The Diarrhoea Diaries
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Kyrgyzstan: Song-Kul
On the night of the 'Olga Incident', I'd met a Swiss nursing student named Isabelle who was part of the large french-speaking contingent staying at the Sakura. Her grand plans for a three-day trek around Song-Kul sounded rather appealing - she had the map, the compass, the tent, the route planned out - and so when she offered to have me along for the trek, I accepted, despite my first nasty bout of diarrhoea running its course! Damn Chinese food!
This was to be my first experience with Central Asian shared taxis. In just a few days, I should have my last! Oh joy!!
The shared taxi is a brilliant concept, as long as you're not foreign! For a slightly higher cost than a bus or marshrutka (large minibus), you leave to your destination as soon as the four seats are full, the driver drives like a bat out of hell for a few hours and you arrive an hour or two earlier than the slower, cheaper transportation.
But we're tourists. As soon as you arrive at the bus station, you are pounced upon my several blood-sucking drivers and touts who get commission off putting you in a car. The seemingly-genuine man who found us apparently got 100 of the 300 som that each of us paid! We didn't realise this until we arrived in Kochkor and watched the other two passengers pay a mere 200 som.
This regular battle to get the same price as a local has become the bane of my existence whilst travelling in this region. Every time I go to a bus station, I know I'm going to have a fight on my hands, and that I will meet some of Central Asia's least savoury characters. Unfortunately, these people are not representative of the bulk of the population in the 'stans. Most people are genuine, friendly and curious, but it's hard not to let these experiences taint your view of these countries, since they are, unfortunately, so much a part of travelling here.
Kochkor is a small, dusty town, nestled in a valley surrounded by barren, snow-capped peaks. It's the jump-off point for treks (both on foot and on horseback) to Song-Kul - a huge alpine lake, 3000m above sea level, encircled by treeless, lush-green mountains.
We stayed one night in Kochkor before setting off on our trek, having been directed to one of the many homestays in the town by the CBT office (Community Based Tourism - An agency with offices all over Kyrgyzstan which helps put tourist dollars directly into the local community).
Saadagul was the gracious host at the small guesthouse, tucked away in one of the dirt streets behind the main road. She immediately invited us into the traditional yur,t that shared the backyard with a small run filled with farm animals, and gave us tea, bread and jam. For both Isabelle and I, it was our first experience inside a yurt. The ambience, the colours, the feeling of utter relaxation, and the genuine warmth of Saadagul's hospitality, made it quite an unforgettable moment. Neither of us could stop grinning!
We'd arranged for dinner later that evening, and in the meantime, we walked out of town in the fading sunlight to visit the huge islamic cemetary on the edge of the town. All along the way, children and adults alike, welcomed us with warm 'hello's and friendly smiles. The cemetary was a fantastic sight, particularly under an incredibly dramatic sky, and in the warm glow of the evening sun. We wandered through the silent cemetary, gawking in amazement at the ornate tombs that the people had erected for their dead. These 'cities of the dead' are dotted all over the 'stans, but this one, for me, was still the most spectacular.
The fight began again the next morning when we attempted to arrange a taxi for the one-hour drive to the Kyzart Pass, where we would start our hike. After eventually negotiating a 'reasonable' fare, we arrived at the pass, being greeting by a young boy on horseback who lived in a yurt at the pass. He proudly showed off his horsemanship, getting the horse to buck for our photographing pleasure.
Kyrgyzstan is the country of the horse, and even the smallest of boys and girls are expert riders. In most areas, it still hasn't been 'ruined' by mass tourism. Unlike in parts of neighbouring China, people are happy to be photographed and even ask for it before they've seen your camera. They expect nothing for this, and when they are shown the image on the LCD screen, it is them that say a heartfelt 'Spaceba' (Thank you).
Our hike over the next three days was amazing in so many ways. The landscape was jawdroppingly gorgeous! The lack of trees meant that there was a constant panaorama laid out before our eyes.
At times it was sunny and warm, and the shadows of the clouds cast ever-shifting patterns across the lush, green hillsides. At other times we would watch as a storm approached from far on the horizon, within seconds erasing our view and bombarding us with cold rain and driving hail. This would happen at least three times each day, making it the most fickle, changeable weather I've ever seen in my life! Yes, even worse than Scotland!
The Kyrgyz were once almost entirely nomadic, both in wonter and in summer. The soviets pretty much put a stop to that, but since independence there has been a resurgence in this nomadic lifestyle. Few people stay in their yurts year-round, but many leave the comfort of their homes for the summer months of June, July and August and take their livestock to graze (without fences or boundaries) in the pastures of high-altitude meadows like Song-Kul. They set up small yurt communities, and live off the land for three months. These pasturelands are known as 'jailoos'.
On three separate occasions we were invited in to these camps and offered food and tea. This act of generosity, from people who seemingly had so little, and often had many mouths to feed, was incredibly moving. It was always offered with the utmost sincerity, and nothing was expected in return (at least initially). Bread, yogurt and thick cream were staples, as was the very Kyrgyz drink of 'kymys' - fermented mare's milk - which can be found in a large barrel in the corner of every yurt, festering away nicely. I'd like to say that it's an aquired taste, but I can't say I ever acquired it! It's downright revolting! By the end of my time in Kyrgyzstan, I'd given up trying to be polite and would refuse it if offered to me!
Isabelle and I did our best to offer some things in exchange - usually chocolate, since the bottle of vodka we brought was polished off in the first camp, with the patriarch of the camp barely able to walk when we left!
The next day, after a cold and drizzly night in the tent, and a near-impossible river crossing the next morning, we edged ever-closer to the lake. We were again invited in to a yurt for food. The yurt seemed to be used as a living room of sorts, while the three generations of the family (two parents, two grandparents, four children and one baby) shared a rather cold-looking, ramshackle tent behind the yurt.
The third time we were invited in was in the middle of a hailstorm as we approached the lake. We'd gotten our first view of Song-Kul from the 3400m pass above the lake, only to have it instantly erased by dark stormclouds that engulfed us and showered us with a chilling rain and driving hail.
Koolnoora, the lady of the yurt, called us in as I was trying to put on gloves, having let my hands go completely numb and needing Isabelle's help to get them on. The yurt was warm, and we warmed up by the cow dung-fuelled stove while Koolnoora made us a hot dinner (a delicious rolled-up pastry, filled with meat, onion and herbs cooked slowly on stovetop) and insisted we stay the night with her, her brother, Khanat and her tiny, round-faced baby.
The night in the yurt started out well, but Koolnoora, in spite of her kindness, became exhausting! Unlike the other yurt camps we'd passed, Koolnoora lived near the lake, and had had contact with tourists before - tourists who'd given her things: Postcards, gifts, food etc. So, when she hadn't palmed off her baby onto Isabelle while she went to milk the mares for kymys milk, she was asking us if we had chocolate, gifts, postcards, a spare headlamp, and anything else she could think of that we might be able to give her!
We had already agreed to give a small amount of money to cover our stay and the food she offered (breakfast was fried fish that Khanat had caught in the lake the day before), and we shared some chocolate and other food that we didn't need, but the questions were incessant, and (if the answer was negative) was invariable followed with the response, 'Pacheemoo?! - Why not?
You may think that all yurt-dwellers are poor - why else would they live in a yurt, right? Indeed, many are. However, with some seventy cattle and fifty horses (!!), Koolnoora was hardly what you'd call poor! A man with fifty horses in any Western country is doing pretty well indeed!
I was grateful to Koolnoora for her hospitality, but was glad to say goodbye the next morning. Isabelle and I took the trail along the lake and then back over another 3400m pass before decending to the village of Kyzart where we were told we could find transport back to town. Kyzart barely had two cars between the several hundred residents, none of whom, it seemed had seen a foreigner before. They certainly have now - a little girl made sure of that. She ran through the streets yelling, 'Tourist! Tourist!, so that everyone came out to marvel at the two silly-looking tourists wandering through the dusty village in seacrh of an elusive taxi!
We spent the night camped next to a farmer's field that night, having had no luck hitching a ride back to Kochkor after only five or six cars had passed us before dusk. We made it back the next morning after 'hitching' a ride in the back of a Lada that we had to help push-start three times! You always pay to hitch in Central Asia - it is never free. Of course, the driver changed the price of the ride when we reached the destination!
Welcome to Central Asia!
This was to be my first experience with Central Asian shared taxis. In just a few days, I should have my last! Oh joy!!The shared taxi is a brilliant concept, as long as you're not foreign! For a slightly higher cost than a bus or marshrutka (large minibus), you leave to your destination as soon as the four seats are full, the driver drives like a bat out of hell for a few hours and you arrive an hour or two earlier than the slower, cheaper transportation.
But we're tourists. As soon as you arrive at the bus station, you are pounced upon my several blood-sucking drivers and touts who get commission off putting you in a car. The seemingly-genuine man who found us apparently got 100 of the 300 som that each of us paid! We didn't realise this until we arrived in Kochkor and watched the other two passengers pay a mere 200 som.
This regular battle to get the same price as a local has become the bane of my existence whilst travelling in this region. Every time I go to a bus station, I know I'm going to have a fight on my hands, and that I will meet some of Central Asia's least savoury characters. Unfortunately, these people are not representative of the bulk of the population in the 'stans. Most people are genuine, friendly and curious, but it's hard not to let these experiences taint your view of these countries, since they are, unfortunately, so much a part of travelling here.
Kochkor is a small, dusty town, nestled in a valley surrounded by barren, snow-capped peaks. It's the jump-off point for treks (both on foot and on horseback) to Song-Kul - a huge alpine lake, 3000m above sea level, encircled by treeless, lush-green mountains.
We stayed one night in Kochkor before setting off on our trek, having been directed to one of the many homestays in the town by the CBT office (Community Based Tourism - An agency with offices all over Kyrgyzstan which helps put tourist dollars directly into the local community).Saadagul was the gracious host at the small guesthouse, tucked away in one of the dirt streets behind the main road. She immediately invited us into the traditional yur,t that shared the backyard with a small run filled with farm animals, and gave us tea, bread and jam. For both Isabelle and I, it was our first experience inside a yurt. The ambience, the colours, the feeling of utter relaxation, and the genuine warmth of Saadagul's hospitality, made it quite an unforgettable moment. Neither of us could stop grinning!
We'd arranged for dinner later that evening, and in the meantime, we walked out of town in the fading sunlight to visit the huge islamic cemetary on the edge of the town. All along the way, children and adults alike, welcomed us with warm 'hello's and friendly smiles. The cemetary was a fantastic sight, particularly under an incredibly dramatic sky, and in the warm glow of the evening sun. We wandered through the silent cemetary, gawking in amazement at the ornate tombs that the people had erected for their dead. These 'cities of the dead' are dotted all over the 'stans, but this one, for me, was still the most spectacular.
The fight began again the next morning when we attempted to arrange a taxi for the one-hour drive to the Kyzart Pass, where we would start our hike. After eventually negotiating a 'reasonable' fare, we arrived at the pass, being greeting by a young boy on horseback who lived in a yurt at the pass. He proudly showed off his horsemanship, getting the horse to buck for our photographing pleasure.Kyrgyzstan is the country of the horse, and even the smallest of boys and girls are expert riders. In most areas, it still hasn't been 'ruined' by mass tourism. Unlike in parts of neighbouring China, people are happy to be photographed and even ask for it before they've seen your camera. They expect nothing for this, and when they are shown the image on the LCD screen, it is them that say a heartfelt 'Spaceba' (Thank you).
Our hike over the next three days was amazing in so many ways. The landscape was jawdroppingly gorgeous! The lack of trees meant that there was a constant panaorama laid out before our eyes.At times it was sunny and warm, and the shadows of the clouds cast ever-shifting patterns across the lush, green hillsides. At other times we would watch as a storm approached from far on the horizon, within seconds erasing our view and bombarding us with cold rain and driving hail. This would happen at least three times each day, making it the most fickle, changeable weather I've ever seen in my life! Yes, even worse than Scotland!
The Kyrgyz were once almost entirely nomadic, both in wonter and in summer. The soviets pretty much put a stop to that, but since independence there has been a resurgence in this nomadic lifestyle. Few people stay in their yurts year-round, but many leave the comfort of their homes for the summer months of June, July and August and take their livestock to graze (without fences or boundaries) in the pastures of high-altitude meadows like Song-Kul. They set up small yurt communities, and live off the land for three months. These pasturelands are known as 'jailoos'.
On three separate occasions we were invited in to these camps and offered food and tea. This act of generosity, from people who seemingly had so little, and often had many mouths to feed, was incredibly moving. It was always offered with the utmost sincerity, and nothing was expected in return (at least initially). Bread, yogurt and thick cream were staples, as was the very Kyrgyz drink of 'kymys' - fermented mare's milk - which can be found in a large barrel in the corner of every yurt, festering away nicely. I'd like to say that it's an aquired taste, but I can't say I ever acquired it! It's downright revolting! By the end of my time in Kyrgyzstan, I'd given up trying to be polite and would refuse it if offered to me!Isabelle and I did our best to offer some things in exchange - usually chocolate, since the bottle of vodka we brought was polished off in the first camp, with the patriarch of the camp barely able to walk when we left!
The next day, after a cold and drizzly night in the tent, and a near-impossible river crossing the next morning, we edged ever-closer to the lake. We were again invited in to a yurt for food. The yurt seemed to be used as a living room of sorts, while the three generations of the family (two parents, two grandparents, four children and one baby) shared a rather cold-looking, ramshackle tent behind the yurt.
The third time we were invited in was in the middle of a hailstorm as we approached the lake. We'd gotten our first view of Song-Kul from the 3400m pass above the lake, only to have it instantly erased by dark stormclouds that engulfed us and showered us with a chilling rain and driving hail.Koolnoora, the lady of the yurt, called us in as I was trying to put on gloves, having let my hands go completely numb and needing Isabelle's help to get them on. The yurt was warm, and we warmed up by the cow dung-fuelled stove while Koolnoora made us a hot dinner (a delicious rolled-up pastry, filled with meat, onion and herbs cooked slowly on stovetop) and insisted we stay the night with her, her brother, Khanat and her tiny, round-faced baby.
The night in the yurt started out well, but Koolnoora, in spite of her kindness, became exhausting! Unlike the other yurt camps we'd passed, Koolnoora lived near the lake, and had had contact with tourists before - tourists who'd given her things: Postcards, gifts, food etc. So, when she hadn't palmed off her baby onto Isabelle while she went to milk the mares for kymys milk, she was asking us if we had chocolate, gifts, postcards, a spare headlamp, and anything else she could think of that we might be able to give her!
We had already agreed to give a small amount of money to cover our stay and the food she offered (breakfast was fried fish that Khanat had caught in the lake the day before), and we shared some chocolate and other food that we didn't need, but the questions were incessant, and (if the answer was negative) was invariable followed with the response, 'Pacheemoo?! - Why not?You may think that all yurt-dwellers are poor - why else would they live in a yurt, right? Indeed, many are. However, with some seventy cattle and fifty horses (!!), Koolnoora was hardly what you'd call poor! A man with fifty horses in any Western country is doing pretty well indeed!
I was grateful to Koolnoora for her hospitality, but was glad to say goodbye the next morning. Isabelle and I took the trail along the lake and then back over another 3400m pass before decending to the village of Kyzart where we were told we could find transport back to town. Kyzart barely had two cars between the several hundred residents, none of whom, it seemed had seen a foreigner before. They certainly have now - a little girl made sure of that. She ran through the streets yelling, 'Tourist! Tourist!, so that everyone came out to marvel at the two silly-looking tourists wandering through the dusty village in seacrh of an elusive taxi!
We spent the night camped next to a farmer's field that night, having had no luck hitching a ride back to Kochkor after only five or six cars had passed us before dusk. We made it back the next morning after 'hitching' a ride in the back of a Lada that we had to help push-start three times! You always pay to hitch in Central Asia - it is never free. Of course, the driver changed the price of the ride when we reached the destination!Welcome to Central Asia!
Sunday, August 23, 2009
How Not to Bribe a Kazakh Border Guard
When you have to organise a total of ten visas, as well as one permit and two ‘Letters of Invitation’ for a 6-month trip, eventually something is going to go wrong. I just didn’t expect it to be so soon into my trip!
I had intended to organise my Kazakh visa in London as, seemingly, the overnight service there would be relatively hassle-free. Unfortunately when I showed up at the embassy, my passport photo was gone and I had no time to get another one done before they closed for the day.
‘No worries’, I thought, 'I’ll just get it on arrival in Almaty'. I had read, in my trusty Lonely Planet, that this was possible. Unfortunately, I didn’t check this information until I was sitting at Moscow Airport, having already checked in for my 4-hour flight to Almaty. It was only then that I discovered that apparently I could get a visa upon arrival in Almaty….. with a Letter of Invitation - Something which is not necessary when applying at any Kazakh Embassy in the world!
For the next four hours I sat on the plane, reading and rereading the visa section of my guidebook to see if I’d somehow misread the information, all the while biting my nails down to the quick! My heart sank when, after arriving in Almaty, the immigration officer asked for my LOI. When I responded that I didn’t have one, his reply was ‘I think you have some problems’!
The next two hours were spent trying to reason with the (surprisingly friendly) immigration officers who wanted to put me on a plane straight back to Moscow. This would have been an even worse situation for me, since my Russian visa expired that day! I tried to politely suggest a bribe by saying I didn't mind paying double for the visa (Wink, wink... nudge, nudge...), but this was met with the stern response ‘I could get in a lot of trouble for doing that’!
Eventually a compromise was met. I was to buy an onward flight so that I could get a 5-day transit visa and be allowed into the country. I had a Chinese visa already and so I almost bought a flight to Urumqi, but chose Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan instead due to the cost of the flight. Lucky me! I would’ve flown, completely obliviously, to Urumqi in the middle of the Uyghur uprising and subsequent retaliation by the Chinese forces!
And so I was finally allowed into Kazakhstan!
The first thing I did in Almaty was take a public bus to the centre of town. I stepped aboard and put my 50 Tenge in the slot next to the driver ad he yelled 'Nye rabotayet!!' - It doesn't work. This would be the first time that I heard this phrase, and it would become the most commonly heard phrase in Central Asia! Nothing ever 'rabotayet' here!
The next time I took a bus, I realised that the reason the money machine hadn't worked was becayuse you pay when you get off - not when you get on! So the boy had simply wanted me to pay my fare!
I had intended to organise my Kazakh visa in London as, seemingly, the overnight service there would be relatively hassle-free. Unfortunately when I showed up at the embassy, my passport photo was gone and I had no time to get another one done before they closed for the day.
‘No worries’, I thought, 'I’ll just get it on arrival in Almaty'. I had read, in my trusty Lonely Planet, that this was possible. Unfortunately, I didn’t check this information until I was sitting at Moscow Airport, having already checked in for my 4-hour flight to Almaty. It was only then that I discovered that apparently I could get a visa upon arrival in Almaty….. with a Letter of Invitation - Something which is not necessary when applying at any Kazakh Embassy in the world!
For the next four hours I sat on the plane, reading and rereading the visa section of my guidebook to see if I’d somehow misread the information, all the while biting my nails down to the quick! My heart sank when, after arriving in Almaty, the immigration officer asked for my LOI. When I responded that I didn’t have one, his reply was ‘I think you have some problems’!The next two hours were spent trying to reason with the (surprisingly friendly) immigration officers who wanted to put me on a plane straight back to Moscow. This would have been an even worse situation for me, since my Russian visa expired that day! I tried to politely suggest a bribe by saying I didn't mind paying double for the visa (Wink, wink... nudge, nudge...), but this was met with the stern response ‘I could get in a lot of trouble for doing that’!
Eventually a compromise was met. I was to buy an onward flight so that I could get a 5-day transit visa and be allowed into the country. I had a Chinese visa already and so I almost bought a flight to Urumqi, but chose Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan instead due to the cost of the flight. Lucky me! I would’ve flown, completely obliviously, to Urumqi in the middle of the Uyghur uprising and subsequent retaliation by the Chinese forces!
And so I was finally allowed into Kazakhstan!
Internet? Nye rabotayet!
Telephone? Nye rabotayet!
Toilet? Nye rabotayet!
When I went to get off the bus, the young boy who yelled the destination at every stop, put his hand out for more money, yelling the same word at me as if yelling louder would make me understand. The other Kazakhs on the crowded bus were snickering and laughing at the confused 'tooreest' with the oversized backpack. I finally figured that he was supposed to be tipped, so I dipped into my pocket, found a small coin and gave it to him. He laughed and let me off the bus.
Almaty is a nice city. Just nice. Nothing more, nothing less. Like all Central Asian cities, it is very, very green, with an abundance of parks and shady, tree-lined avenues. Although the entire country north and west of here is flat, barren steppe, Almaty sits on the north side of the jagged, snowcapped Alatau Montains, providing an awesome backdrop to the city.
Kazakhstan has oil, and as a result, the country is booming. Mercedes and BMWs share the streets with the old Russian Lada Nivas and most of the locals - Kazakh and Russian alike - wander the streets in sophisticated European-style outfits and shop in expensive western-style shopping malls. It's a far cry from the picture of the country that Borat paints, and apparently most locals despise this unrealistic incarnation of a Kazakh!
No one has realised the money-making potential of opening a cheap, backacker-friendly guesthouse or hostel in Almaty as yet, and options range from poor to bad. I went with bad. The 'Third Dormitory' is the kind of place you'd expect to find a guy passed out in the stairwell with a needle in his arm, and where you have the strange desire to push the wardrobe in front of the dor while you sleep. The staff like to yell abuse at you in Russian rather than cleaning the bathrooms, which becomes necessary after dirty Chinese men wash their feet in the basin you're about to use to brush your teeth!
My few days in Kazakhstan were spent in search of visas. I only managed to get one: My Tajik visa. Horror stories of people having to bribe the Kyrgyz Embassy staff with $180 for overnight service abounded, and not having time for the usual 'express' 3-day service for $90, I opted to take my flight to Bishkek, after having decided to cancel it and go overland. I also moved it forward a day so that I could go with an Icelandic couple, Andrei and Una, that I'd met, and a Swedish guy, Otto, that they knew.
Almost all flights into Bishkek airport (Which also doubles as a US Army base - very convenient to Afghanistan) arrive in the early morning, and I had no desire to tackle the evil, scheming bastards that are Central Asian taxi drivers, alone. It was a blessing, then, that I arrived with Otto, whose friend at the Sakura Guesthouse had paid for and sent a driver to the airport to meet him and bring him back in one piece, without having to negotiate the dark streets and alleys alone.
I feel like I know Bishkek pretty well now. I did spend about nine nights there! Bishkek is the hub of Central Asia when it comes to getting visas for travel to the other 'Stans, Russia, or China. It seems everyone staying at the ever-so-relaxed Sakura Guesthouse is waiting on one visa or another. I myself had to get my Indian and Uzbek (I'll spare you the gory and frustrating details on this one) visas there, which meant having to visit Bishkek three times!
Like Almaty, Bishkek is not a bad city... it's just not a very good one either! Uzbekistan is the place in Central Asia for visiting cities. The other 'Stans are all about the countryside. Bishkek is one big, leafy grid with little in the way of visible history. The central area, around Ala-Too Square, buzzes as the sun goes down, the buildings light up in neon blue, and the many fountains start dancing to cheesy music. The Las Vegas 'Bellagio' it is not, but it seemed the only thing to do in Bishkek on a summer's evening.
Bishkek is not the safest city after dark, however. The Kyrgyz have a lot of electricity due to several large hydro-electric stations. Unfortunately, they sell most of this to neighbouring Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan to get money for the country, while they themselves live in cities with barely-lit streets. Several people - mainly young Japanese - had been robbed and beaten in the dark alley outside the guesthouse in recent weeks. One was knocked to the ground and had his hip broken - and that was before dark! Luckily, I didn't see this side of the city. Nor did I have a single run-in with the notoriously corrupt police force who relish in 'inspecting' tourists' passports, finding a 'prablema', and refusing to give it back until the situation has been rectified with enough Som, or even better, dollars!
Sakura Guesthouse gave me an insight into a bizarre subculture that exists in Central Asia. There are literally dozens, if not hundreds, of people travelling across this part of the world by Motorcycle or by bicycle. One crazy Frenchman had even walked from his hometown in France! He'd so far been walking for 15 months! One Czech cyclist, Mikhail, had crossed the Kazakh desert, with daily temperatures exceeding 40 degrees and nothing to look at for weeks but sand! He said he was consuming fourteen litres of water every day!
Many of these people, as well as the regular backpacker crowd, became good 'single-serving friends', as Ed Norton might say. There was always someone there waiting in lines at embassies with me, accompanying me for a dinner of the chicken shawarma, lamb 'shashlyk' or diarrhoea-inducing Chinese food, drinking a quiet beer with me in the shady Sakura courtyard, or pushing me to dance with less-than-attractive Kyrgyz 'cougars'. Despite visa issues severely impacting on my time in Kyrgyzstan, it wasn't so bad having to continually return to Bishkek!
Almost all flights into Bishkek airport (Which also doubles as a US Army base - very convenient to Afghanistan) arrive in the early morning, and I had no desire to tackle the evil, scheming bastards that are Central Asian taxi drivers, alone. It was a blessing, then, that I arrived with Otto, whose friend at the Sakura Guesthouse had paid for and sent a driver to the airport to meet him and bring him back in one piece, without having to negotiate the dark streets and alleys alone.
I feel like I know Bishkek pretty well now. I did spend about nine nights there! Bishkek is the hub of Central Asia when it comes to getting visas for travel to the other 'Stans, Russia, or China. It seems everyone staying at the ever-so-relaxed Sakura Guesthouse is waiting on one visa or another. I myself had to get my Indian and Uzbek (I'll spare you the gory and frustrating details on this one) visas there, which meant having to visit Bishkek three times!
Like Almaty, Bishkek is not a bad city... it's just not a very good one either! Uzbekistan is the place in Central Asia for visiting cities. The other 'Stans are all about the countryside. Bishkek is one big, leafy grid with little in the way of visible history. The central area, around Ala-Too Square, buzzes as the sun goes down, the buildings light up in neon blue, and the many fountains start dancing to cheesy music. The Las Vegas 'Bellagio' it is not, but it seemed the only thing to do in Bishkek on a summer's evening.
Bishkek is not the safest city after dark, however. The Kyrgyz have a lot of electricity due to several large hydro-electric stations. Unfortunately, they sell most of this to neighbouring Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan to get money for the country, while they themselves live in cities with barely-lit streets. Several people - mainly young Japanese - had been robbed and beaten in the dark alley outside the guesthouse in recent weeks. One was knocked to the ground and had his hip broken - and that was before dark! Luckily, I didn't see this side of the city. Nor did I have a single run-in with the notoriously corrupt police force who relish in 'inspecting' tourists' passports, finding a 'prablema', and refusing to give it back until the situation has been rectified with enough Som, or even better, dollars!
Sakura Guesthouse gave me an insight into a bizarre subculture that exists in Central Asia. There are literally dozens, if not hundreds, of people travelling across this part of the world by Motorcycle or by bicycle. One crazy Frenchman had even walked from his hometown in France! He'd so far been walking for 15 months! One Czech cyclist, Mikhail, had crossed the Kazakh desert, with daily temperatures exceeding 40 degrees and nothing to look at for weeks but sand! He said he was consuming fourteen litres of water every day!
Many of these people, as well as the regular backpacker crowd, became good 'single-serving friends', as Ed Norton might say. There was always someone there waiting in lines at embassies with me, accompanying me for a dinner of the chicken shawarma, lamb 'shashlyk' or diarrhoea-inducing Chinese food, drinking a quiet beer with me in the shady Sakura courtyard, or pushing me to dance with less-than-attractive Kyrgyz 'cougars'. Despite visa issues severely impacting on my time in Kyrgyzstan, it wasn't so bad having to continually return to Bishkek!