A look at Osh

       Osh, so the story goes, derives its name from the world's first man. Adam, on orders from God, was to take two oxen and a plow in order to outline the fields for future plowing. He started in Mekka and spent days, months, and years plowing, driving these oxen, and one day spotted mountains rising up in the distance. Deciding that he had come far enough, he repeatedly called "ush", his customary way of turning the oxen. At this place, where the furrow turned, the city of Ush, later Osh, came into being. It was very fertile, and its borders expanded from year to year.

The Soviet fondness for huge fountains
manifests itself in Osh, in front of Peking
shopping centre and two blocks from
 the Central Market.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

       And Osh, indeed, is very fertile. The ground is lush with all sorts of fruits and vegetables, and grain, too, grows in abundance. You can buy the freshest fruit for very little money at the bazar: there are buckets of strawberries and raspberries, pallets of plums and peaches and abricots, and truckloads of watermelons. And trunkfuls, too: a farmer had driven up in his well-kept Lada of Soviet vintage, the trunk overflowing with watermelons, and simply parked the car road-side, popped the trunk and was having a smoke while watching his children play on the sidewalk. A comfortably-spent (and hopefully worthwhile) Sunday.
       I first decided to go to Osh upon hearing that its culture is such a different one from Bishkek's, and this really held true. The first and foremost reason lies in the make-up of its population. Depending on which poll you read (and perhaps whether it was taken before or after the 2010 riots) the population of Osh is about half and half ethnic Kyrgyz and ethnic Uzbek, with a slightly larger proportion of Kyrgyz (although I've seen numbers to the contrary). The other 5 or so percent is comprised of Russians, Tajik, and Turks. Adding to these factors the city's distance from the capital and drastic difference in size (it is between 2 and 3 times smaller than Bishkek), a quite different dynamic develops.
       Since I was only in Osh for two days, it would be very hard for me to form an accurate assessment of the city. But first impressions, being just that, are easier to come by, and I must say that my first impressions of Osh were very favourable. For one, everyone was slightly friendlier than in Bishkek. Now this is not to say that people in Bishkek are unfriendly, but rather that, as in big cities in general, shopkeepers, vendors and other people in service industries are often polite, but only polite, keeping their distance. In Osh, I had quite a different experience. Whether it was that people in Osh tend more towards personal contact and conversation, or that I was the only white person in the bazar (where I spent most of the two days) neither a local nor an expensive-travel-gear-toting tourist, or the fact that I was a German-Canadian speaking Russian and being able to negotiate (a very little) in Kyrgyz, or perhaps a mixture of the above: the vendors and hotel or restaurant managers and staff (and occasionally even the taxi drivers) were friendly and showed a personal interest.

A view of Osh from Suleiman-Too. Osh's holy mounatin.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

       I ended up having to use my limited Kyrgyz quite a lot in Osh, since about half the people I met spoke no Russian. I hadn't really realized it before, but it turns out I could negotiate prices and taxi fares quite effectively in Kyrgyz! Those two days in Osh really did wonders for my Kyrgyz - not that I learned new words or the like, but that much of what I had learned before became more fluent to use. A great advantage of this Kyrgyz haggling was that vendors tended to give me, on average, about twice the discount as when I spoke only Russian; I like discounts, so my Kyrgyz got a bit of a workout.
       The Russian in Osh, quite unlike the Russian in Bishkek, was pretty funny to hear. In Bishkek, everyone I've come into contact with speaks Russian fluently, naturally and correctly. In Osh, none of these are a given. In fact, of the three fluent Russian speakers I had conversations with in Osh, two had really strange ways of pronouncing things: for example, one kept saying язык (iazyk), with the pronunciation on the first syllable rather than, as it should be, on the second, and another repeatedly pronounced сегодня (segodnia) the way it is written, and not properly as sevodnia.
       Another somewhat surprising things is that night time in Osh is quite dark. I had slept much of the afternoon due to extreme heat and some humidity (42º high), and wanted to have some supper at around 9:30. The only lighting was from lit windows; street lights weren't in evidence (in contrast to Bishkek, where they are in evidence but often consider the actual shining of light superfluous) and I had to call on my months of experience wandering Bishkek's sidewalks to keep from tripping. Earlier in the day I had seen a Chinese place down an alley called Шанхай Кафе (Shanghai Café), and so, in the mood for Chinese (which was fortunate, since there wasn't much else open) I headed there. I was the only guest in the café proper, although a private dining room in the back was occupied, but 4 or 5 of the staff (and/or family) were sitting around a table in the centre of the café eating from about 12 half-empty meat and vegetable dishes and a vat of soup; either they had been eating for some time or these were the day's left-overs. In any case, I got a fresh meal, beef with green peppers, rice and tea, and enjoyed it as a Chinese news channel played on TV in the background. When the time flashed on the screen, I was quite surprised to see it was only two hours off the local time. Although I had previously been within 40 km of the Chinese border, the proximity to China hadn't completely dawned on me before.
       Osh, then, in conclusion, is a pretty great place to spend a day or two, or perhaps to live in a while, if you're not intending to study Russian. It was a great place to unwind and recharge; I'd definitely go back.

A look at the city's bazar.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

The Osh Philharmonic, intended to be the city's cultural
centre. Flowers in Osh were beautiful and bountiful.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

A long-abandoned building across the street from the
Philharmonic, signs pointing to the toilets next door.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

  

Cómo conseguí mantequilla de maní en Kirguizistán

       Antes de salir de Canadá estaba un poco preocupado, ya que no sabía cómo fuera la vida en Bishkek, pero me gusta vivir aquí. Me siento cómodo y, aunque tenía que acostumbrarme a varios aspectos de la vida en Kirguizistán que son bastante diferentes a la vida en Canadá, se puede encontrar casi toda la comida que tenemos en Canadá; de hecho, tienen aquí algunas cosas que no se encuentra en Canadá, en gran parte importaciones de Turquía y de Rusia. Además, en el supermercado cerca de mi casa aquí, vi barras de chocolate americanas que ni siquiera tenemos en Canadá. Pero no se puede encontrar por nada mantequilla de maní, aunque venden tres tipos de Nutella y varios de mermelada, miel y otros alimentos para untar. Así que decidí preparar mantequilla de maní por mí mismo.

Las herramientas esenciales de un fabricante de mantequilla de maní.
Crédito de la foto: Robert Henschel

       Para empezar, compré algunos maní; ya tenía aceite de oliva, la que es todo que se necesita para preparar mantequilla de maní. Desafortunadamente, no tenía una licuadora. Dando me cuenta de esto, podría haber comprado una licuadora, pero sería haber sido demasiado caro, y sólo compré un mazo en el mercado. Puse los maní en una pequeña bolsa de plástico y, golpeándolos con el mazo, los machuqué. Después, mezclé los maní machucados con aceite de oliva para que la mantequilla de maní fuera suave y puse el producto resultante - la mantequilla de maní - en el refrigerador. Y así fue como conseguí mantequilla de maní en Kirguizistán.

El producto acabado. El color es un poco más oscuro,
porque no quité la cáscara (o la piel) interna. Sabe bien.
Crédito de la foto: Robert Henschel

       Sólo queda una pregunta: ¿cuánto costó esta mantequilla de maní? Pues, tres puñados de maní costaban 51 som, que vale aproximadamente 1 dólar. El mazo me costó 100 som y lo poco del aceite de oliva que usé quizás 10 som. Para un tarro pequeño o mediano, entonces, se paga entre 3 o 4 dólares la primera vez y después, ya teniendo el mazo, sólo 1 o 2 dólares.

The Mountains Up Close: Song-Köl and Tash Rabat

What you may see looking out the car window in Kyrgyzstan.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

       Finding mountains in Kyrgyzstan isn't too hard, seeing as they cover 80 to 90 percent of the country. But seeing them up close can be a little bit more difficult, since, as an infrastructural risk analysis succinctly states, "road communication between the north and south of Kyrgyzstan is unreliable"; that means the "highway" is a pothole-ridden gravel road, the likes of which would barely be tolerated in Canada in any context at all. But the scenery was beautiful, although that adjective might not be quite adequate; Kyrgyzstan has everything from green fields to lush hills to red mountains and green mountains and grey mountains to tan ones to snowy peaks. There are big blue lakes or deep green ones; wide rivers, small fast ones; thick forests, sparse ones... Central Kyrgyzstan is breathtakingly beautiful. But when a friend of mine mentioned going back to Naryn (in southern/central Kyrgyzstan) I automatically shifted in my seat; the road, or rather its bumps, twists, and turns are still too firmly ingrained in my muscles.

A vista of Song-Köl lake, as seen from our yurt.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

       The first night of the trip we stayed in a yurt next to Song-Köl, one of Kyrgyzstan's larger mountain lakes. The food was amazing: for supper we had baked trout, a local specialty, with potatoes and the tomato-and-cucumber salad mentioned in previous posts, served along with, as all meals are, bread. Somewhat unusual, however, was the excellent sour-cherry, black currant or apricot jam served alongside; that seems to be more common in southern Kyrgyzstan than in the north. The yurt was equipped with a ton of very thick blankets, necessary since it gets to be quite chilly at night (at an altitude of more than 3000m). We rented a horse for an hour, but it was small, old and seemed to be on the edge of death; it wouldn't move unless you hit it with a stick, and we really didn't want to do that too much. We also took a two-hour hike up into the mountains; the air was clear and fresh, but quite thin: a relatively short walk through hilly country winded us.

Mountains in four colours: grey, green, red, tan.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

       The second day, we drove further south, towards Naryn. The roads didn't improve, but the scenery, if possible, did. Approaching Naryn, you could see mountains of 4 different colours, all standing together! Grey, green, red, and tan. The city itself felt very rural: dusty one-storey houses and small shacks selling a virtually identical mix of drinks, candy bars, and baked goods. Also, in stark contrast to Kyrgyzstan's north, the only people not ethnically Kyrgyz that I recall seeing were two obviously foreign cyclists. These cyclists are a fairly common sight, pedalling up steep mountains or avoiding children and dogs on the village roads. And cows. Everyone avoids cows, because they simply don't care what you do. Sure, they'll show an intense yet detached curiosity and, one assumes, amusement, especially coming across some tourist brushing his teeth by the lake in the morning, but they won't move for a car on the highway. Horses and sheep and goats and bicyclists will move if you honk, and dogs and pedestrians without being told, but cows will just peer at you with an idle sort of curiosity. While you're bearing down on them at 140 km/h. ("What, you expect me to moove?"...) I've developed quite an admiration for cows - in Russian, корова (karova), in Kyrgyz, уй (uy - think of what your German grandma might exclaim upon tripping over a rock or, should she happen to live in Edmonton, upon slipping on the ice in March). Kuh in German, for anyone interested, and vaca in Spanish. In (Russian-language) conversation class one day we had to discuss our favourite animals. The instructor was quite dumbfounded to have someone bring cows into the discussion, but after a number of my semi-intelligible explanations she had to agree that cows are pretty cool.

This road had 35 switchbacks!
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

       The second night's camp was also in yurts, but this time next to Tash-Rabat, the historically fascinating Caravanserai. As with all things long-ago, no-one quite agrees on its origins, but consensus seems to be that it was constructed sometime in the 8th to 10th centuries, originally as a monastery, perhaps Buddhist. Everyone agrees, however, that in the 15th century it became a caravanserai, an important link along the silk road due to the offered shelter from mountain storms and, in addition, most likely playing a significant role in the smuggling trade to China. A local guide claimed that the underground passageways leading out from the Caravanserai had not been explored, since neither flame nor flashlight will stay lit once underground; he speculated that they lead all the way (40+ kilometres) to China. On the other hand, he firmly believed that there were 500km of deserted land in central Kyrgyzstan due to yeti; I heard estimates of 800m to 3km for the Caravanserai's tunnels elsewhere. Perhaps the monks did use the 700 years they had before Islam took over to dig the 40km to China.
       In any case, the drive was beautiful, and the experience worth it. If there weren't so many other interesting places to go to, I wouldn't hesitate to make this trip again.
 

Tash-Rabat, the monastery/caravanserai/smugglers' haven.
Also rumoured to house ghosts.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

A lush green field and a fast mountain
creek next to Tash-Rabat. And a cow.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

Issyk-Kul

       Issyk-Kul or Ysyk-Köl (Russian: Иссык-Куль, Kyrgyz: Ысык-Көл) is the world's second-largest alpine lake, and an amazingly biodiverse area. What makes it additionally special is that, despite its high altitude, it never freezes over. The past week, I was there for about a day and a half, which is all I could spare from my lessons. The drive there was an experience in itself, and the landscape all along beautiful in a variety of different ways.

A giant flag of Kyrgyzstan on the
hillside, visible from far away.
Photo credit: Bente Lea Omdal

       Kyrgyzstan looks on the map to be comprised almost entirely of mountains, but population-wise most of the country lives in the two valleys: Chuy Valley, where Bishkek is located, and Osh in the Fergana Valley. The drive from Manas Airport to Bishkek, entirely within the Chuy Valley, actually reminded me of a slightly greener Barrhead-Edmonton drive, but as soon as you enter the mountains, the scenery changes dramatically. The mountains to the east of Bishkek, in the direction of Issyk-Kyl, are mostly craggy and largely arid, but every so often, in the vicinity of a mountain stream, the mountains become lush and green. Against the backdrop of the big, snow-covered Tian-Shan mountains in the distance, it makes a spectacular sight.

       An interesting custom that has developed is to write things out on the mountain-side with big white rocks, so that the message is visible from far away, particularly the highways. A variation on that was an absolutely huge rendition of the Kyrgyz flag, so big as to be recognizable almost from the horizon. Some enterprising businessmen had elsewhere written out their website or brand name as advertisements in this way; it seemed like a bit of a shame.

Sunset over Issyk-Kul.
Photo credit: Bente Lea Omdal

Looking inland from the lake.
Photo credit: Bente Lea Omdal

       The lake itself was, as far as lakes and sunsets go, breathtaking. What appealed to me far more, for whatever reason, was the craggy, desert-like landscape between the blue of the lake and green and grey mountains further south, towards central Kyrgyzstan. I could cheerfully have spent all day out there, and in fact more or less did. I ended up getting quite a sunburn, but learned a number of new Russian words associated with sunburn and lotion and healing and pain. All in all then, quite a successful trip.

       Our sleeping quarters were sparse, in a dusty, ugly, building with crookedly-run brick walls. The rooms were sparse and each contained exactly one bed and a hatstand or coat rack. The kitchenette was crowded with a fridge, cupboards, a sink, and a table; the bathroom was maybe five feet by seven, the shower not separated from the toilet at all, so you had to be really careful not to soak anything but yourself - we felt like we were in a palace! It's incredible how adjustable concepts like comfort, luxury, and the normal are: clean and cool rooms, hot water, a thick, colourful, possibly Turkish carpet in front of the second story floor-to-ceiling windows... we were pretty excited. We spent the evening sitting on this carpet, talking and snacking; it was nice, but it must get boring to do so night after night. No wonder alcoholism is such a problem in rural areas across Eastern Europe, Russia and Central Asia. 

The house from a distance.
It didn't look quite this good in real life.
Photo credit: Bente Lea Omdal

       For lunch one day the cook living next door, a most likely very nice lady whom we couldn't get to know since she spoke no Russian at all (and my Kyrgyz amounted to all of counting from 1 to 10), made us an enormous pot of plov, a rice-based dish with meat, some vegetables, salt, cumin, and the requisite animal fat and olive oil. The serving bowl must have had a diameter of a foot and a half, and was almost overflowing on the sides. Between the three of us, eating this for lunch and supper, we must not have finished even half, but it was delicious, and she served it with the customary cucumber and tomato salad with vinegar dressing. Plov, by the way, is fiercely claimed by the Uzbek as their invention, while the Kyrgyz viewpoint will generally range from agreement to  "sure it's Uzbek, but theirs tastes weird" to "what Uzbek?" (the Uzbek have few friends in the region). Outside of the Central Asian countries in question, however, plov is generally considered to have Persian origins. 

      Although there wasn't much to do at Issyk-Kul yet, summer and therefore activities apparently beginning in July (although it was 42 degrees out today), we all in all had a great time just relaxing and taking in the nature. Issyk-Kul is definitely worth the visit.  

Kyrgyzstan through the State Historical Museum

The State Historical Museum as seen from the front. Its
Soviet roots as the Lenin Museum are quite obvious.
Photo credit: Bente Lea Omdal

       This museum in many ways exemplifies the whole of Kyrgyzstan. The first floor consists primarily of souvenir shops, an emphatic nod to Kyrgyzstan's burgeoning capitalism. There is actually a lot of foreign investment in Kyrgyzstan and, at least for small businesses, Kyrgyzstan has one of the world's more favourable climates for starting a business. There are scores of Turkish chains and especially shopping centres funded by Turkish businessmen, for example the VEFA mall mentioned in previous posts. I got a haircut in the VEFA Centre´s Istanbul Salon; the hairdresser spoke Russian with me but Turkish with his wife, who worked at the reception. The whole procedure was somewhat different as well: rather than letting you lean back to wash your hair, you bend over forwards over the sink as they vigorously scrub your head. Nothing by way of a relaxing scalp massage here. At the end of the haircut, I was a little bit surprised as the lighter came out; I hadn't thought they would be allowed to smoke while on the job. As it turns out, he wasn't going to smoke: rather, he used the lighter to burn off the little hairs around and on the ears, the back of the neck, and around a little bit to the front. It was a very interesting experience, and not necessarily in a bad way; just different. Back to the souvenir shops themselves, they aren't really much different from souvenir shops anywhere else: they sell the same sort of souvenirs (hats, slippers, carpets, little wooden figures) you might get at the market, only that they are half or a third of the price at the market. This floor is also supposed to display state gifts of some sort, but that area was cordoned off and no-one really seemed to know what was going on; also typical of Kyrgyzstan and Central Asia in general.

A tribute to the almighty name of Lenin.
Photo credit: Bente Lea Omdal

       The second floor is a reminder of the country's Soviet history, commemorating various "great" and "democratic socialist" wars; it is also a shrine of sorts to Lenin, seeing as the museum used to be, in Socialist times, named the Lenin Museum. The first glimpse of this floor is of a number ceiling tiles, writing out Lenin´s name in perhaps 20 different alphabets. Did they really expect a Thai to come and read Lenin's name written out in Thai? Even for Soviet standards, that seems a little bit over the top. There are also a number of statues depicting actions of Communist heroes, scenes from revolutions and wars, and simply ideal citizens, like a tableau of shapely, short-haired women in work dress carrying the harvest in. Apart from these very Russian-centric remainders of the Soviet era, the exhibits are much more Kyrgyz-oriented, although the requisite pages from Lenin's journal or some such thing are still present. Everything is described in Kyrgyz, and most things in Russian, but many displays need no explanation: guns and swords, coats and hats, baby clothes and instruments, and many photographs, documents, and newspaper articles commemorating the Soviet era. One of the most interesting things to me was the list of all 73 Kyrgyz Soviet War Heroes. Most had Russian names and surnames, but the patronymics, derived from the father's name, were often obviously Kyrgyz. I wonder how many of these heroes believed in what they were dying for, and what the grandparents felt when the invaders, their oppressors, hailed their fallen grandchildren as heroes for the cause forced upon them.

One of the museum's most gripping murals.
Photo credit: Bente Lea Omdal

     
       The third floor is an exhibit of Kyrgyz history from prehistoric times to the modern era. The first thing to be seen on this floor is a life-size yurt flanked by traditionally-outfitted horses and riders. Then the exhibits start, ranging from prehistory to the twentieth century. The exhibits on this floor include artefacts of various sorts, most notably traditional carpets and clothing, the designs of which closely resemble something you might find in a museum of Native American history, but the extensive Soviet-era ceiling murals, both on this and the previous floor, really steal the show. One of the most impressive features a number of presumably American men in long robes and skull masks carrying an upside-down Pershing missile as crowds of solemn citizens and protesters look on, some with English-language, some with Russian signs. Another mural seems to depict Manas, Kyrgyzstan's legendary hero, riding to save the day to the backdrop of a crumbling mosque; this painting has a strangely surreal effect, probably due to various things being a little off: a musician, squatting on the ground, seems to float several inches above it; a pillar of the arch mimics the Möbius strip effect; the hero's horse has a pinkish tint; some characters' feet seem impossibly tangled. Equally interesting, but far more mysterious, is a mural of a huge wedding feast. Surrounding the bride and groom in traditional Kyrgyz wedding dress, all sorts of people can be seen sitting together eating: a young, possibly Kyrgyz, couple cozied up; beside them, a sharply-dressed man clasping an Osama-Bin-Laden-lookalike's hand; at the centre some more traditional Kyrgyz people; on the far right sits someone with mid-back-length dreadlocks; front and centre, musicians playing traditional Kyrgyz instruments entertain the guests. The table is set exclusively with fruit and bread, but in the corner a basket of chicken seems to be on its way. Exactly what this mural is supposed to mean isn't quite clear, but perhaps it's simply there to be enjoyed. And enjoyed it was; the State Museum is definitely worth a visit.

The wonderfully strange wedding. The dreadlocked man is unfortunately
just outside the camera view.
Photo credit: Bente Lea Omdal

Manas entering triumphantly on his pink horse.
Photo credit: Bente Lea Omdal

Protesters demanding peace as
 the eerie procession passes by.
Photo credit: Bente Lea Omdal

Das Süße am Leben

       Wenn man es sich vornehmen würde, mal rein hypothetisch gesehen, verschiedene Kulturen durch ihre Süßigkeiten zu analysieren, könnte man schon zu einigen interessanten Ergebnissen kommen. Amerikanische Chocolate Bars, sind, zum Beispiel, oft übertrieben süß und zuckerig. Deutsche Schokolade ist fein und schmackhaft, die Torten fest und füllend. Französisches Gebäck, dagegen, ist sehr leicht und oft inhaltsarm, der Eleganz nachstrebend; griechische Baklava ist außerordentlich kompliziert und trieft von Honig; unserer kanadische Ahornsirup wurde von den Indianern übernommen und hat sich seither als äußerst nützliches Mittel eingebürgert, Touristen in Souvenirladen das Geld aus der Tasche zu ziehen. Was es hier in Kirgisien an Süßigkeiten zu kaufen gibt, heute mal auf vorverpackte Schokoladen und Riegel begrenzt, sagt bestimmt auch etwas aus, aber die Psychoanalyse überlasse ich gerne anderen. Was mich wirklich interessiert ist die Schokolade selbst, und davon gibt es hier mehr als genug.

Das Alpen Gold. Vielleicht nicht ganz
echte schweitzrische Schokolade, aber
ganz annehmbar.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

       Eine Marke die man hier überall sieht ist Alpen Gold, eine deutsche Schokolade die allerdings Kraft Foods gehört. In Geschmack und Qualität ist diese Schokolade durchaus der gewohnten deutschen Schokolade zu vergleichen, obwohl sie manchmal meinem Geschmack nach etwas zu süßlich wirkt. Übertriebene Süßlichkeit kann man auch den zahlreichen amerikanischen Schokoladen vorwerfen, die es hier haufenweise (und zu ganz günstigen Preisen) gibt. Es finden sich hier manche amerikanische Marken, die ich in Kanada noch nie gesehen habe!                                          

Победа вкуса. Eine der weitaus besseren
der hier erhältlichen Schokoladen.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

     
       Die russischen Schokoladen, hingegen, kann man des ausschweifenden Gebrauches von Zucker nicht anklagen. Eine russische Schokolade, Marke Россия (Rossia), mit nur 52% Kakaoinhalt, war so bitter, dass sie beinahe ungenießbar war. Diese Enttäuschung wurde aber durch eine andere russische Marke, Победа вкуса (Pobeda Vkusa), ausgeglichen. Sie stellt eine dunkle Schokolade mit 72% Kakaoinhalt her an der wirklich nichts auszusetzen ist. Und, wie gesagt, billig: eine Tafel 30 bis 40 som, oder um die 70 kanadische Zent.
       Eines der weitaus besten Funde im Bereich Süßigkeiten ist Той Талкан (Toi Talkan). Diese Riegel sind gesund, sehr billig (17 som, ungefähr $0.36), und schmecken ausgezeichnet. Talkan bezieht sich im Kirgisischen auf Mehl, welches, der Tradition entsprechend, aus Weizen, Gerste oder Mais gemahlen wird. Sonstige Zutaten sind nur Honig, Erdnüsse und etwas Sirup. Wenn ich nach Hause komme, nehme ich ganz bestimmt hiervon was mit.

Zwei der vier Sorten Той Талкан, oder
Toi Talkan. Eine wunderbare Einrichtung.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

       Letztlich noch eine Art Schokoriegel, diese aus Russland: Гематоген (Hematogen). Diese Riegel, entweder schokoladenüberzogen mit Kokos, Nüssen oder Apfelsinenextrakt, oder ohne Schokolade mit Honig versüßt, bestehen eigentlich hauptsächlich aus verarbeitetem Kuhblut. Diese Schokoladen sollen alles mögliche können, hauptsächlich indem sie dem Körper Eisen und Vitamine A zuführt. Zuviel davon will man vielleicht nicht essen, aber es schmeckt ganz gut und ist im Preis mit dem Toi Talkan zu vergleichen, da beide Produkte hiesig sind: Hematogen aus Russland, Toi Talkan hier aus Kirgisien.
       Andere Sorten Süßigkeiten, besonders Gebäck (hiesiges, russisches, türkisches) gibt es hier in rauhen Mengen; das wird bestimmt noch ein Artikel. Natürlich sieht man sich genötigt, auch noch für den Artikel viel  zu recherchieren...

Getting Around in the City

       Last week's topic was walking in the city, and for the first few days, that was enough. In a city of 900,000, however, walking won't take you too far. To really get around within Bishkek, there are four options: an own car, bus, taxi, or marshrutka. As I have neither means nor need for a car, the first option is out. Buses seem to be unreliable, and run only certain routes; for the large part, then, also out. Taxis are plentiful but expensive, ranging from 100 som (for a few block's trip) to 300 som (to drive across the city). Although that only comes to 2 - 6 CAD, 300 som will buy you supper for a week if you're not too picky, so it's still quite pricey, especially when compared to the final option: marshrutki. 

A marshrutka driving along Sovietskaya. Anyone
wishing to get on needs only to hold out their arm.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

       The term маршрутка (English: marshrutka; German: Marschrutka) comes from the German word Marschroute (lit. "marching route"), which can translate simply to "route" or, in military terms, "line of approach" (dict.leo.org). Name aside, no one marches. In fact, it's actually quite comfortable: a modified minivan with a dozen or so plushy, high-backed seats. The roof is high enough for passengers up to 6' to travel comfortably standing up, and, as you often do end up standing, that's important. The question of why anyone would be willing to lurch across the city in stop-and-go traffic while standing up is simply answered: money. The fare is virtually unbeatable: for a fixed rate of 10 som (or, between 9 pm and midnight, 12 som) you can get from one end of the city to the other in about 30 minutes. That's 20 cents a ride! By comparison, a cross-city tour in a taxi will cost 30 times that, at 300 som ($6) and take maybe 5 minutes less. The routes the marshrutki take are indicated by signs in the window, listing landmarks the marshrutka will pass by. I, for example, live near the Vefa Centre, a mall on the intersection of Soviestkaya and Gorki. As a result, when I'm trying to get home, I stand along the roadside and wait for a marshrutka with the letters ВЕФА (VEFA) in the window to pass by. As it pulls alongside, I hold out my arm to indicate that I would like to get on, do so when it stops and, if I have the money ready, drop it in the driver's hand on my way in. If not, I sit down (or, if the seats are all full, stand as far back as possible), count out my fare and pass it to the driver by way of the people standing or sitting in front of me. If there is any change to be given, the same people will take it from the driver to pass back to me. When I want to get off, I make my way to the door and, as soon as the marshrutka stops (e.g. at a red light), I jump out and make my way to the sidewalk. As marshrutki tend to drive on the far right of the road anyways, passengers can be picked up and dropped off at almost any point along the route. This gives marshrutki a huge advantage over buses, since they are bound only to route, and not to specific stops.

A close-up of this particular marshrutka's
route. The first stop, ВЕФА (VEFA), is mine.
Photo credit: Robert Henschel

       I deliberately stated that the marshrutki drive on the right of the road (rather than in the right lane) as lanes simply do not exist here. On larger roads, there might be a line dividing opposing traffic, but even that is not a given. Here, there is a road that is, say, 50' wide, and you can drive wherever you want along these 50' as long as there isn't a car (driving or parked) in the way. Practically speaking, this means that what would be a four land road, 2 lanes in each direction, in Canada, will usually be just that here as well. But if someone stops along the side somewhere, whether it's a taxi or marshrutka or someone dropping Grandma off at the market, traffic will shift to get around these obstacles, often at full speed and with only inches to spare, and that four-lane road will briefly become a five-lane one. Twenty feet down the road, a bystander would again only see four lanes. Alternatively, if there is not much opposing traffic, you might, on the same four-lane road, see cars heading in one direction three abreast, trying to pass the slowpoke, while what there is of traffic heading the other direction makes do with the space of only one lane for a bit. What the laws regarding road-space actually are I don't know, but the principle behind the local driving habits is this: the road is there, and if there's no one else currently occupying a given space on it, I might as well be using it.

       One point I already touched on last week concerns marshrutki etiquette. It's also the reason I usually end up standing, in spite of all those nice, comfortably-padded seats: the (extremely strict) seating hierarchy. First come pregnant women and the elderly, then mothers with young children. As soon as they open the door, the front seats are cleared for them, and that in a completely matter-of-fact way. The unemotional, impersonal detachment of normal interpersonal relations remains, no particular eye contact is made. You simply get up and stand, and that's it. Next come the middle-aged. The women are guaranteed a seat (unless, I suppose, the local seniors home, should one exist, were to make an outing) and the men will usually get one, depending on how many younger people there are. Next in rank are young women, whose rank seems to occupy a fuzzy area between that of middle-aged men and young ones. For example, I've seen young women give up their seat to middle-aged men, but never the other way around. On the other hand, young men seem to give up their seats to young ladies and middle-aged men around 80 percent of the time, but no one ever gives up his or her seat to a young man. So I often end up standing. It's a good forearm and shoulder workout.

       While I don't mind standing in and of itself, it makes it impossible to look out the window, and so, especially if you're not familiar with the route, it's easy to miss a stop. I once, as a result of missing stops, ended up in a village (I think it was Novapavlovka) and another time at the Dordoy market, which I hadn't yet gone to since it was too far away. The market was a pleasant surprise, far fewer police than at the Osh market (I´ll cover markets some other time), but the village roads were terrible. If you think that Edmonton's roads are bad, you would have few words to describe these; even weaving around the deepest holes, the van bounced so much that I repeatedly almost bounced out of my seat. They don't believe in gravel roads here; it's either asphalt or dust, and there doesn't seem to be anyone in charge of maintaining the dirt roads. And if no one is specifically put in charge, it won´t happen. But again, that's a topic for itself. That said, the paved roads here are generally in better condition than Edmonton's, but certain side roads have holes 6 or 7 inches deep. Sure, we claim we've got those in Edmonton too, but these holes cover the entire width of the road. So there. 

Walking in the City

       Bishkek, the capital of the Kyrgyz Republic, is located far in the north of Kyrgyzstan, near the border with Kazakhstan. Covering 170 square kilometres  it has a total population of around 875.000, and houses both national and regional governments. It is also home to a number of educational institutions, primarily universities and private language schools (concentrating on English, Russian, and Kyrgyz); I am studying Russian at The London School in Bishkek for four months. 
       In the week that I've been here now, I have walked a lot and discovered that in many ways, Bishkek is not so different from any other large city. There are stores and shopping centres and houses and apartment buildings. There are cars and buses and taxis on the road, and cars parked along the roadside. There are plenty of pedestrians, some in a rush, others out for a stroll, and yet others just passing the time with their friends. However, there certainly are differences between Edmonton and Bishkek.

Photo credit: Robert Henschel

Common sight: sidewalk along 

Sovietskaya, one of Bishkek's main roads.

       One of the first I noticed, unlikely as it might be, was the sidewalk. Coming from Edmonton and having travelled a bit in Europe, I know that the sidewalk can sometimes be broken or uneven. If it is broken, and sticks up an inch or two, there is a good chance that someone will spraypaint the edge, or the city will put up a little flag alongside. In Bishkek, anything over a foot gets a little ramp to help carts and the elderly over, and the rest is cemented together as well as possible or simply ignored. The sidewalk's height may vary significantly from house to house, such as in the picture on the right. You need to start watching your feet, or risk falling on your face or twisting your ankle. Or both.
       This mentality of watching your own feet and ignoring problems or anything not directly related to yourself seemingly extends to almost all areas of life. It would be very strange here to start a conversation with a stranger for any reason but to ask them for money. 
       That said, people in general are friendly and helpful. On my first day here, I bought a cell phone, a SIM card, and some time for the same, all without any English. Although my Russian is limited, the shopkeepers were helpful and fairly patient. 
       These two traits, of keeping to oneself while being friendly and helpful might seem paradoxical, but I quickly realized they are not. The rules are just a bit different: you don't smile too much or try to start up a conversation with a stranger, and you certainly do not ask that nice police officer for the time or directions.
       However, there is a deep respect here as well: without fail, someone will immediately offer an older person (or anyone young a woman past 40) their seat on a bus; pedestrian traffic, no matter how much in a hurry, will part for an elderly man or woman (often accompanied and supported by a grandchild); and no one will honk at the grandma slowly crossing the road. Mind you, drivers will swerve around behind her with less than a foot to spare, but that's simply how you drive here, and neither driver nor babushka give it a second thought. In the end, as the Russian expression goes, люди как люди. People are people, wherever you go.