Looking Back A Bit

The pictures attached aren't allowing me to move them, so please read and then try and connect what is written to what is pictured. Thanks.




This is like attempting to stuff a shark into a fish barrel. There is just too much thrash to get it all in.

This past week, I returned to my office in Pavlodar and made a comment about the fact that, for an anti-drug and addiction organization, we sure have a lot of drunks sitting behind our window, trading shot glasses back and forth before noon. Plus, it's a wreck back there. With the support of my wonderful colleagues and volunteers, we set forth to clean up our backyard and plant a few flowers and vegetables to try and discourage those folks from sticking around so much. Simple, but it turned out pleasantly.

About three weeks ago, I took advantage of my geographical proximity to some of the world's unthoughtof vacation spots in the Central Asia country of Kyrgyzstan. Ranging from conversations with village corn clerks to metropolitan coffee houses, my trip was well-rounded and energizing.

Here is some of it in photographic beauty.



In one of those expected confusions that come with leaving your own country to try and assist others for seemingly no reason, my corn-holding friend here believed me to be a National Geographic photographer, documenting the great food of Central Asia. I explained to her differently at first, but then realized that it would actually make for a great photogenic moment.

The tubesocked fellow seen here is me, enjoying the 'back seat' all the way down the 'road' while dealing with a pretty tremendous stomach ache. I can't tell you how much torture this photograph conveys...the cause is not certain, but I'm going to point to this
<-----------horse milk (I told her it was too sour). An entry from a trip in Kyrgyzstan, attended by myself and three other fellow Americans.

Day 2: Chopin-Ata, Kyrgyzstan

Following the long beveraged riot and surprising pleasantry of Bishkek, we met up with our travel partners. After a little rest and stifling taxi drivers, we boarded a car driven by Victor, a grasshopper-legged Russian with great service skills. Stopped by a rest stop and talked shop with some corn sellers. The scenery was vastly open, with mountainous bookends and a variety of livestock interrupting the roadways. Again, after a bit of time and a stifling taxi driver (Victor unfortunately), we found our place at "Kamilla's", a place with quaint and brightly painted cottages and a vast rose garden. We hit up an Afghan restaurant--lagman was served--and got drenched and sleepy in an end-all thunderstorm. First one as such in years, to my experience at least. Power out, no football (note: this was written during the Euro Cup 2008 Semi-final. Congratulations, Spain.)

The next day I arise at 8 a.m. with perniciously positive energy. While the others sleep, I make my way to the bazaar, witnessing and observing the fruit stand set-up and breakfast offerings.

An exchange:

Bazaar Woman: "Lagman! Lagman! Lagman!"
Me: "Do you have any food for breakfast?"
BW: "Of course--lagman."

Following that, I made my way to shop for bread. Purchased apricots and cherries along the way instead. Kumis (fermented horse milk) was offered, tried and recklessly purchased (note: I wrote this before receiving the stomach ache of death two days later). It was enjoyed in a slightly masochistic sense. Downed nearly half a liter. After buying some round, sesame covered bread (Lepyoshka), a few of the women around me inquired about my living conditions, where I learned Russian and where I was from. Answers given: a nice cottage down the street, Kazakhstan and with a pointed finger to my over-the-top USA flag in the continental America shirt. After the flattering words ended, the one woman showed me her home as a potential place to stay. It was nice though unfortunately placed in the line of a mud slide.

THE BEACH

A contrast of science fictional proportions--or possibly drug induced--beautifully takes place at the beaches of Lake Issakul. The rippling sheet of the lake spreads out until the horizon and is backdropped with absurd mountains. They stretch beyond eye's view from left to right, peaking well above the cloud coverage. The water is chilled and easily acclimated. Old, rusty paddle boasts meander about, while the elderly, families and naked children sunbathe and swim. Sellers hawk beer, monti, samsa and fish--children sometimes selling the beer. I buy one "Siberian Crown" and enjoy it immensely (50 soma=roughly 25 cents). Swimming is awakening to parts of the body like none other, perhaps reflecting the original translation of Holets: water-loving. It is heavenly and intimidating to float, open your eyes and see endless mountains, blue waters and theatrical clouds above you in any directions. This places deserves a special adjective not yet my, nor anyone else's, vocabulary. Also, the sun burned the spit out of me. Hurts to walk.

Cut to a marsrutka ride (small van) to Karakol (150 soma=75 cents!) for two hours. Arrive in Karakol, a seemingly quiet town not located too close to the lake and just close enough to the mountains. After more taxi stiflage, we ride to a place heavily recommended by Lonely Planet, the best and worst publication to have for travel. It is a home, presented by a polite young man with fairly decent English. We engage in Russian, and he shows me around, and communicates to me that we would be the first Americans of the season for them. We end up not assuming such as honor, as we opt for the backpacker style Yak Tours (450 soma with breakfast). It is wooden, rustic, creative and run by an amazing fellow, Sergei. Sergei looks like he was given the job of watching the red button during the Cold War, and held nightly vodka fests and cigarette pulls to ease the tension and pressure. This man's got some ragged eyes. This covers his extremely pleasant funny personality, and his cadence which has got to be the most relaxed Russian I've heard yet. He might just choose his words with more thought and ease than others, I think.

After checking out his rose garden, three marooned Soviet cars in the backyard and sauna, we agree to stay the night. We give our equipment the night off and head out to a cafe.

During a stop-off at a shop in search for ATM, we meet a few people similar to us--foreigners. They're Swiss (three males) and one unfortunate American woman.

[Jann-a bespectacled straight talker. Sebastian-a bohemian, inquisitive and pony-tailed fellow. Nick-a quiet photographer type. Rachel-a plain, awkward, drag of a woman. Point: She showed us digital pictures of her cat while Sebastian showed us pictures of demonstrations in Tehran.]

After general introductions, we head to an indoor cafe. Order a "Tender Salad" and shashleek. Shash was the smallest ever eaten; not the worst but comparable. Shared stories and opinions of different countries--Iran mostly--and learned about the various langauges and dialects found in Switzerland. Rachel added nothing, even during her attempt at a toast. It was so bumbling that straight-talking Jann had enough and shot his vodka before the end of her spiel, if there ever was one. Nicholas (ours) suggested a friendship vodka. I chose to purchase a bottle of "Хлебная Водка" (Bread vodka), only because it compounds the two most treasured products of Russian culture. Made our way back to Sergei's Yak Tours under an empty night sky. Then, without fail, came the sauna's intrigue. Built for three people, we managed eight inside this steamy sweat box. Beer and wine consumed, and humorous exclamations of German origin were shouted with each refreshing splash of cold water. My body was that of a lobster at this point due to the lake sun.

Take a bench sit and a cigarette, some passed around bottles of wine and oddly intriguing travel videos of cows in before unseen positions played to techno music (The Swiss), and it was a splendid evening.

Then, the sky opened up, showing its great design, and a shooting star surprised me, as they tend to do.