Tuesday, November 29, 2005
More Pictures
There are more pictures up over at Flickr. The network on campus is going nice and fast again, so no problems on that end. However, I've hit my quota for uploads on my free Flickr account and as I've gotten into the habit of not carrying my wallet or any credit cards, I couldn't buy a larger account. So, unless one of you kind folks wants to buy me a gift subscription, you'll have to wait until tomorrow for me to get my credit card bidness together. But you can check out what's up now, right here.
New Additions to the List of 'Firsts'
Today we had our first official Russian lesson. A faculty member in the Russian Language Dept. at AUCA is coming to our apartment three times a week for an hour and a half each session and more or less making us feel like we've recently been hit hard in the head with something very, very heavy the moment she arrives until the moment she leaves. Simply learning the alphabet--which we both thought we had a pretty good understanding of already--is like trying to swim while wearing a space suit. There's a special kind of embarrassment reserved for otherwise intelligent people on the doorstep of 30 repeatedly being corrected on the pronunciation of one letter of the alphabet. There's also a special level of comedy in having three adults sitting around a table for twenty minutes jutting out their chins and making what to my ear sounds like the worst stand-up comedian's imitation of the retarded kid down the street. Our homework for Thursday's lesson is to do more of the same, repeatedly and in front of the mirror if need be. Sexy!
The other big news of the last two days was yesterday's bomb threat at the university. I had a meeting with the university President at 3:00 yesterday afternoon, so Erin and I walked the few blocks over to the school building around 2:30. As we were approaching, we noticed a rather larger cadre of military and police officials milling about on the sidewalk directly in front of the school building. As the Kyrgyz Parliament building is immediately next door to the university (we were walking past it when we noticed the police) and there seemed to be some protesters setting up in front of that building, we guessed that maybe they were a peace-keeping group of sorts or, on the other side, a show of force. But when we reached them, they all came together to form a sort of loose human wall and told us (we assume, it was in Russian) that we couldn't go any further. Erin pulled out her Visiting Professor id card from the university and the response from the officers was more of the same. Finally, after a few brief moments of utter befuddlement on both sides, a soldier stepped through the wall and told us, "There is bomb. In the building, there is bomb." At which point we and the officers all shared a look of recognition and nods of acceptance. We crossed the street and were made to move into the park opposite the school building by another group of police. Not knowing what to do, how long things would last, where to go, etc., we walked up to the main square and bought a couple of meat pies from a vendor (sort of like Indian frybread stuffed with lamb and onion and other goodies; totally delicious and only 4 som, which is about 6 or 7 cents). When we got back, nothing had changed, so we went home and got on line. There was no information on any of the pertinent web pages--US Embassy Bishkek page, AUCA page...--nor is there any now. An hour or so later I received a message from the President asking if it would be okay if we moved our meeting up a day, as the university was closed due to a bomb scare. Uhmm...sure?
I did meet with the President earlier this afternoon and she assured me the bomb scare was no big deal, happens from time to time, and was nothing to worry about. She was only out of the building for about an hour while police bomb techs went through the building, where they found nothing. Due to the proximity to Parliament and the frequency of protests, this sort of thing sometimes happens in order to stir up some media. Of course, we have no connection to local media, so I can't vouch at all on how that's working out, but I'll let you know if I hear anything. The President also told me to expect more and not to worry until something actually blows up. She followed that statement with a good hearty laugh then changed the subject back toward why I was actually sitting in her office in the first place.
So, bomb scare. As I've been telling my mother and Erin for months, I was shot at from the back of a pick up truck in Bloomington, Indiana, right smack-dab in the Heartland of America, only miles from the little pink mansion* John Mellencamp calls home. It doesn't matter where we are. What matters is that we remain. And I assure you all, we intend to.
* No, his mansion is not pink. Or little, for that matter. But it'd be a whole hell of a lot cooler if it were, don't ya think?
The other big news of the last two days was yesterday's bomb threat at the university. I had a meeting with the university President at 3:00 yesterday afternoon, so Erin and I walked the few blocks over to the school building around 2:30. As we were approaching, we noticed a rather larger cadre of military and police officials milling about on the sidewalk directly in front of the school building. As the Kyrgyz Parliament building is immediately next door to the university (we were walking past it when we noticed the police) and there seemed to be some protesters setting up in front of that building, we guessed that maybe they were a peace-keeping group of sorts or, on the other side, a show of force. But when we reached them, they all came together to form a sort of loose human wall and told us (we assume, it was in Russian) that we couldn't go any further. Erin pulled out her Visiting Professor id card from the university and the response from the officers was more of the same. Finally, after a few brief moments of utter befuddlement on both sides, a soldier stepped through the wall and told us, "There is bomb. In the building, there is bomb." At which point we and the officers all shared a look of recognition and nods of acceptance. We crossed the street and were made to move into the park opposite the school building by another group of police. Not knowing what to do, how long things would last, where to go, etc., we walked up to the main square and bought a couple of meat pies from a vendor (sort of like Indian frybread stuffed with lamb and onion and other goodies; totally delicious and only 4 som, which is about 6 or 7 cents). When we got back, nothing had changed, so we went home and got on line. There was no information on any of the pertinent web pages--US Embassy Bishkek page, AUCA page...--nor is there any now. An hour or so later I received a message from the President asking if it would be okay if we moved our meeting up a day, as the university was closed due to a bomb scare. Uhmm...sure?
I did meet with the President earlier this afternoon and she assured me the bomb scare was no big deal, happens from time to time, and was nothing to worry about. She was only out of the building for about an hour while police bomb techs went through the building, where they found nothing. Due to the proximity to Parliament and the frequency of protests, this sort of thing sometimes happens in order to stir up some media. Of course, we have no connection to local media, so I can't vouch at all on how that's working out, but I'll let you know if I hear anything. The President also told me to expect more and not to worry until something actually blows up. She followed that statement with a good hearty laugh then changed the subject back toward why I was actually sitting in her office in the first place.
So, bomb scare. As I've been telling my mother and Erin for months, I was shot at from the back of a pick up truck in Bloomington, Indiana, right smack-dab in the Heartland of America, only miles from the little pink mansion* John Mellencamp calls home. It doesn't matter where we are. What matters is that we remain. And I assure you all, we intend to.
* No, his mansion is not pink. Or little, for that matter. But it'd be a whole hell of a lot cooler if it were, don't ya think?
Monday, November 28, 2005
A Weekend Journey to the Osh Bazaar
Saturday morning we joined an American couple we met during our Armenian getaway on a trip to the Osh bazaar, the largest bazaar in Bishkek (there's a bigger one just outside the city, but it seems that no one we know ever goes there). In talking about the Osh bazaar with the few Kyrgyz people we've come to know, they all gave the impression that the bazaar was a den of pickpockets and swindlers, with violence bristling just under the surface of what was essentially a produce-stand front and a place to be avoided at all costs (unless, of course, you need something...sort of like Wal-Mart). What we found in reality was nothing of the sort.
The Osh bazaar is huge and, in places, crowded, but it seemed at all times, no less safe a place than anywhere else in the city. The bazaar proper covers three square city blocks. The size of city blocks in Bishkek being more or less fluid, what this comes out to in real terms is about three or four acres of open-air bartering. And that's just the "official" bazaar. There's a patina of lesser bazaars on all sides, something Bob, the man we were with, referred to as the "bazaar suburbs." Within that vast realm of commerce, one can pretty much get his hands on whatever his little heart desires. There's an electronics section, clothing, shoes, books, housewares, cleaning products, flea market-like odds and ends, a dentist, and, of course, food, lots and lots of food. What we've come to know as the usual bazaar fare was all represented--fresh fruit, vegetables, and herbs, breads, grains and pasta, dried fruit, stuffed frybreads and sweetbreads, etc--but there were also some things we hadn't been able to find before, like nuts, dried spices (Erin's craving for black pepper has been, temporarily, sated), tofu (made fresh by the Korean women we bought it from...still warm!), various other pantry products we hadn't found (vinegar, soy sauce, sesame oil, honey, corn starch, flour...), and, the true highlight of the day for me, the Meat House.
The first room we entered in the Meat House (more of a building full of meat sellers, I guess, but there's a nice ring to meat house, don't you think?) was the Kyrgyz room, where only ethnically Kyrgyz people were selling meats. Among them were beef, horse, lamb, yak, rabbit, various poultry, and something else none of could adequately guess at (even the Russian explanation to Sue, the woman we were with, didn't help clarify anything). All of these meats were hanging from metal hooks attached to wooden slats above the stalls, so that there were just rows and rows of hanging raw meat, like the work-out scenes in the first Rocky without Sly or any refrigeration. This was no place for a vegetarian or anyone with a weak stomach. Even though it was about 35 degrees or so outside, with all of the traffic in the room all day, the smoke from people's cigarettes, and whatever warmth the sun slanting in through the big, wide doorway was giving off, the smell was pretty strong. I assume when someone says in a war movie that It smelled like death, it is that smell he's referring to. Bob bought some yak butt (sadly, not nearly as funny a phrase in Russian) and then we moved on to the Russian room.
The Russian room is the Russian room for the simple reason that it involves pork, and lots of it. Kyrgyzstan is, for the most part, an Islamic country. When the Turks converted in the 10th century, they were already here (give or take), so Muhammad and his peoples have been on Central Asian soil a good long time. And while most every Kyrgyz will sit down to a bottle of vodka and is more likely to go to New Jersey than the masque in his or her village, one of the facets of Islam they do uphold is the abstention from all things swine. Thankfully, there are gobs of Russians around to pick up the slack.
The first thing one notices upon climbing the single flight of wide, stone steps into the Russian room of the meat house is the immediate change in smell. Gone is the slightly sweet / slightly sickening tang of rotting flesh and melting back fat. In its place is the mouth-watering richness of smokehouse-cured pork. If you've ever had the pleasure of cooking ten or twelve pounds of bacon some Sunday morning, before, say, a big game or something, then you've got some sense of what I'm talking about. If not, I suggest you fry up ten or twelve pounds of bacon next Sunday, invite the local high school soccer teams over for breakfast, and see for yourself what we're on about here. (For you vegans [I'm looking at you, Dee], you're just shit out of luck and you may want to skip ahead to the next paragraph, as this is only going to get worse for you before it gets any better.) The first sight I got upon reaching the top of the steps was that of a man hacking away at a side of pork ribs with a cleaver more closely related to a battle axe than anything found in the average American kitchen. We could actually hear the suck and schlump of each giant swing and could see bits of flesh and cartilage fly off onto the floor or under a stall bottom, lost forever. There were loins and hams and ribs and livers and other nameless organs and the bottom foot or so of pig legs, hoof and all, lining tables and stalls on either side of the hallway, stretching completely to the facing wall some hundred yards away. There was all manner of cheeses (including head cheese forced upon me by an overzealous Bob--I will eat damn near anything but swallowing the first of two bites was a fight I nearly lost; the second one ended up on the ground outside) and sausages as well. Around the corner, after the last pair of stalls hawking "processed" pork, was another row of stalls, each with their own knife-wielding babushka. Every single one of those old women were doing some business to a pig's head--one was peeling back skin on the snout, another hollowing out the space behind one eye, another deftly taking off an ear. I promise to sometime bring my camera and document this for you, as I'm sure the smile on my face in seeing this is also on yours in reading it. I'm right, right?
After the bazaar we walked the few blocks over to Bob and Sue's apartment where they treated us to a fantastic lunch involving many of the things we'd both just bought at the bazaar. We sat around talking for awhile, helped them with some computer woes, then walked the half hour back to our place, loaded down with our goods. Before we left their apartment, Bob and Sue told us of a Chinese store downtown where we can buy Chinese pantry items, woks, good knives and cleavers, etc. Much of our walk home was spent inventorying the items we might potentially buy there. But that's for next weekend.
The Osh bazaar is huge and, in places, crowded, but it seemed at all times, no less safe a place than anywhere else in the city. The bazaar proper covers three square city blocks. The size of city blocks in Bishkek being more or less fluid, what this comes out to in real terms is about three or four acres of open-air bartering. And that's just the "official" bazaar. There's a patina of lesser bazaars on all sides, something Bob, the man we were with, referred to as the "bazaar suburbs." Within that vast realm of commerce, one can pretty much get his hands on whatever his little heart desires. There's an electronics section, clothing, shoes, books, housewares, cleaning products, flea market-like odds and ends, a dentist, and, of course, food, lots and lots of food. What we've come to know as the usual bazaar fare was all represented--fresh fruit, vegetables, and herbs, breads, grains and pasta, dried fruit, stuffed frybreads and sweetbreads, etc--but there were also some things we hadn't been able to find before, like nuts, dried spices (Erin's craving for black pepper has been, temporarily, sated), tofu (made fresh by the Korean women we bought it from...still warm!), various other pantry products we hadn't found (vinegar, soy sauce, sesame oil, honey, corn starch, flour...), and, the true highlight of the day for me, the Meat House.
The first room we entered in the Meat House (more of a building full of meat sellers, I guess, but there's a nice ring to meat house, don't you think?) was the Kyrgyz room, where only ethnically Kyrgyz people were selling meats. Among them were beef, horse, lamb, yak, rabbit, various poultry, and something else none of could adequately guess at (even the Russian explanation to Sue, the woman we were with, didn't help clarify anything). All of these meats were hanging from metal hooks attached to wooden slats above the stalls, so that there were just rows and rows of hanging raw meat, like the work-out scenes in the first Rocky without Sly or any refrigeration. This was no place for a vegetarian or anyone with a weak stomach. Even though it was about 35 degrees or so outside, with all of the traffic in the room all day, the smoke from people's cigarettes, and whatever warmth the sun slanting in through the big, wide doorway was giving off, the smell was pretty strong. I assume when someone says in a war movie that It smelled like death, it is that smell he's referring to. Bob bought some yak butt (sadly, not nearly as funny a phrase in Russian) and then we moved on to the Russian room.
The Russian room is the Russian room for the simple reason that it involves pork, and lots of it. Kyrgyzstan is, for the most part, an Islamic country. When the Turks converted in the 10th century, they were already here (give or take), so Muhammad and his peoples have been on Central Asian soil a good long time. And while most every Kyrgyz will sit down to a bottle of vodka and is more likely to go to New Jersey than the masque in his or her village, one of the facets of Islam they do uphold is the abstention from all things swine. Thankfully, there are gobs of Russians around to pick up the slack.
The first thing one notices upon climbing the single flight of wide, stone steps into the Russian room of the meat house is the immediate change in smell. Gone is the slightly sweet / slightly sickening tang of rotting flesh and melting back fat. In its place is the mouth-watering richness of smokehouse-cured pork. If you've ever had the pleasure of cooking ten or twelve pounds of bacon some Sunday morning, before, say, a big game or something, then you've got some sense of what I'm talking about. If not, I suggest you fry up ten or twelve pounds of bacon next Sunday, invite the local high school soccer teams over for breakfast, and see for yourself what we're on about here. (For you vegans [I'm looking at you, Dee], you're just shit out of luck and you may want to skip ahead to the next paragraph, as this is only going to get worse for you before it gets any better.) The first sight I got upon reaching the top of the steps was that of a man hacking away at a side of pork ribs with a cleaver more closely related to a battle axe than anything found in the average American kitchen. We could actually hear the suck and schlump of each giant swing and could see bits of flesh and cartilage fly off onto the floor or under a stall bottom, lost forever. There were loins and hams and ribs and livers and other nameless organs and the bottom foot or so of pig legs, hoof and all, lining tables and stalls on either side of the hallway, stretching completely to the facing wall some hundred yards away. There was all manner of cheeses (including head cheese forced upon me by an overzealous Bob--I will eat damn near anything but swallowing the first of two bites was a fight I nearly lost; the second one ended up on the ground outside) and sausages as well. Around the corner, after the last pair of stalls hawking "processed" pork, was another row of stalls, each with their own knife-wielding babushka. Every single one of those old women were doing some business to a pig's head--one was peeling back skin on the snout, another hollowing out the space behind one eye, another deftly taking off an ear. I promise to sometime bring my camera and document this for you, as I'm sure the smile on my face in seeing this is also on yours in reading it. I'm right, right?
After the bazaar we walked the few blocks over to Bob and Sue's apartment where they treated us to a fantastic lunch involving many of the things we'd both just bought at the bazaar. We sat around talking for awhile, helped them with some computer woes, then walked the half hour back to our place, loaded down with our goods. Before we left their apartment, Bob and Sue told us of a Chinese store downtown where we can buy Chinese pantry items, woks, good knives and cleavers, etc. Much of our walk home was spent inventorying the items we might potentially buy there. But that's for next weekend.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Photos
I've added a link over on the left to a new Flickr page, where you can find all of my pictures. Right now, there are only about half of the apartment pictures up, as the network on campus is incredibly slow today for some reason and causing it to take forever to upload. But I'll add more tomorrow...
A Kyrgyz Thanksgiving
The first indication that this Thanksgiving was going to be a bit different from my previous American versions came on Tuesday afternoon, when I received an email from the University containing, in part, this message:
Special Recognition of Thanksgiving, the American holiday when families celebrate their gratitude for one another and for the freedoms of a democratic republic, will be held on Wednesday, November 23 at 5 pm in the Fourth Floor Conference Hall. The Thanksgiving holiday itself will be November 24. It will be a day-off at AUCA.
It's just that I don't remember celebrating my gratitude for the freedoms of a democratic republic. Hell, I don't even remember being from a republic. I think I've been wasting a perfectly good holiday these last three decades. But that's not much of a surprise, I guess.
Next came the actual Special Recognition of Thanksgiving celebration referred to above. We arrived there with Aida (pr: ah-EE-duh), the woman who has been showing us around and helping us not get entirely overwhelmed (she's wonderful, to say the least), and sat toward the back of the few rows of chairs set up in the small auditorium. Not much was happening. People were still coming in, others were setting up, others putting out some of the food we'd later eat, etc. I was mindlessly looking around the room, taking everything in while simultaneously not really paying attention to anything (it was the end of a long day and, like I think I said before, it's damned tiring walking around the world a virtual deaf-mute). My senses finally came back to life when the guy on the soundboard turned up the volume of the music he was playing and started actually spinning some songs via a double CD rack and a mixer. What initially perked my interest was when he dropped Jefferson Airplane's "Somebody to Love" over a generic house/drum & bass line to startlingly brilliant results. Then he moved seamlessly into the ubiquitous Pussycat Dolls "Don't Cha," at which point the entire room seemingly exploded in a chorus of Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me... This was the third time in as many days we'd heard Kyrgyz kids singing this song. First, while walking downtown, a couple of young Russian boys walked by us singing it, then I overheard a couple of University girls singing it as they walked to class. Very odd that this should be what hits it Central Asia. I suppose it could be worse. At least they weren't singing Big & Rich or something equally insipid. Plus, as of yet, I've not heard a single person do a Lil' Jon impression.
After a time everything settled down and the celebration got under way. An older student (I'm assuming a senior) acted as MC. The tenor and pitch of his voice, his mannerisms, and the general state of his presence all reeked of Cheesy Game Show Host. It was remarkable and proved incredibly difficult not to just laugh at him every time he spoke, which he did often and at length. I have no idea what he was saying, as it was primarily in Russian, but I assure you it's worth catching if his tour hits a city near you.
The first activity of the event involved bringing the newly elected student government officials (all in matching sweater vests) to the stage to thank everyone and remind us that this holiday is all about celebrating the democratic process, which they are living embodiments of. They ended their time on stage with a call and response of "Thank you" and something else (it was in Russian and I only caught the thank you, as it's one of the words I know), an activity that would be repeated by nearly every person who got up on stage over the next hour or so. The president of the university then got up to speak, explaining what Thanksgiving is like with her family and how it is primarily a time for family to be together. For a few brief minutes I was sad, for a number of reasons, then a young student got up and made my week.
She came to the stage from the row directly behind us, with her little posse of friends cheering her on. She got up to the stage and, into the microphone, told us (I think; it was in Russian too, but I think I got the gist of it) that the song she wanted to sing was a special song of thanks perfect for the holiday and about something she and her family and friends all held very dear. I was expecting maybe a traditional Kyrgyz song (we'd heard a few the night before at the Anthro Dept. meeting), but what we got was so, so much better. Without hesitating at all, she burst into an a capella version of Abba's "Thank you for the Music."
I'm nothing special, in fact I'm a bit of a bore
If I tell a joke, you've probably heard it before
But I have a talent, a wonderful thing
'cause everyone listens when I start to sing
I'm so grateful and proud
All I want is to sing it out loud
So I say
Thank you for the music, the songs I'm singing
Thanks for all the joy they're bringing
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty
What would life be?
Without a song or a dance what are we?
So I say thank you for the music
For giving it to me
She sang through the entire song, clapping and stomping her feet to keep time. It was utterly brilliant. And it made the rest of the evening's activities a bit anti-climactic for me, but that's perhaps to be expected when a 19 year old Kyrgyz student unexpectedly belts out some Abba as her gift to Thanksgiving.
That said, other highlights included the entire room full of people (maybe 150 or so) shouting "Turkey, turkey, turkey" over and over for some three, four minutes. This preceded the presentation of an actual roasted turkey as a prize for the best thanksgiving message (these were recorded for a few weeks leading up to this one on huge poster boards hanging by the front entrance of the main school building). The winner actually received what I'm certain was a roasted duck, but it was fully dressed with little paper crowns on the drumsticks and jam packed with stuffing.
After that things sort of fell into chaos, with everyone diving and elbowing their way for bits of other roasted birds staff were circulating and the few tables set up with sweet breads and pizza (we ate a sort of Kyrgyz tart, with a thick sweet crust and a filling that I think was apricot; it was very good and I've now got my eye out for it in the bazaars). Aida left us then and we left shortly after as well.
Yesterday, Thanksgiving proper, we spent the early part of the day in the apartment, as the university was closed. Erin did some research while I wrote (first chapter out of the way finally!), then we just sort of lounged around until mid-afternoon, when we joined an American couple we met during our layover in Armenia at their friend's house for Thanksgiving dinner. As it was just the two of us and four middle-aged missionaries who've lived in Kyrgyzstan for the better part of a decade at the dinner, we were a bit weary of how the afternoon would unfold. Very quickly, however, it became quite comfortable and we left after having had a wonderful time (and a delicious meal, bigger than the bread and veggies we've been living on, too!). On the way home our new friends drove us past their favortite restaurant in Bishkek, which turns out to be about ten minutes from our apartment. There's a good chance we'll be going there for dinner tonight. For that, and so much more, I give thanks...
Thank you for the music, the songs I'm singing
Thanks for all the joy they're bringing
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty
What would life be?
Without a song or a dance what are we?
So I say thank you for the music
For giving it to me
Special Recognition of Thanksgiving, the American holiday when families celebrate their gratitude for one another and for the freedoms of a democratic republic, will be held on Wednesday, November 23 at 5 pm in the Fourth Floor Conference Hall. The Thanksgiving holiday itself will be November 24. It will be a day-off at AUCA.
It's just that I don't remember celebrating my gratitude for the freedoms of a democratic republic. Hell, I don't even remember being from a republic. I think I've been wasting a perfectly good holiday these last three decades. But that's not much of a surprise, I guess.
Next came the actual Special Recognition of Thanksgiving celebration referred to above. We arrived there with Aida (pr: ah-EE-duh), the woman who has been showing us around and helping us not get entirely overwhelmed (she's wonderful, to say the least), and sat toward the back of the few rows of chairs set up in the small auditorium. Not much was happening. People were still coming in, others were setting up, others putting out some of the food we'd later eat, etc. I was mindlessly looking around the room, taking everything in while simultaneously not really paying attention to anything (it was the end of a long day and, like I think I said before, it's damned tiring walking around the world a virtual deaf-mute). My senses finally came back to life when the guy on the soundboard turned up the volume of the music he was playing and started actually spinning some songs via a double CD rack and a mixer. What initially perked my interest was when he dropped Jefferson Airplane's "Somebody to Love" over a generic house/drum & bass line to startlingly brilliant results. Then he moved seamlessly into the ubiquitous Pussycat Dolls "Don't Cha," at which point the entire room seemingly exploded in a chorus of Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me... This was the third time in as many days we'd heard Kyrgyz kids singing this song. First, while walking downtown, a couple of young Russian boys walked by us singing it, then I overheard a couple of University girls singing it as they walked to class. Very odd that this should be what hits it Central Asia. I suppose it could be worse. At least they weren't singing Big & Rich or something equally insipid. Plus, as of yet, I've not heard a single person do a Lil' Jon impression.
After a time everything settled down and the celebration got under way. An older student (I'm assuming a senior) acted as MC. The tenor and pitch of his voice, his mannerisms, and the general state of his presence all reeked of Cheesy Game Show Host. It was remarkable and proved incredibly difficult not to just laugh at him every time he spoke, which he did often and at length. I have no idea what he was saying, as it was primarily in Russian, but I assure you it's worth catching if his tour hits a city near you.
The first activity of the event involved bringing the newly elected student government officials (all in matching sweater vests) to the stage to thank everyone and remind us that this holiday is all about celebrating the democratic process, which they are living embodiments of. They ended their time on stage with a call and response of "Thank you" and something else (it was in Russian and I only caught the thank you, as it's one of the words I know), an activity that would be repeated by nearly every person who got up on stage over the next hour or so. The president of the university then got up to speak, explaining what Thanksgiving is like with her family and how it is primarily a time for family to be together. For a few brief minutes I was sad, for a number of reasons, then a young student got up and made my week.
She came to the stage from the row directly behind us, with her little posse of friends cheering her on. She got up to the stage and, into the microphone, told us (I think; it was in Russian too, but I think I got the gist of it) that the song she wanted to sing was a special song of thanks perfect for the holiday and about something she and her family and friends all held very dear. I was expecting maybe a traditional Kyrgyz song (we'd heard a few the night before at the Anthro Dept. meeting), but what we got was so, so much better. Without hesitating at all, she burst into an a capella version of Abba's "Thank you for the Music."
I'm nothing special, in fact I'm a bit of a bore
If I tell a joke, you've probably heard it before
But I have a talent, a wonderful thing
'cause everyone listens when I start to sing
I'm so grateful and proud
All I want is to sing it out loud
So I say
Thank you for the music, the songs I'm singing
Thanks for all the joy they're bringing
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty
What would life be?
Without a song or a dance what are we?
So I say thank you for the music
For giving it to me
She sang through the entire song, clapping and stomping her feet to keep time. It was utterly brilliant. And it made the rest of the evening's activities a bit anti-climactic for me, but that's perhaps to be expected when a 19 year old Kyrgyz student unexpectedly belts out some Abba as her gift to Thanksgiving.
That said, other highlights included the entire room full of people (maybe 150 or so) shouting "Turkey, turkey, turkey" over and over for some three, four minutes. This preceded the presentation of an actual roasted turkey as a prize for the best thanksgiving message (these were recorded for a few weeks leading up to this one on huge poster boards hanging by the front entrance of the main school building). The winner actually received what I'm certain was a roasted duck, but it was fully dressed with little paper crowns on the drumsticks and jam packed with stuffing.
After that things sort of fell into chaos, with everyone diving and elbowing their way for bits of other roasted birds staff were circulating and the few tables set up with sweet breads and pizza (we ate a sort of Kyrgyz tart, with a thick sweet crust and a filling that I think was apricot; it was very good and I've now got my eye out for it in the bazaars). Aida left us then and we left shortly after as well.
Yesterday, Thanksgiving proper, we spent the early part of the day in the apartment, as the university was closed. Erin did some research while I wrote (first chapter out of the way finally!), then we just sort of lounged around until mid-afternoon, when we joined an American couple we met during our layover in Armenia at their friend's house for Thanksgiving dinner. As it was just the two of us and four middle-aged missionaries who've lived in Kyrgyzstan for the better part of a decade at the dinner, we were a bit weary of how the afternoon would unfold. Very quickly, however, it became quite comfortable and we left after having had a wonderful time (and a delicious meal, bigger than the bread and veggies we've been living on, too!). On the way home our new friends drove us past their favortite restaurant in Bishkek, which turns out to be about ten minutes from our apartment. There's a good chance we'll be going there for dinner tonight. For that, and so much more, I give thanks...
Thank you for the music, the songs I'm singing
Thanks for all the joy they're bringing
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty
What would life be?
Without a song or a dance what are we?
So I say thank you for the music
For giving it to me
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
In the Ever-Prescient Words of Ice Cube, "Today Was a Good Day"
I know, nothing yesterday. Well, this is a tiring business moving nearly-mute through the world. Plus we had quite a bit of the getting-to-you-know-you-type meetings yesterday and today at the American University of Central Asia, all of which have been helpful and incredibly friendly. Yesterday we met with the Vice President of Academic Affairs, a remarkable man full of enthusiasm for Erin's project and what he referred to as my Writing about the inner soul of the Kyrgyz people. We'll have to see about that. He also volunteered his wife to us as a shopping and sight-seeing guide through the various historical sights and museums around the city. I'm certainly looking forward to that.
Today we met with the President of the University, an American woman with odd ties to virtually everything I've ever done: She has a daughter currently living in Providence; both of her children went to a boarding school more or less down the road from the one I attended and she recalled fond memories of Pomfret's campus; she's friends with the last three presidents of Skidmore and a number of faculty; she once spent a summer in Bloomington, Indiana, learning Russian; and she claims as her best friend on earth one Mr. Gerald Stern, a poet I've long loved. Plus, she offered me a job almost immediately, as the University's biggest problem right now is communication, among its faculty and staff and students as well as out to the rest of the world. She'll let me know early next week what position she has invented for me and what amount of the annual budget she's syphoned away for my salary (her words, not mine!). Needless to say, I'm digging the President right now.
Other things are moving along as well:
Yesterday we managed to go to the bazaar around the corner from our apartment and buy some bread and produce all by ourselves! You'd be amazed how easily performing that simple task successfully can enhance the quality of your entire day.
We also attended an Anthropology department meeting for the full faculty and student body of the department. Erin discusses it in her most recent blog post, so I won't go into too much detail. I would like to add this, however: While I am neither an Anthropologist nor do I speak Russian or Kyrgyz, I was completely swept up in the enthusiasm of everyone at that meeting. Honestly, sitting in that room one could very easily get the idea that anthropology in general and the anthro students at this university in particular will save the world. And that they're going to do so very soon, too. Plus they had snacks and people sang songs and recited poetry and played instruments. Amazing meeting. (America, you're on notice: get your departmental meetings in order before I get back...or else!)
Just a few minutes ago we hired a private Russian tutor who will come to our apartment three days a week and, at least initially, confuse us silly for an hour and a half. Hopefully not for too long, though.
Very soon we will be going to the Habitat for Humanity office here in Bishkek to volunteer with them. It'll be a good way to meet some people outside of the university and hopefully increase our Russian skills a bit (it may very well prove useful to know the Russian word for "roofing nail"). Plus, you know, it's nice and I've done a lot of bad things in my life that need to be balanced out at some point. Neither of us have been on a build since college (there was a deterrent to doing so in Bloomington...I'll leave it at that), so we're excited to get back into it.
That's about it for now. I realize I still haven't uploaded any pictures; the connection in our apartment is too slow to do it there and we only today got out computer access at the university. I'll have them up possibly later today, though more likely tomorrow. Promise. Now we're going to go wander around aimlessly in hopes of learning the city a little bit better before we head down to the Habitat office.
Today we met with the President of the University, an American woman with odd ties to virtually everything I've ever done: She has a daughter currently living in Providence; both of her children went to a boarding school more or less down the road from the one I attended and she recalled fond memories of Pomfret's campus; she's friends with the last three presidents of Skidmore and a number of faculty; she once spent a summer in Bloomington, Indiana, learning Russian; and she claims as her best friend on earth one Mr. Gerald Stern, a poet I've long loved. Plus, she offered me a job almost immediately, as the University's biggest problem right now is communication, among its faculty and staff and students as well as out to the rest of the world. She'll let me know early next week what position she has invented for me and what amount of the annual budget she's syphoned away for my salary (her words, not mine!). Needless to say, I'm digging the President right now.
Other things are moving along as well:
Yesterday we managed to go to the bazaar around the corner from our apartment and buy some bread and produce all by ourselves! You'd be amazed how easily performing that simple task successfully can enhance the quality of your entire day.
We also attended an Anthropology department meeting for the full faculty and student body of the department. Erin discusses it in her most recent blog post, so I won't go into too much detail. I would like to add this, however: While I am neither an Anthropologist nor do I speak Russian or Kyrgyz, I was completely swept up in the enthusiasm of everyone at that meeting. Honestly, sitting in that room one could very easily get the idea that anthropology in general and the anthro students at this university in particular will save the world. And that they're going to do so very soon, too. Plus they had snacks and people sang songs and recited poetry and played instruments. Amazing meeting. (America, you're on notice: get your departmental meetings in order before I get back...or else!)
Just a few minutes ago we hired a private Russian tutor who will come to our apartment three days a week and, at least initially, confuse us silly for an hour and a half. Hopefully not for too long, though.
Very soon we will be going to the Habitat for Humanity office here in Bishkek to volunteer with them. It'll be a good way to meet some people outside of the university and hopefully increase our Russian skills a bit (it may very well prove useful to know the Russian word for "roofing nail"). Plus, you know, it's nice and I've done a lot of bad things in my life that need to be balanced out at some point. Neither of us have been on a build since college (there was a deterrent to doing so in Bloomington...I'll leave it at that), so we're excited to get back into it.
That's about it for now. I realize I still haven't uploaded any pictures; the connection in our apartment is too slow to do it there and we only today got out computer access at the university. I'll have them up possibly later today, though more likely tomorrow. Promise. Now we're going to go wander around aimlessly in hopes of learning the city a little bit better before we head down to the Habitat office.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Third Time's the Charm
Well, we're finally in Bishkek. After being shuttled to the airport on Saturday night, checked-in, moved through customs, and playing a bit with the cat living in the Yerevan airport, we were sent back to the hotel again. Our ranks were tripled at that point, as we were meant to be on the next regularly scheduled flight through Yerevan into Bishkek and it too, obviously, was then cancelled as well, along with the forty-some passengers on it. But only an hour or so after returning to the hotel we learned (via a note slipped under the door) we'd be leaving at noon the next day. Noon was actually closer to 3:00, but that's just splitting hairs--we got off the ground and landed a few hours later, finally, in Bishkek.
The views out of the airplane on the way were fantastic. We flew over the Caspian Sea and it was clear enough to see straight through to the horizon. And it was interesting to watch the mountain ranges grow the further we flew east, with the Himalayas only a fart and a whisper away. That is, when I wasn't sucked in by the in-flight entertainment. Why will I watch absolutely anything on an airplane? And not only why will I watch it, but why will I find it far, far funnier or moving or engrossing than really it has any right being? I mean, I love me some Will Farrell, too, but Bewitched just doesn't warrant the sort of silent belly-laughing I was giving it. Maybe I was a bit giddy to be in the air after three days in Armenia, I don't know. But I actually shush-ed Erin so I could hear the punchline of rather unimportant scene in The Fantastic Four. And that's a film adaptation of a comic I didn't even like growing up. Altitude is a special drug. (Nonsensical aside officially over.)
Before (not) leaving on Saturday, we took a tour out of Yerevan* with some of the fellow-stranded and an incredibly nice undergrad Armenian / tour guide whose name escapes me right now. We first stopped about a half hour out of the city at an overlook with a great view of Mt. Ararat, the "heart and soul of the Armenian people" (so says the tour guide) and the spot often hypothesized as being the final mooring place of Noah's Ark. If, you know, you're into that sort of thing. The spot where we were looking from was a big stone archway built on the top of a hill overlooking a huge valley and the mountain range further west. Better than that, the spot and the archway both were named after a poet. They name things after poets in Armenia! The rest of the trip was sort of anticlimactic for me after I learned that fact and fell madly in love with all Armenians, though we did see some pretty cool things. Like a first century pagan temple in the village of Girni, a place that can trace its permanent settlement back to 4,116 years ago. I have trouble with the US founding fathers (quick, name three people other than John Hancock who signed the Declaration of independence...didn't think so) but the residents of Girni can tell you the names of former residents of their house from 4000 years ago. My self respect keeps diminishing the more time I spend away from the Midwest. And to make matters worse, no one will ever name anything after me because I managed a descent sonnet once. But if I were Armenian...
Anyway, after that we drove up to a 12th century monastery (a rebuild of a 4th century one lost to earthquake, which itself was a rebuild of an older one also lost to earthquake) carved into the face of a mountain. It is believed to be the place where the spear used to pierce Jesus' side was kept after being brought to Armenia by two of Jesus' apostles as proof of His existence and good salesmanship for future conversions. The spear itself is now in the biggie Gregorian church elsewhere in Armenia. For an atheist who gave up "all that nonsense"** at the sagastic age of eight, this was an odd little tour. But the monastery was amazing. It is three churches and a series of monastic cells and passageways and antechambers and, oh yeah, did I mention--all of it carved out of the face of a mountain! Say what you will about zealots (I've said it all myself...twice), but these cats carved three churches out of stone so that they'd have a safe place to worship. That's some god damn devotion right there, boy.
The tour was capped off and, besides discovering the possibility of everything being named after poets, was really highlighted by the lunch we had in someone's home back in Girni. Four courses involving lamb and potatoes and different salads and freshly baked breads and homemade yoghurt, several rounds of apricot-peach vodka, desserts, fruit. Oh so good. So, so good. All of the entree foods and the breads were cooked in an underground oven similar to but different from a tandoor oven. The Armenian version is also clay and underground, but it is, well, different. And thousands of miles away from India. But damned tasty all the same.
But we're in Bishkek. I was meant to speak about Bishkek. I'll have to do that tomorrow. Right now I'm entirely too tired. It is 21:00 and Erin is snoring away on the couch behind me and her snoring is acting as some sort of odd anti-Siren song, lulling me, too, into sleep. So, tomorrow Bishkek. Until then, know this: we have an apartment, it is nice, close to things (we're told; though we did find a bazaar full of fresh produce and household goods and whatnot literally right around the corner, so that's nice), and has everything we need. We are settling in (though the language thing--my more or less complete lack of Russian and Kyrgyz--is freaking me out a bit). And we are tired. So...tomorrow.
* There will be pictures and links to pictures tomorrow (unless I do them in the morning shortly after I wake up and you're reading this not long after I post it, in which case my tomorrow will still be your today. Eleven hour time diferences rule!). I'm too lazy right now to upload them and write the HTML required, though, so you'll have to wait.
** The last three words I uttered on my way out of my last CCD class that got me sent to Father Frank for the last time (the theory is, I say last enough times and it almost makes it like a martyrdom...only, you know, not...not at all). He always smelled heavily of cigarette smoke and he had two earrings in his left ear and he was a bit handsy, if you know what I mean. My only punishment that day was to sit quietly until the end off class in his office while he worked on whatever it was he worked on. It smelled retched in that office. And he made rather disgusting mouth and throat sounds that seemed to indicate some sort of severe bronchial problem in need of medical assistance. Though he threw something in my direction when I suggested as much. Ah, good Catholic childhood memories, the stuff therapy and heretical poetry is made of...
The views out of the airplane on the way were fantastic. We flew over the Caspian Sea and it was clear enough to see straight through to the horizon. And it was interesting to watch the mountain ranges grow the further we flew east, with the Himalayas only a fart and a whisper away. That is, when I wasn't sucked in by the in-flight entertainment. Why will I watch absolutely anything on an airplane? And not only why will I watch it, but why will I find it far, far funnier or moving or engrossing than really it has any right being? I mean, I love me some Will Farrell, too, but Bewitched just doesn't warrant the sort of silent belly-laughing I was giving it. Maybe I was a bit giddy to be in the air after three days in Armenia, I don't know. But I actually shush-ed Erin so I could hear the punchline of rather unimportant scene in The Fantastic Four. And that's a film adaptation of a comic I didn't even like growing up. Altitude is a special drug. (Nonsensical aside officially over.)
Before (not) leaving on Saturday, we took a tour out of Yerevan* with some of the fellow-stranded and an incredibly nice undergrad Armenian / tour guide whose name escapes me right now. We first stopped about a half hour out of the city at an overlook with a great view of Mt. Ararat, the "heart and soul of the Armenian people" (so says the tour guide) and the spot often hypothesized as being the final mooring place of Noah's Ark. If, you know, you're into that sort of thing. The spot where we were looking from was a big stone archway built on the top of a hill overlooking a huge valley and the mountain range further west. Better than that, the spot and the archway both were named after a poet. They name things after poets in Armenia! The rest of the trip was sort of anticlimactic for me after I learned that fact and fell madly in love with all Armenians, though we did see some pretty cool things. Like a first century pagan temple in the village of Girni, a place that can trace its permanent settlement back to 4,116 years ago. I have trouble with the US founding fathers (quick, name three people other than John Hancock who signed the Declaration of independence...didn't think so) but the residents of Girni can tell you the names of former residents of their house from 4000 years ago. My self respect keeps diminishing the more time I spend away from the Midwest. And to make matters worse, no one will ever name anything after me because I managed a descent sonnet once. But if I were Armenian...
Anyway, after that we drove up to a 12th century monastery (a rebuild of a 4th century one lost to earthquake, which itself was a rebuild of an older one also lost to earthquake) carved into the face of a mountain. It is believed to be the place where the spear used to pierce Jesus' side was kept after being brought to Armenia by two of Jesus' apostles as proof of His existence and good salesmanship for future conversions. The spear itself is now in the biggie Gregorian church elsewhere in Armenia. For an atheist who gave up "all that nonsense"** at the sagastic age of eight, this was an odd little tour. But the monastery was amazing. It is three churches and a series of monastic cells and passageways and antechambers and, oh yeah, did I mention--all of it carved out of the face of a mountain! Say what you will about zealots (I've said it all myself...twice), but these cats carved three churches out of stone so that they'd have a safe place to worship. That's some god damn devotion right there, boy.
The tour was capped off and, besides discovering the possibility of everything being named after poets, was really highlighted by the lunch we had in someone's home back in Girni. Four courses involving lamb and potatoes and different salads and freshly baked breads and homemade yoghurt, several rounds of apricot-peach vodka, desserts, fruit. Oh so good. So, so good. All of the entree foods and the breads were cooked in an underground oven similar to but different from a tandoor oven. The Armenian version is also clay and underground, but it is, well, different. And thousands of miles away from India. But damned tasty all the same.
But we're in Bishkek. I was meant to speak about Bishkek. I'll have to do that tomorrow. Right now I'm entirely too tired. It is 21:00 and Erin is snoring away on the couch behind me and her snoring is acting as some sort of odd anti-Siren song, lulling me, too, into sleep. So, tomorrow Bishkek. Until then, know this: we have an apartment, it is nice, close to things (we're told; though we did find a bazaar full of fresh produce and household goods and whatnot literally right around the corner, so that's nice), and has everything we need. We are settling in (though the language thing--my more or less complete lack of Russian and Kyrgyz--is freaking me out a bit). And we are tired. So...tomorrow.
* There will be pictures and links to pictures tomorrow (unless I do them in the morning shortly after I wake up and you're reading this not long after I post it, in which case my tomorrow will still be your today. Eleven hour time diferences rule!). I'm too lazy right now to upload them and write the HTML required, though, so you'll have to wait.
** The last three words I uttered on my way out of my last CCD class that got me sent to Father Frank for the last time (the theory is, I say last enough times and it almost makes it like a martyrdom...only, you know, not...not at all). He always smelled heavily of cigarette smoke and he had two earrings in his left ear and he was a bit handsy, if you know what I mean. My only punishment that day was to sit quietly until the end off class in his office while he worked on whatever it was he worked on. It smelled retched in that office. And he made rather disgusting mouth and throat sounds that seemed to indicate some sort of severe bronchial problem in need of medical assistance. Though he threw something in my direction when I suggested as much. Ah, good Catholic childhood memories, the stuff therapy and heretical poetry is made of...
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Not There Yet...
The route to Bishkek took us from Boston to London's Heathrow Airport to Yerevan, Armenia for a refueling stop then onto to Bishkek. In theory, anyway. Right now, we're still in Yerevan. When we landed to refuel we were told there was "freezing fog" shrouding the airport in Bishkek and that we'd be unable to land. So that was nice.
What followed was an oddly hectic middle of the night run through Armenian customs (3-day visa paid for by British Airways, thank you very much!). First one line for a speed visa, then another for customs, then we were marched to another spot to retrieve our checked luggage. Finally, we were brought outside and told the bus would be arriving shortly to take us to the hotel, but in the meantime we could (and should) take a taxi. Our luggage was loaded into a taxi without much say on our part and we were repeatedly told to "sit down. Hotel next. Sit down." So we sat.
We very shortly after left (we being just me and my wife, Erin), me up front with the taxi driver, her in back with the luggage that didn't fit in the trunk. On the way out of the airport we passed a caravan of other taxis with other passengers from our flight apparently waiting to all go together with the bus which had just then arrived and been taken over more or less completely by a band that was on our flight and their sizable amount of equipment. We slowed down beside the parked taxis, the window beside me was rolled down, words were shouted between the driver of our taxi and another taxi driver in what I think was Russian. Our driver made some annoyed gesture at the other driver as a way of signaling the end of the exchange and we sped off, leaving the rest of the taxis sitting there by the side of the road. We knew only the name of the hotel we were to stay in and pretty much nothing else.
Armenia, like most of the former Soviet countries without massive oil or gold reserves, has only recently crawled out from under the yoke of horrific economic problems. And it shows. The landscape surrounding the airport, as a result, didn't help soothe us any, as it looks something like a BBC News story involving the words "war" and "torn" and possibly "Hurricane Katrina." That is to say, the area directly adjacent the airport looked as though it has been recently bombed, though it hasn't. Lots of concrete in various states of disarray, small stalls selling fruit (it was after midnight - who is buying fruit on an otherwise deserted road after midnight?), and little by way of road signs, traffic lights, etc. This improved as we got closer to the city and into downtown, but we weren't there yet.
We drove in silence. And we drove fast. For a while, anyway. After about ten minutes or so of break-neck speeds, the driver dropped down to about 35-40 km/h, which is slow enough to perk up both my ears and the hair on the back of my neck. About thirty seconds after the speed drop off, the driver began pounding on the dashboard then furiously pressing some buttons beside the radio. Then he picked up the microphone for the CB radio and mumbled something into it (he really did mumble; I was sitting maybe eight inches from him and had trouble hearing anything he said). A few minutes later, still traveling at a disturbingly slow pace, the caravan of our former flight-mates flies by on our left. Our driver ignores them. When the last of the taillights from the bus pulling up the rear of the caravan are no longer visible and we'd still not increased our speed any, the muscles in my legs tense to the point of straining. The taxi kept up its turtle pace for another five minutes or so.
We passed a number of Petrol stations during that time, so my initial thoughts that perhaps we were running out of gas vanished and I was left only with hamstring massages to console myself. That is, until we pulled off the road into what looked like an American self-service car wash, the sort with long standing rows of open-ended cinder block garages equipped with a brush, sprayer, change machine, et cetera. Only there was no brush, no sprayer. Only a long metal pole and the row of garages.
When we'd stopped inside one of the stalls, the driver popped out of the car almost immediately, closing the door behind. Then he opened the door again and spoke to me in any of the three languages he speaks that I don't understand (thank you, American pompousness!) and again shut the door. A few seconds passed then Erin said, "Uhmm, sketchy?" I answered only with a noise part laugh, part agreement. The driver by then was under the hood of the car, attaching the long metal pole to something I couldn't see in the engine. Then he came around to my door and opened it, motioning for me to get out and talking loudly at me. I eventually got out and he said a few more things and pointed back inside the car, then at me, then back inside the car. I went to sit back down and he said "No" in Russian, the first word I understood of the trip, and waved his hand in the same annoyed way that had ended the conversation with the other driver at the airport. He then opened Erin's door and went through the same series of gestures, leaving all three of us very confused. Finally Erin said the name of our hotel a few times and he nodded his head yes and then did the hand wave thing again. He walked out about twenty or thirty feet in front of the car, turned to face us, and made motions for us to join him there. We did, with Erin holding onto my arm tightly while I nattered on about the rest of the world hating monolingual Americans for precisely this reason.
Once in front of the taxi and turned back around to look at it, we saw that this was a taxi hangout of sorts. There was a small army of Armenian men all wearing Addidas sweat suits and black cowboy boots, throwing monkey wrenches between the stalls. Our driver was back under the hood by then, making some adjustments to the engine/long metal pole connection. When he'd finished, another man came over, took some money from our driver, and turned on a rather large electrical box mounted at the front of the stall. So, we were refueling after all, only with electricity. We both relaxed a bit at that point, laughed at ourselves and our apprehensions, and made some apologizing and ha ha-type gestures to the driver. It was still a bit unnerving though that the remainder of the twenty or so others from our flight were nowhere to be seen and very likely already safely at the hotel while we were standing in the middle of a huge parking lot at 1:00 in the morning waiting for our taxi to recharge. But we weren't going to be killed or robbed or made to play soccer or anything right then, so that was a comfort, at least.
Refueled and back on the road, we made up for lost time, taking corners at 130 km/h and turning what seemed like a mini Armenian Vegas into a blur of streaking neon Casino signs. Yerevan showed itself to us first in row houses and small markets, then in monuments and tree-lined streets, and finally in a giant, breathtaking open square (a gift from the Soviets, so to speak) lined with four of the most imposing buildings I've ever seen, just down the street from our hotel, which we finally reached around 1:30 or so. And aside from a rather off-putting drunk quietly haranguing Erin on the sidewalk while the driver and I unloaded the trunk, things picked up from there and continued on rather smoothly.
The hotel is quite posh (I'll have some pictures later; I don't want to rifle through all of our luggage to find the cord I need to transfer pictures from the camera to the computer) and they've arranged special meals for the lot of us and a sight-seeing tour for tomorrow (Saturday). We found out this afternoon that we'll be trying again tomorrow night for Bishkek, though the British Airways woman who gave us this news wasn't too confident with our being able to get in then, either, as November is apparently a rather touchy time weather-wise in the valley where the airport is outside of Bishkek. But, we'll try.
It is currently 5:30 locally and I've just woken up from a twelve hour post-lunch, post-sightseeing nap. Soon, breakfast. Then another day in Yerevan, Armenia. Which today, I think, means a guided tour of some 1st century temples.
What followed was an oddly hectic middle of the night run through Armenian customs (3-day visa paid for by British Airways, thank you very much!). First one line for a speed visa, then another for customs, then we were marched to another spot to retrieve our checked luggage. Finally, we were brought outside and told the bus would be arriving shortly to take us to the hotel, but in the meantime we could (and should) take a taxi. Our luggage was loaded into a taxi without much say on our part and we were repeatedly told to "sit down. Hotel next. Sit down." So we sat.
We very shortly after left (we being just me and my wife, Erin), me up front with the taxi driver, her in back with the luggage that didn't fit in the trunk. On the way out of the airport we passed a caravan of other taxis with other passengers from our flight apparently waiting to all go together with the bus which had just then arrived and been taken over more or less completely by a band that was on our flight and their sizable amount of equipment. We slowed down beside the parked taxis, the window beside me was rolled down, words were shouted between the driver of our taxi and another taxi driver in what I think was Russian. Our driver made some annoyed gesture at the other driver as a way of signaling the end of the exchange and we sped off, leaving the rest of the taxis sitting there by the side of the road. We knew only the name of the hotel we were to stay in and pretty much nothing else.
Armenia, like most of the former Soviet countries without massive oil or gold reserves, has only recently crawled out from under the yoke of horrific economic problems. And it shows. The landscape surrounding the airport, as a result, didn't help soothe us any, as it looks something like a BBC News story involving the words "war" and "torn" and possibly "Hurricane Katrina." That is to say, the area directly adjacent the airport looked as though it has been recently bombed, though it hasn't. Lots of concrete in various states of disarray, small stalls selling fruit (it was after midnight - who is buying fruit on an otherwise deserted road after midnight?), and little by way of road signs, traffic lights, etc. This improved as we got closer to the city and into downtown, but we weren't there yet.
We drove in silence. And we drove fast. For a while, anyway. After about ten minutes or so of break-neck speeds, the driver dropped down to about 35-40 km/h, which is slow enough to perk up both my ears and the hair on the back of my neck. About thirty seconds after the speed drop off, the driver began pounding on the dashboard then furiously pressing some buttons beside the radio. Then he picked up the microphone for the CB radio and mumbled something into it (he really did mumble; I was sitting maybe eight inches from him and had trouble hearing anything he said). A few minutes later, still traveling at a disturbingly slow pace, the caravan of our former flight-mates flies by on our left. Our driver ignores them. When the last of the taillights from the bus pulling up the rear of the caravan are no longer visible and we'd still not increased our speed any, the muscles in my legs tense to the point of straining. The taxi kept up its turtle pace for another five minutes or so.
We passed a number of Petrol stations during that time, so my initial thoughts that perhaps we were running out of gas vanished and I was left only with hamstring massages to console myself. That is, until we pulled off the road into what looked like an American self-service car wash, the sort with long standing rows of open-ended cinder block garages equipped with a brush, sprayer, change machine, et cetera. Only there was no brush, no sprayer. Only a long metal pole and the row of garages.
When we'd stopped inside one of the stalls, the driver popped out of the car almost immediately, closing the door behind. Then he opened the door again and spoke to me in any of the three languages he speaks that I don't understand (thank you, American pompousness!) and again shut the door. A few seconds passed then Erin said, "Uhmm, sketchy?" I answered only with a noise part laugh, part agreement. The driver by then was under the hood of the car, attaching the long metal pole to something I couldn't see in the engine. Then he came around to my door and opened it, motioning for me to get out and talking loudly at me. I eventually got out and he said a few more things and pointed back inside the car, then at me, then back inside the car. I went to sit back down and he said "No" in Russian, the first word I understood of the trip, and waved his hand in the same annoyed way that had ended the conversation with the other driver at the airport. He then opened Erin's door and went through the same series of gestures, leaving all three of us very confused. Finally Erin said the name of our hotel a few times and he nodded his head yes and then did the hand wave thing again. He walked out about twenty or thirty feet in front of the car, turned to face us, and made motions for us to join him there. We did, with Erin holding onto my arm tightly while I nattered on about the rest of the world hating monolingual Americans for precisely this reason.
Once in front of the taxi and turned back around to look at it, we saw that this was a taxi hangout of sorts. There was a small army of Armenian men all wearing Addidas sweat suits and black cowboy boots, throwing monkey wrenches between the stalls. Our driver was back under the hood by then, making some adjustments to the engine/long metal pole connection. When he'd finished, another man came over, took some money from our driver, and turned on a rather large electrical box mounted at the front of the stall. So, we were refueling after all, only with electricity. We both relaxed a bit at that point, laughed at ourselves and our apprehensions, and made some apologizing and ha ha-type gestures to the driver. It was still a bit unnerving though that the remainder of the twenty or so others from our flight were nowhere to be seen and very likely already safely at the hotel while we were standing in the middle of a huge parking lot at 1:00 in the morning waiting for our taxi to recharge. But we weren't going to be killed or robbed or made to play soccer or anything right then, so that was a comfort, at least.
Refueled and back on the road, we made up for lost time, taking corners at 130 km/h and turning what seemed like a mini Armenian Vegas into a blur of streaking neon Casino signs. Yerevan showed itself to us first in row houses and small markets, then in monuments and tree-lined streets, and finally in a giant, breathtaking open square (a gift from the Soviets, so to speak) lined with four of the most imposing buildings I've ever seen, just down the street from our hotel, which we finally reached around 1:30 or so. And aside from a rather off-putting drunk quietly haranguing Erin on the sidewalk while the driver and I unloaded the trunk, things picked up from there and continued on rather smoothly.
The hotel is quite posh (I'll have some pictures later; I don't want to rifle through all of our luggage to find the cord I need to transfer pictures from the camera to the computer) and they've arranged special meals for the lot of us and a sight-seeing tour for tomorrow (Saturday). We found out this afternoon that we'll be trying again tomorrow night for Bishkek, though the British Airways woman who gave us this news wasn't too confident with our being able to get in then, either, as November is apparently a rather touchy time weather-wise in the valley where the airport is outside of Bishkek. But, we'll try.
It is currently 5:30 locally and I've just woken up from a twelve hour post-lunch, post-sightseeing nap. Soon, breakfast. Then another day in Yerevan, Armenia. Which today, I think, means a guided tour of some 1st century temples.
