s320/mazandrock.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Max - in hardy adventurer pose</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv11oxKtlC1hIuTfg2FKDpxFr2F379vo8wwkvaFKLwWqrkG0QTo9OfpM08lnPLHYWl_75smkkotdkDsKdMbQTzgkwYd2hVU-KTD9CyqmwFP7zPmgN4JRPrz8CHbFdghFobPyFEw1G1S6CL/s1600/meandmountains.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv11oxKtlC1hIuTfg2FKDpxFr2F379vo8wwkvaFKLwWqrkG0QTo9OfpM08lnPLHYWl_75smkkotdkDsKdMbQTzgkwYd2hVU-KTD9CyqmwFP7zPmgN4JRPrz8CHbFdghFobPyFEw1G1S6CL/s320/meandmountains.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me - soldiering on bravely</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<div style="border: medium none;">We paused to eat a spot of lunch and then took a brief siesta. When I awoke some 20-odd minutes later I found an uncanny thing had happened. My altitude sickness had gone. I could walk just fine; I didn't feel light headed or faint; it was miraculous. I came to a shocking conclusion. My altitude sickness was not altitude sickness after all. It was, in fact, just your common or garden stinking hangover brought about by the previous night's drunken debauch, which had ended with one of my co-inebriants (names in this case will be omitted to protect the guilty) throwing up spectacularly in a Michael Jackson theme bar and then taking a taxi back to the London School (which is approximately 300 yards from said bar).<br />
I paused for a moment to ponder the extraodinary human power of self delusion, breathed in a lungful of richly lavender-scented air, and trotted on with a sheepish grin on my face. Here are some of the beautiful views that my droopy, drink-penitent eyes witnessed on that trek: </div><div style="border: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQIGxcK6V7NRRXcB4f9SF5-v9X8_ooTyNiLXtM_ND7Cut1V-1vHNJjVQ5A5jgiMyoxvcjyVtieIl7yeFDacEkj1AG_1vDlPY1b8FEl1_LpTIA_KHqcphKoJWAT61esVyqGWOuw8QCcQrS-/s1600/mountain+flower.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQIGxcK6V7NRRXcB4f9SF5-v9X8_ooTyNiLXtM_ND7Cut1V-1vHNJjVQ5A5jgiMyoxvcjyVtieIl7yeFDacEkj1AG_1vDlPY1b8FEl1_LpTIA_KHqcphKoJWAT61esVyqGWOuw8QCcQrS-/s320/mountain+flower.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsEE4Kti9jo4npeZ0rmIjifY8K_hDvQ6c3vEgIipSdOXbl-JoR9G08NgWs4Qes92zkLuI5O_0kZTGVSD0rz7PsIhWzV0Pqps1UgtKrSNvXQ0YqQX2DSA3LUPo5JHqr199-Ub5_dypKfnRr/s1600/treeline.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsEE4Kti9jo4npeZ0rmIjifY8K_hDvQ6c3vEgIipSdOXbl-JoR9G08NgWs4Qes92zkLuI5O_0kZTGVSD0rz7PsIhWzV0Pqps1UgtKrSNvXQ0YqQX2DSA3LUPo5JHqr199-Ub5_dypKfnRr/s320/treeline.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFAj9YPspaFkHDENMcfJ2f3XHlacieAdcZ92MckV7SOytRbk0w8RyZYwIzhJoBrkpuHfXkulHzWtVXJa6OTJd01wemfgyps9dlJL-58jVFonMcFI6m3LH-qxQRnKE5gNzpes7g05xdofeO/s1600/stunningness.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFAj9YPspaFkHDENMcfJ2f3XHlacieAdcZ92MckV7SOytRbk0w8RyZYwIzhJoBrkpuHfXkulHzWtVXJa6OTJd01wemfgyps9dlJL-58jVFonMcFI6m3LH-qxQRnKE5gNzpes7g05xdofeO/s320/stunningness.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4H7kaDqy1bP7YgtnZpXMbU_PdZbm6mlP_1K33bLgRydMRKe5lFEBQf1V3FcoQ2an8Ffesf9iyjY24fidoGY7XN6OLygw0ESEtLenqgt1ISKpC9cix7s6ulWBR-B6jgTI2OW7kJxRnKVoy/s1600/hotel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4H7kaDqy1bP7YgtnZpXMbU_PdZbm6mlP_1K33bLgRydMRKe5lFEBQf1V3FcoQ2an8Ffesf9iyjY24fidoGY7XN6OLygw0ESEtLenqgt1ISKpC9cix7s6ulWBR-B6jgTI2OW7kJxRnKVoy/s320/hotel.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The hotel at the entrance to Ala-Archa National Park;<br />
pleasingly pointy to fit in with the trees around it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border: medium none;">And so, trek over, I returned to the city. I would like to say chastened and a little wiser for the experience, but there are some lies that are simply too big to tell, and returning from a mountain walk after having had a skinful the night before (for any non-brit readers 'having a skinful' is British slang for 'filling your body with a medically inadvisable quantity of alcohol'), only to immediately begin preparing for another night on the raz, doesn't even begin to fit the concept of 'chastened'. <br />
Nevertheless, it was Halloween and there was partying to be done, so I cobbled together my costume and headed out. I decided to go as 'The Man with the Red Right Hand' from the Nick Cave song 'Red Right Hand' (If you haven't heard it, follow <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kUlgN__Jrxk">this link</a> and prepare to be gothically educated). The end result of my endeavours looked something like this:</div><div style="border: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyF1FPtX4nGeWhtCjPQPL5V_Fb7Ng-UIbz-PoKnYzBgbLIX3bYQ1cvBuTgR4S13f0mL6f0JKR_hDKjVv0AvM5bekn_byx4FvBnaoMPs8YS1ai_i2irUIzrffXiqIQHQ5mYk09Qr1dtVZ-A/s1600/red-righthand.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyF1FPtX4nGeWhtCjPQPL5V_Fb7Ng-UIbz-PoKnYzBgbLIX3bYQ1cvBuTgR4S13f0mL6f0JKR_hDKjVv0AvM5bekn_byx4FvBnaoMPs8YS1ai_i2irUIzrffXiqIQHQ5mYk09Qr1dtVZ-A/s320/red-righthand.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div style="border: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border: medium none;">following the theory that the neutral white face mask is infinitely creapier than anything more ornate. </div>Other costumes included a red devil in a Manchester United top (clever use of Man U's 'red devils' nickname there), the killer of Michael Jackson (complete with white glove, presumably looted from the still warm corpse of the recently-deceased, popular entertainer) and the personification of the sacred Kyrgyz lake Issyk-kul (question 'What's scary about a lake?' response 'Drowning' inspired). Here I am with the lake himself <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyWqFtI0nXG2BqdhswrUN-XtDj_oUC8EXYQBhzTdjvrZ0GfW24nVeirePOnLaailtP0m6WqhiGO-nNmUs1hYNMMY91LuOuhsoWuK08b3DA-zESU3X_LB5i7krVefZv97OMSYJ6aNq-3slv/s1600/redhandandthelake.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyWqFtI0nXG2BqdhswrUN-XtDj_oUC8EXYQBhzTdjvrZ0GfW24nVeirePOnLaailtP0m6WqhiGO-nNmUs1hYNMMY91LuOuhsoWuK08b3DA-zESU3X_LB5i7krVefZv97OMSYJ6aNq-3slv/s320/redhandandthelake.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
After a quick pre-game (for non-american readers this is a term meaning 'drinks before you go out', probably something to do with American sports) we headed out to the former embassy building; suited, booted and ready to bring the good names of our respected nations into disrepute.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR2pps3Cxp1b7EObGrryFaWzWJSO73TayHeQTPygEnQReq4RrzocnCcngF_K_-ktHr0SU9xSbMx3yZzTKZAOTT8YH8F4NgunDiQo6AEEfOujEJf4EuVTdUWu13j3GVn073k6_YVhErRPA6/s1600/the+masses+gather.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR2pps3Cxp1b7EObGrryFaWzWJSO73TayHeQTPygEnQReq4RrzocnCcngF_K_-ktHr0SU9xSbMx3yZzTKZAOTT8YH8F4NgunDiQo6AEEfOujEJf4EuVTdUWu13j3GVn073k6_YVhErRPA6/s320/the+masses+gather.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cream of English, Scottish, US, Italian and Canadian society...no, really! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>Upon arrival, all and sundry were encouraged to drink of the 'screwdriver bong'; here ably demonstrated by respected London School teacher, sultan for the night and unashamed Alabaman party-animal Logan;<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUWf80Oocxeoc70hRmcUBNrFZN_sgCckTOMEI50o5DYrQR5DtxZqUcmtIEGrj81QnvNKuziTv2JzNleazmI87O_tJcU6z2dC8kYj6WWn4fXdVCz9TQRJUasByQKvdFXINYeggX9Zjq2kaY/s1600/the+screwdriver+bong.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUWf80Oocxeoc70hRmcUBNrFZN_sgCckTOMEI50o5DYrQR5DtxZqUcmtIEGrj81QnvNKuziTv2JzNleazmI87O_tJcU6z2dC8kYj6WWn4fXdVCz9TQRJUasByQKvdFXINYeggX9Zjq2kaY/s320/the+screwdriver+bong.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
and further the cause of international unity through the shared drinking of cheap Russian beer and the unifying art of dancing extravegantly badly to cheesy tunes.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ6NNIyeZv0PtSojIIhT6sQ8clM3hHRQvhxKM2CnDqaQIrwgG-8w4ZxwKwstbEWsk8UXD52OmRwCKBODTlLFjs6kbQRH2315akwx_9VBIwyaaBmqXX2Xr-HljamaLAFOQcu92kobNMQ-uj/s1600/2010_1030ala-archa0065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ6NNIyeZv0PtSojIIhT6sQ8clM3hHRQvhxKM2CnDqaQIrwgG-8w4ZxwKwstbEWsk8UXD52OmRwCKBODTlLFjs6kbQRH2315akwx_9VBIwyaaBmqXX2Xr-HljamaLAFOQcu92kobNMQ-uj/s320/2010_1030ala-archa0065.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">In the early hours of the morning, drink stores depleted and bonds of international friendship and understanding cemented, the revellers wended their way home to sleep off the worst of it, content in the knowledge that the world was a little closer and more contented a place and that they were merrily drunk.</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-34273874214630353982010-10-29T02:13:00.000-07:002010-11-14T23:48:42.987-08:00The Typical Tourist Bit<div style="border: medium none;">So here comes the first 'ooo look at the big public buildings, statuary and general stately gubbins' bit required in any good travelogue/set of holiday snaps/MI5 report. I went to Bishkek's main sqaure, dragging my vague knowledge of the country with me, took some photos, got looked at funny, and here is what I found.</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrHQ_oCY-VP-8VTxFJ2IYINews82R5VoKLkQN1b46SPgvB2f9psTql-_dRuwSM3bqdAbJoKxmnifh1mON888dY_PbSy2StJtdRsbsEAK_sp9mMuOXU5OYnT_Q9SeNP5y1adLuq695atcXK/s1600/2010_1026kyrgyz0010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrHQ_oCY-VP-8VTxFJ2IYINews82R5VoKLkQN1b46SPgvB2f9psTql-_dRuwSM3bqdAbJoKxmnifh1mON888dY_PbSy2StJtdRsbsEAK_sp9mMuOXU5OYnT_Q9SeNP5y1adLuq695atcXK/s320/2010_1026kyrgyz0010.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">The Kyrgyz flag, on a big pole, guarded by two guardy chaps with all the standing still and looking official skills required of the role. The circular shape on the flag is known as a 'tunduk' in Kyrgyz and symbolises life and eternity and jelly beans and frothy coffee (made those last two up actually. Sorry, got carried away). The pointy bits around the outside of the circle represent the sun and the crosshatching in the middle is the view looking up out of the centre of a yurt. All in all, I rather like it </div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzk-H2WTJg8T5LLI3jcsdj9Ha7l2uWaLjszQvSlt88uWc-AzzsoAuzo2MlC5H5T7_a96PVLsNIIImWIMMVf140PTYedbJ1ziXOmGYOR7OFxUODsO3vtXPqEvK4Sv4yRjTN24JG-t3PUTZX/s1600/2010_1026kyrgyz0011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzk-H2WTJg8T5LLI3jcsdj9Ha7l2uWaLjszQvSlt88uWc-AzzsoAuzo2MlC5H5T7_a96PVLsNIIImWIMMVf140PTYedbJ1ziXOmGYOR7OFxUODsO3vtXPqEvK4Sv4yRjTN24JG-t3PUTZX/s320/2010_1026kyrgyz0011.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Here is the parliament building, all big and imposing and tediously Soviet. As you can see from all the banners hung up outside, there is some very active political debate going on at the moment in Kyrgyzstan (for 'active debate' read 'political tension you could cut with a spoon if you didn't have a knife handy'). The banners probably say something like 'give us the government we have freely voted for you corrupt, bribe-taking, fat-cat, politko pig-dogs' but with my Russian reading skills it might actually say '50% off all bedroom tables and cabinets at IKEA for a limited time only'. </div><div style="border: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFI3XMtEdvUJvEE-_TJM_y6aTs-fzyHEte1Fb_b9OzqBBITCCvtZi0TMqBNHiQpNd3alHBGQsrqI11pM7emCsFEZOptSAUcMl7ll0h2DQ3PQ-NjiN3LtTMqidb76T17q8FgUdCf7MRcmTW/s1600/2010_1026kyrgyz0003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFI3XMtEdvUJvEE-_TJM_y6aTs-fzyHEte1Fb_b9OzqBBITCCvtZi0TMqBNHiQpNd3alHBGQsrqI11pM7emCsFEZOptSAUcMl7ll0h2DQ3PQ-NjiN3LtTMqidb76T17q8FgUdCf7MRcmTW/s320/2010_1026kyrgyz0003.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div style="border: medium none;">Here is a big, floaty, statue person. She probably represents 'liberty' or 'the triumph of the people' or 'that scene from titanic where he picks her up and it's all romantic'. Not quite sure which though.</div><div style="border: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifrGfNuCFiICA8P8DcBTGijhGs9xajI3K7V1i9EgEzzM7gugJA1eDjR99td6LEoCQoqc0-2rF9SgTNCzjtbh0FTk3Lci7uirPDl42TmOvpGnD5_IfID6S4v9li8t56a_n1k-j4w17iBh7Z/s1600/2010_1026kyrgyz0005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifrGfNuCFiICA8P8DcBTGijhGs9xajI3K7V1i9EgEzzM7gugJA1eDjR99td6LEoCQoqc0-2rF9SgTNCzjtbh0FTk3Lci7uirPDl42TmOvpGnD5_IfID6S4v9li8t56a_n1k-j4w17iBh7Z/s320/2010_1026kyrgyz0005.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Here is some more triumphalness (or should that be 'triumphancy'?).</div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg22TfQey4nf6I9LAylHOV9LF5Iu2vZBFkg-kWkEkCa4f3XDEwvNr7aBDUdLMRVrLenA_10L741-emssz4mzkKyGj7Z-ydfSBOmbILUSotVxYbuq6IYzkllTAMzz2oaySWs5Hr22YNrGozr/s1600/2010_1026kyrgyz0013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg22TfQey4nf6I9LAylHOV9LF5Iu2vZBFkg-kWkEkCa4f3XDEwvNr7aBDUdLMRVrLenA_10L741-emssz4mzkKyGj7Z-ydfSBOmbILUSotVxYbuq6IYzkllTAMzz2oaySWs5Hr22YNrGozr/s320/2010_1026kyrgyz0013.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQgIn7TADAIH93E7EnN5MzGfNbqwBqseKkanzhBEhuceBFFaZ3SqY8faOo0nT_eNd5PEbnPESbjntd2jpE26P_25f0V-8tm44MmsivHVHNQthBkLNS4fRoPNpihN9iJ3HUiRsMzdGkxal_/s1600/2010_1026kyrgyz0012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQgIn7TADAIH93E7EnN5MzGfNbqwBqseKkanzhBEhuceBFFaZ3SqY8faOo0nT_eNd5PEbnPESbjntd2jpE26P_25f0V-8tm44MmsivHVHNQthBkLNS4fRoPNpihN9iJ3HUiRsMzdGkxal_/s320/2010_1026kyrgyz0012.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">And those two are just some pictures of the main square around the parliament building.</div><div style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">So there you go, a bit of genuine touristy things-to-point-at-and-take-photos-of. End of the first week, off for a potter round a national park tomorrow, Halloween party tomorrow night (they did apple bobbing at the school today, which impressed me muchly) then actually having to do some work on monday. No doubt you will hear from me on sunday with tales of high-altitude views and costumed debauchary. </div><div style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Untill then, <span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">До свидания (that's 'goodbye' by the way).</span></span></div><div style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-6299928514191296992010-10-26T22:16:00.000-07:002013-10-18T11:48:15.274-07:00Of Fried Bear and Poetry<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is easy to drop into certain assumptions. For example, the idea that living for decades under a crushingly conformist soviet regime may have deadened the imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These assumptions are designed to be quashed and spectacularly rent asunder at the earliest possible convenience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />And so, I find myself observing a lesson were a Russian lady and a young Kyrgyz boy who appears to be called Swimmingpool describe their plans for a 17<sup>th</sup> century Russian style restaurant, to include a roaring hearth, a central bear-skin rug feature and a grand piano, serving a range of dishes including fried bear and salad and featuring only piano music and visiting poets for entertainment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <br /></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>This does not tally well with the stifled imaginations theory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank god it’s one of those times when your half-formed, idiot prejudices being confounded proves a great pleasure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fact that fried bear was being pronounced like ‘fried beer’ only added to the enjoyment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />This was followed by my introduction to Kyrgyz cuisine, which is decidedly hearty, designed to keep a man alive, insulated and farting furiously on the top of a mountain whilst yak farming and is therefore heavy on meat, potato and onions combined in various starchy/carby configuirations.<br />
I am informed there is a special Kyrgyz spirit made from horses milk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have not been able to verify this intriguing assertion yet, but will endeavour to do so in the not too distant future (purely in my role as a collector of knowledge about a little known culture of course).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />On a political note, I have just discovered that the honorary British consul Mike Astoparthis (who is honorary consul on the basis that the nearest full British Consulate is in Almaty in neighbouring Kazakhstan) is away from Kyrgyzstan at the moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, apparently he is in Almaty in neighbouring Kazakhstan, so that’s useful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />On other consular matters, there’s apparently a Halloween party going down at the former German Embassy building, organised by those scamps the Yanks...much fun to be had this weekend methinks (I wonder if it will be that great American institution, a kegger?).</span>El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com4Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan42.870022 74.5878829999999242.683841 74.265159499999925 43.056203 74.910606499999915tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-31570557092314276972010-10-26T01:17:00.000-07:002013-10-18T11:42:22.130-07:00On Arriving and Experiencing the Lag<div style="border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color windowtext; border-style: none none solid; border-width: medium medium 1pt; padding: 0cm 0cm 1pt;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Having only traveled any great distance westwards before, I wasn’t fully prepared for the strange sensation of chasing the night that you get when you travel east. We had left Heathrow at about 2pm and after only a few hours we were drifting through darkness with only the moon for company. <br />
<br />Of the journey there is little of note to add, portly American expats talking baseball and spinning around and diving down over Almaty airport in Kazakhstan a couple of times before being allowed to land in our only stop before Bishkek were the only things of note that happened. <br />
<br />And so I landed in a country shrouded in mist and stolid bureaucracy. I handed in my completed Visa and Entry forms at the Consulate and was immediately requested to fill in some more forms with precisely the same details. I then had to cough up 70 dollars (whether for the government or the pocket of the official I remain unsure) and was visa’d (an impressively shiny one), stamped and unceremoniously spat out into a strange land. <br /><br />Fortunately I was spat out only as far as a pretty, friendly, young Russian woman with an A4 piece of paper bearing my name in large curvy letters. So I found myself at 4 in the morning trundling through the darkness on the way to the city of Bishkek and the London School where I would be lodging and teaching. <br /><br />Of the School I can say a little, of the city next to nothing. This is because the last day has been spent in a half daze of dozing and jetlag (I believe it’s my first experience of it, I can confirm it is rubbish). So I managed to raise myself long enough to wander through the courtyard and have a look at the small but modern classrooms and cafeteria of the school, but of the rest of the city and country in which I currently abide I maintain the profoundest ignorance. <br /><br />To discover if I manage to rid myself of this ignorance, dear readers, or if I merely spent the next nine months dozing fitfully you will have to wait for the next installment. </span></div>
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El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com0Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan42.870022 74.5878829999999242.683841 74.265159499999925 43.056203 74.910606499999915tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601497927586241463.post-63526466751418064242010-10-19T06:53:00.001-07:002013-10-18T11:32:02.313-07:00The pre flight witter<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is probably some kind of multisyllabic syndrome or mental aberration associated with the urge to hurl yourself halfway round the world to live in a country you know next to nowt about, which speaks a language that makes as much sense to you as a drunken walrus with a soar throat gargling the Mongolian national anthem whilst wearing a conveniently walrus shaped spacesuit. It may have something to do with an extreme defensive response to the fear of abandonment; although if you ask a Freudian it probably has more to do with willies. Whatever is the root of this malady however, I fear that I am a sufferer. Unfortunately, as I have a pathological aversion to support groups, benign bearded gentlemen repeating my last statement back at me as if it were a new question rather than just the last thing I said, and well meaning group therapy leaders shoving positive empathy in my face, I will just have to deal with the consequences of this affliction.<br />
And so you find me, dearest readers, on the verge of taking a flight to the city of Bishkek, capital of the Kyrgyz Republic (or Kyrgyzstan if you like stanning). Now I would like to say that I chose this particular course of action as a result of careful research and clear, logical decision making. A more accurate description is that I chose this particular course of action because:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">a)</span><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I saw the job advert and thought ‘mmm, Kyrgyzstan, I know sweet diddly squat about that country...sounds intriguing’</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; text-indent: -18pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">b)</span><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I liked the fact it was a country with k y and z in the name (if you can name another country with all three letters in its name I will award a prize)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">c)</span><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was advertised as ‘The Switzerland of Central Asia’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now although I have no great compulsion to go and work in ‘The Switzerland of Europe’ (though I have met a number of Swiss people and they were very fine, if worryingly neat, people); ’The Switzerland of Central Asia’ is to me a highly compelling concept. <br />
I have done a small amount of pre journey complete ignorance reducing however...so here is the distillation of my knowledge of the Kyrgyz Republic:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1)</span><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It has lots of mountains and not much else (hence the Switzerland bit I think)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">2)</span><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is a bloody long way from any sea</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">3)</span><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It has a big inland lake which is traditionally held to be sacred</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">4)</span><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Kyrgyz people ride horses, fly falcons and have been known to abide in Yurts</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I figure that this should be sufficient information to allow me to blend in seamlessly with the local people. <br />
So there you go, on Saturday 23<sup>rd</sup> of October in the year of our lord 2010 I shall be jetting of to a country where my ignorance knows no bounds. I shall of course be keeping you informed of any cracks that might form in that herculean and monumental ignorance. .. </span></div>
El profe britanicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844884958889325917noreply@blogger.com0Darlington, UK54.52361 -1.559457999999949654.4499 -1.7208194999999495 54.597319999999996 -1.3980964999999497