The CIA Files: The Hallucinations Begins

Bishkek was beginning to become like staring into a hungover face. At times the heat of the day made everything blur and unappetizing. However the evening brought respite such as tonight when the wind whirred at us on our walk back, taunting us. I thought "Why did Kewell raise his arm?" - although I still thought Australia played very well for a ten-men team.

See? I found that I'm getting into this routine: Get up, bask in the sunshine, shower and do some washing, laze with a mug of coffee and a muffin, talk at the common area, head out to do some writing and blogging, head over to meet up the rest to watch World Cup, walk home, shower. Tomorrow do it all over again. The only interjecting difference is the occasional "hey, better luck next time" at fellow travellers that got their visa application delayed or rejected. More arrivals from either the West or East / South and more horrendous stories about the 'Stans and border crossing complications. Half times were more music clips consisting of women who danced with the bum-drop, hands under crotch, eye shadows that match the colour of their shoes, big hair, lousy tunes. Jordan @ Katie Price will have a future here. If the made up female singers reflect the reason most women here dress and make up their faces and hair in one typical fashion, then I seriously worry about the content of the clips bearing any sort of resemblance to the inclinations of the viewers. Think dancing poles, forlorn looking strippers, masculine Lady Gaga impersonations. Where are the real male singers? Probably busy oiling up their hair to give the real sea spills a healthy competition. I apologise on the last remark, for the environment I mean...

Maybe I'm just getting tired of waiting and staying at the same place. But in a strange calm way I kind of "expected" things to go this way - not really working out but rolling with the slow turn of the ex-Soviet wheel. I walked about the Freedom Avenue today, seeing a row of table tennis games going on in between youths shoving their tongues down each other throats when they were not either too busy handing out bad high-fives or shoving something edible down themselves, martyrs' boards and the odd statue, beautiful 1950s architecture, the green of spring in this city that perplexed yet captivated. I'm not quite ready to leave yet but already I am itching to head out of Bishkek and move on. Well, at least tonight something out of the ordinary happened. We walked across to the 24-hour kebab joint to get some dinner before heading off to the hostel and standing in front of us was a tall local lad getting a takeaway enough to feed a herd of elephants. While hubby and I busied ourselves gossiping about a Brazilian that doesn't watched football and loved strawberries, plus the odd sigh and comment about the football results from tonight, the elephant feeder turned around and my corner eye could already feel the boring stare of someone who was just incessantly, unabashedly staring. Looking at you with curiosity and indignant faux pas of every civil etiquette. My gut feel told me he was, as with most people who seemed to be interested in us, wondering about where we came from.

With a booming voice, he asked in Eager Ernest's way "Whooze vare youu?" (read: Who are you, as in where did you come from?)

Bewildered Malaysians trying to not burst out laughing: "Malaysia"

Eager Ernest from Bishkek: "Vhere yiz zhat?"

Bewildered Malaysians trying (really hard now) to not burst out laughing: "You know Singapore?"

Eager Ernest from Bishkek: "Naut" (try imagining it being said Bolshevik-style)

Bewildered Malaysian, much calmer now: "Thailand?"

Eager Ernest from Bishkek, holding his plastic bagful of kebab, sweating up (the kebab I mean): "Dah, dah!" i.e. yes, yes!

And for one cherry out of the jar moment, we looked at each other in pure innocence that would have shamed a Bambi. Just when you thought things fluctuated between the hard walls and overtly curious, you get an extremely deep Socratic question in the proportion of self-examination with respect to your purpose and existence on Planet Earth. Vivien Wong, well done. Pat on the back!

The CIA Files: The Waiting Game Begins

I am beginning to enjoy the heat here. It gives a perfect opportunity to indulge in cold showers that have been missing in the picture during our journey throughout China as it was just not that hot enough to render such action. Today was no different. By brunch time we were seeking refuge from a poorly ran (read: rude staff) establishment that served mediocre food at expensive prices. The coveted prize? It was pretty decently air-conditioned. I had a greasy omelette that didn't do the rest of the ham and cheese cousins of its kind around the world justice, but nothing that a cold glass of Coke can't wash down.

At the table we exchanged more stories with other fellow hostel mates and the picture regarding Osh became to come together in proper pieces. An official "rough" estimate had the Southern parts including Osh and Jalal-Abad racking up to a thousand dead and more in injuries. Corners around Bishkek are seeing more cops patrolling around while people in summer dresses and baby carriages, hats and sunnies all walk about buying ice cream and having their photographs taken at Ala-Too Square behind the backdrop of the Kyrgyzstan flag in half mast. A lot of food ration are being put together while the news kept busy broadcasting deliberate effort in squaring down the ethnic tension. Suddenly you really want to kick Stalin in the balls for causing, per any single dictator that ever lived, such division amongst his people that they are still dealing with a dreaded legacy despite the man himself rotting away six feet under.

Our hostel too had been a refuge of sort these past few days. One cyclist who had been coming from Turkey rocked up to Osh just the day before the clash broke out. He was camping on the lawn of the only Uzbek house in an entire village of Kyrgyzs. That night, the house owner came to tell him that if "they come in to shoot, they will kill you too. You have to defend yourself" and gave him a cross-bow looking thing. Man of the house stood facing the front door with his shot gun after the family had moved all the furniture from the porch to form a barrier between the exterior windows and the inside of the house. The women and children hid underneath the cellar at the backyard. Gun shots were heard outside on the village street that night. This was in Jalal-Abad. He left soon after the next day to Bishkek, leaving his bike behind. Upon arriving here for a few days he tried calling the family but got no answer. Our mates here found him all quiet and still quite in a shock. No surprise that he bought a one-way ticket straight back to Istanbul. Our other American mates were in Osh the night the fights broke out and it wasn't pretty. Call me idealistic but I know we have been given the providence of the Big Chief and blessed with a good fate of being adopted by the hands of Mr. Usman but although we saw no bloodshed, we did see the sociological effect of the tension in varying degrees amongst our group of Kyrgyz, Uzbek, Japanese and Malaysia travellers staying over there that few days. I like to say that despite all that, I have witnessed the string is indeed more tightly knitted than ever and the clash was one of the many knots that had to be undone. No matter what happen in the future, I like to believe, and that I will, in the fact that the ties between these people in this region is too strong to be severed by a disputed ex-president, Mafia druglords, goons and the sort.

Anyway, enough about the doom and gloom. Bishkek today ran as any big city would, although it was quite a refreshing experience going mini grocery shopping with hubby for our supplies on the road. Try finding a shampoo written in Russian. Very fun and a good test for "match the box" game. Anyway we went map hunting as well and the biggest shop in the entire city that sold any good maps in English, should you be up to looking for it, would require of you to have a map to find this shop that sells maps. Still with me? It was in the most unimaginable building with a rotting toilet, one man sitting inside keeping alive by staying with the dull rotating fan that hummed out a lonesome lullaby. It's got all of the works. The dull green paint on the wall peeping out of any hole that wasn't covered by the sprawls of maps. He asked in a half-asleep tone "you vant ze political one or ze trrrekking one?" I was in map heaven.

Conversation top content is dominated by visa applications around the 'Stans. The Malaysian passport so far has been pretty lucky comparatively to some Western countries, although we are still subjected to the whims and daily moods of the embassy. Up to a point it was actually recommended to not talk about which port or which alternate route we could take in order to make it to the entry deadline of a transit visa or apply for one without losing your marbles. It was like staring into the mouth of a hungry lion at times - deadlock doom. Otherwise we are thankful that it's World Cup season again. Besides watching football and marvelling at the half-time MTV breaks that resembled closely to badly done B-grade pornographic music clips, the food and drinks in most bars are extremely overpriced. But they were cool enough to have us bring our kebab in, although at times you get a few drunkards that just misbehaved and started shouting at you in slurred Russian. Stay in numbers. It's not only wise but you have smarter fun too. And ignore those idiots. They are after all, drunk and bad smelling rats that just didn't know they're really shaming themselves. Goes to say, idle minds and hands aren't good at all...

Finding wireless connection was another drama and in short, we had located the bogus internet cafe and successfully traced the location of a new target. That would be tomorrow's work. The rest of the day was spent snaking our way at a reptilian pace to the nearest soccer bar. One good thing about this city that I'll say again - It is as crazy as any football nation, hence there is plenty of live telecast that at least delivered the salvation of sanity through swearing at our favourite midfielder and goalie.

Just like old times.

The CIA Files: Bummer Day

Dear journal,

A really shitty day as it's so hot and humid. Funny how I said that with my coming from Malaysia. But I do miss the friendliness and easygoing attitude of the Southeast Asians. You know when you hit a spot on the travel calendar when you know you just want to fret it out? I think today is that chosen hour. The local mosque gave out the azan cry to call for prayers. This was the closest I've come to a real Islamic observance of prayer time since arriving here. Otherwise it felt none the closer to what my mind had perceived from what I watched and read about on what an Islamic city would be. Quietly the muezzin's voice sounded like the exact one that I would hear from our home in Malaysia. I must be missing things I know a bit at this stage.

The owners of this building called a hostel are a couple blessed with two beautiful daughters of Japanese-Kyrgyz lineage. The husband, as with every consistent Japanese behaviour, is polite to a fault. Diligently working off his ass to keep the place as comfortable as an ongoing renovated place could be. The wife was a complete other story. Guilty of generalising, I have to say again, but not before my mind try to search for any sort of explanation such as a ridiculous hypothesis "could city Kyrgyz women be ruder than their non-urban counterpart?", for lacking of a better phrase, I don't know if it's the menopausal I don't know if it's the water they use to wash their hair, I don't know if it's a non-civil marital dispute, I don't know if it's the Russian juxtaposed facade but this particular woman (as opposed to a she-dog, you would forgive me dear journal as I need to let it out somewhere...) was a pain in the ass.

Hmmm... two ass references in one paragraph. This is indeed a shitty day.

The dorms were lovely. We have a pool that looked more like a water torture chamber of Lefortovo except that it's empty. The top of the building made albeit a dusty small ground for me to do some yoga while enjoying looking over Bishkek's skyline. The shop nearby even sell cheese and cucumber. Just the attitude of this woman who presumed way too much for my liking. I may not be the most politically / public relations trained person, I may be too direct for my own good but one thing about me is that I'll give you the benefit of the doubt first and go to length to help you irrespective of how long I've known you. But fluck that up on this one chance, you're stuffed.

And you never, ever, mess with my husband.

When we arrived, someone on the pack left the front door ajar. She presumed (opps no.1) that it's hubby who forgot to close it While interrogating him like a Gulag monster, hubby being the "no problemo" type just didn't want to masala things up especially when we were dying to check in for a cold shower. Her irritating voice can be heard lamenting and directing the Kremlin security standard on closing the front door. Nothing ticked me off faster than anyone accusing my dear hubby for something he didn't do. Even if he did it, it won't kill to explain in a nice firm manner - agree?

Forget about establishing any sort of mentally stimulating conversation or connection. Not even if I noted on her daughters and they were really beautiful girls. Her dead pan face just wanted to register our passport details. Okay, so far so good. Then I asked (by the way, she's currently mopping our dorm's floor with her dirty mop knocking on every backpack that has the misfortune of lying on the floor - yeah woman, take it out on the helpless, lifeless bag, you spineless coward!) if there is a Coke machine around. It's fine to give me a negative response, just don't make a drama out of it. She (oops no.2) went on to complain how we're "asking too much" while I was handing over the payment for our stay. What grass was she on?

Given today was one where we got a bit of headway on the Uzbek's visa application (so lazy the guys here, we've decided to get it done in Almaty) and planned our country side trekking adventures and dreamed about some cooking to do in the spartan kitchen here to while away the days, we thought of chilling off the arvo in the dorm. Our spirits were high despite the fact that some of our stomachs were a bit funked up from the sudden invasion of city food after enjoying some simple but hearty country fare. The floor was quite dirty and I asked in a friendly manner (my usual), not suspecting anything (in hindsight, it probably didn't matter if I had been non-friendly) if I could borrow a broom. She barked (oops no.3) back in a gorilla that had lost its nest manner "what for?" and a minor shock waved through my mind - wow, she is on some kind of grass! - and stupidly I smiled and said I liked to sweep the floor in the dorm. You know, "semangat gotong-royong", work together comrade? She hissed back that her husband was going to come and sweep the floor and I better not be criticising her work because (oops no.4) there were so many people checking in and she had to do so much work - from this point onward, I couldn't register the bullshit that was coming out of her mouth because my guns were out. Pumping one down her vile throat, the artery fizzed out shots of red across the bed sheets... okay, that was a moment of non-clarity but in reality, I stood there in my you've-just-lost-all-of-your-privileges voice and answered "I am not criticising you". My mind said "you stupid woman, you ain't seen nothing yet". Hubby jumped in to explain that I'm just trying to help out. She just kept throwing her attitude around on the "hard work" that she had to do. My tongue was just about to tell her that if she can't handle the heat, she shouldn't be in the business of running a hostel. Get the shit out because girlfriend, you don't have what it takes. Don't throw your complaints and take it out on me - this I did tell her. Then grabbing my yoga mat, I went up the stairs to chill out.

You know when life throw you lemons? You throw them back and demand for chocolate. You get yourself into a mess, you get yourself out.

Travels. Shows how much you don't know, and strangely, how much you got in you at times. Live to fight another day I guess. I know I'm not feeling 100% but I'm just glad to jab in down in a no-holds-bar journal. The fellow travellers are friendly although some should really wash their feet before jumping into bed *laugh*. I don't know but I think it's insane to expect myself to be on a high all the time. Maybe I'll feel better tomorrow.

Thanks for checking out this page. I know I'm faffing more than usual but I feel a little easier now. Love and hugs from me, here in Bishkek.

ps: A big shoutout to those (family, friends, fellow travellers we've met) who were worried / tried to contact us during our out-of-internet-connection days when Osh was under siege. Yep, Uzbeks and Kyrgyzs were taking out the pipes at each other, some died, many injured. But these were goons. They knew what they were going into. Matters dating far back shouldn't be mixed into the present but any reason can be used to start up something that didn't make sense, in a sick way. But we've seen that there is still a good-to-know, hopeful existence of inter-ethnic clans helping out each other. We lived with them for days. We're fine and we love you all. A thought goes out to our adopted family. I hope those who made the journey to cross the Uzbek border made it back fine.

The CIA Files: "I" Am In The Middle Of (C)entral (A)sia

So I promised earlier that I'll faff a bit about the "CIA Files"... the title should give a hint *smile*.

The long road unfolded in front of us as we stuffed our backpacks into the booth of a beat-up Mercedes-Benz. God bless the Germans. This machine rolled out smoothly to take us five out of the small sleepy village of kindness and inter-ethnic unity which we had been privy into for five days now. The road led to Bishkek and we were finally leaving.

Last night hubby and our other two Japanese friends, Yasuo and Atsusi went off with Mr. Usman to "negotiate" at the latter's MIL's home to get a shared taxi for us. Initial telephone enquiries led only to a dead end as they wanted USD500 for a ride. The boys tried our luck somewhere else. Hours later they returned, with Atsusi completely sick and needing a quiet moment by the stairs. The negotiation with the drivers turned out to be a "sit-down-first-and-drink-Kyrgyzstan-vodka-get-you-really-sloshed-up-before-we-talk-biznez" affair. With the bottle opened, they drank and smoked as if our lives (and holidays) depended on it. The price started buckling to and fro, hubby employed the walk-away tactic and laid down USD150 on the table while they went out to the loo. They came back, more wrist slicing actions to buckle the price bargaining and it ended at a final offer of USD175 for the full 12-hour ride. The drivers wanted USD200 and hubby thanked them. No deal. Before picking up the notes, they shoved out the handshake. Deal concluded. 0500 hours departure. With Atsusi that night breathing like a camel in heat. Poor chap, he shouldn't had drunk so much.

And we are finally here in Bishkek. Not before passing through some of the most beautiful landscape any spring could bring to mind. In between sussing out three consecutive consonants billboard and some goulash, we had brunch in probably some of the best picnic spots in the world. Endless miles of soft lavender, blue dainty flowers that I had no clue on names dancing amidst the likes of white, yellow and orange stripes of petal beauty that made up the natural carpet of the mountain kings that glistened as their glacier melted to herald the beginning of another season of rejuvenation and hope. Momentarily I had a flash back to the smoke I saw from Osh and the burnt remnants of what was a former Russian model, that indomitable tanker of a car. We passed through the World War's memorials. We looked on bewildered at the fascinating erections of graves that commemorate the dead but unforgotten. This place was indeed an apt resting place what not with the quiet air and solemn giant feeling of the valley. Never had I seen such a wild place that took on an almost pulse indifferent and separated from the rest of the world.

Arriving in busy Bishkek was also another refreshing moment of clarity. Here we passed by numerous statues of Lenin and the gracious people of the city - a favourable mix of Russian and Central Asian features. The women particularly are extremely attractive with their daring display of summer dresses and lanky demeanour. This was no shy Muslim city. The rose parks and al fresco football cafe took on a gallop at dusk while the red light district near the circus snaked sneakily in the dark. We heard about previous riots and clashes between the city restless. Uzbeks or Kyrgyzs, paid or not, are not a summary of the entire two nations. We had seen true friends going beyond colour and creed to help each other in times of need. The city may had forgotten a bit of such values but this place still held a special attraction for its c'est la vie attitude in the strides on the pavement. Truly marvelous in a sense that the city didn't give a damn about what the press wrote about its lack of personality. Bishkek just went on rebelling in her own uniqueness and I found that undeniably captivating. It almost felt like floating in a tank of highly salted water and not quite feeling your limbs while knowing you're still alive. Surreal, exciting, scary. The shadows and lighted paths of the city teased your senses while you fought the urge to run into the darkness to explore Bishkek's secrets while knowing the dangers that lurked not too far away. Here, only those who paid their time and dues will enter the chamber that laid out a deeper level of the city's existence. While you and I, we try to just soak in the heady mix of European operatic architecture, avant garde building exteriors interspersed with the overgrown weeds of a mosque's compound while discreet lovers stole embraces underneath the looming birch trees that lined the tongue twister of Cyrillic named roads.

Sometimes it's true. You have to get into the heart of it all to know it. Hearsay is just not good enough.

The CIA Files: Getting Out Isn't Quite The Same As Leaving Behind, Is It?

I awoke this morning thinking about how much our host had gone through and to for us. The lamb was delicious but strangely for this time, I could not stomach the boiled meat. It smelled too much to the sheep before it was being disemboweled into pots and plates. We went about talking about the update and also what we should be doing regarding the next step out of Osh. It seemed now that it was flying between "ok to go" to "an absolute no-go". Frustrating, yes. Expected, yes.

It was no point complaining. This is part of travel. I will always be thankful to my host for his help and taking us in during our time of need. Again I would say, it's when you're miles away from home that you truly feel the world can be such a small place and you have "families" everywhere you go. As the day heated up to noon, we sat down for a beautiful gruel of rice and lamb. Bless, there was cold yoghurt and cherries! We sat down and talked excitedly about the World Cup in between our lunch. Then there was a knock on the door. At this point I was used to banging going outside of the main gates. Two men, one who spoke exceptional English had came down from Bishkek. He was a journalist. And as customary here, we enquired about each other and the conversation led to my introducing hubby and before we knew it, he offered to help us find a ride to Bishkek. Here is a man, whose family is up in the hills around Osh and with all the worrying going on beyond Jalal-Abad, he was offering to trouble himself for us.

"A rare gem that shines in the face of trouble that blesses those who were blessed in return on their gaze"

The CIA Files: What Seems May Not Quite Be What It Seems

I woke this morning having spent a tiring night staying up. Two nights here claimed the ultimate spot in an endurance test surpassing any dorm you will find. Big mommas snoring, teeth chatters, and sudden movements from really big unidentified ladies in the dark towards the window every time some car's head lights beamed through, a pack of dogs barked or the thunder flashed wildly from the hills beyond. Last night one of them even had a nightmare and woke up moaning and crying (twice) while another I had to listen helplessly thinking she was going to have a heart attack. I was rubbing her back since two days ago. In between hand signals I figured she suffered from high blood pressure and had been having chest pains. It was scary to think this big lady who seemed so indefatigable could be struck down by a stroke.

This was as in Central Asia as I could ever ask to begin. Fleetingly I dreamed about the Middle East but that seemed so far away at the moment. We were escorted by Mr. Usman's son, Mukail to seek some cooling off in the river nearby. Here we walked past fields of wheat and dried corn patches, lines of birches and a blue sky. Moments at times I felt like I was in Europe where some cold cream cheese and fresh loaves of bread were just a few miles away. I guessed I was still bewildered with the feeling of having gone past the gates into an older (being a relative term) part of the ancient trading routes, yet not quite finding a firm grasp of my holding. My mind blew away at the notion of Normandy and the organised chaotic beauty of the Somme as I walked past red poppies dotting the fields and golden rolls of wheat sleeping unmoving on the farm plots. The air was a gentle cooling hand wiping the sweat off my head. I momentarily thought about Australia and my home state, Sabah. Then there was a fat worm of dark smoke snaking up the otherwise clear sky. Osh, more burning. I was back in the middle of where I was. Then hubby turned to say, as a matter-of-factly, that no matter where we were, there we should be... or so in a few variation of words. I sought solace in that comforting thought. I felt for the pain suffered by the Uzbeks and Kyrgyzs but it felt really alive to still see the passion and power of a place that had seen so much rise and fall that predated Christ to now. In a morbid way, it was an honour.

The river was such a blessing. In a few short moments, I dipped myself unabashedly and washed my hair. This was like being reborn. That night, we sat down to a dinner of freshly slaughtered lamb. Our friends from Uzbekistan were eerily silent. Something bad must be going on because they were discussing something obviously that I was not privy into and being shushed away from the room meant only one thing - something not of the smiling kind had happened back home. The girls from next door who were of Uzbek descent went back quickly after dark. We couldn't even had them join us for dinner. I just hope things will sort out soon for everyone.

The CIA Files: Thank Goodness For Tom Clancy, Paul Wilson & Mr. Usman

You know the reason behind the calling of this, "The CIA Files"? A bit more of that later but fact is, the Silk Road was never one long road but more of a long road consisting of many patches of trade routes. Many a war of the 20th Century took place in these dramatic backdrops of the ex-Soviets. Hubby and I have decided that if time didn't allow for us to rush through to South America, then we'll cover it in another time. Already Africa has been relegated to a stand-by "next trip" box. Fact is too, that unless we go through (at least) Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, into Iran (already I'm writing Afghanistan and Pakistan as a next trip, given the visa process alone will eat into our limited time frame) and perhaps (a big maybe) Azerbaijan, into Turkey, Syria, Jordan, (hopefully) Israel and ending in Egypt, that we can satisfactorily know we have caught a glimpse of one of the greatest trading routes of mankind.

Day two in Mr. Usman's home. The mood was strangely calm although the big mommas were now glued to the news channel, taking a break once in a while to do the Ultraman at us indicating that Osh was a no-go zone. We discussed possibly heading to other smaller towns in the South but no roads were open. Things were beginning to look testing as the temperature soared. The heady mix of boiled lamb fat and vegetables made me sleepy as I desired for a wash. The day passed slow but we took time to sit under the apple-looking guava trees to sip tea. As according to local custom my cup was never filled full so that my host could ensure a long succession of hot tea. Very different from the Chinese ways but again we're here to learn. Although we had been overwhelmed by the unselfish generosity of Mr. Usman, I could not generalise that all Kyrgyzstan were hospitable as I would not say that they were unfriendly. However admittedly, as much as I observed the respected line between their (rather relaxed) version of Islamic culture and practices and my world, the women in the house as well as a few others who came over from the neighbours' to help out in the kitchen weren't exactly the best example of extreme warmth and friendliness. You may beg to differ but I am merely stating my experience. Given time I told myself perhaps it would improve. Improve it certainly did but slow. The younger lads were helpful and respectfully inquisitive. I was careful to state that Mey moosht in introducing myself and hubby. Suddenly, the status of a married woman threw me up a few ranks on the echelon. Mr. Usman even joked a few more lines regarding himself and his wife with us. I was invited into an inner circle. The younger women were still suspicious, and here I believed that of the 'Stans, the Kyrgyzstan women were to be the most relaxed and opened version of what was still a predominantly closed up zenana of female existence. Something to bear in mind as we moved deeper into the region.

The big mommas and the male travellers were like day and night. While the men were relatively more chilled out, the women were constantly worrying. Only two of them took on a cooler head and one of them, despite worried sick about her father in Jalal-Abad, took on the additional burden of taking care of us "kids". We were fed and ushered off to sleep, told to keep quiet, watched over by Mother Hen like a virgin on her first trip out to the country. At one point it was easier to sneak into one of the unused barns to relieve myself because getting permission was beginning to make me feel like I was in prison. I had to bear with two sheep watching me as I crouched down in the corner but what the heck, it was all or nothing! My stomach had been relatively strong since we began this journey but I was starting to feel funny drinking way too much black tea and too little water. More travellers came by and the house was getting way too cramped. It was a struggle to look for your own private space and keep calm. Such was my moment of walking through my mental valley of darkness. It was a time to reflect and be thankful for the providence and patience.

Lights were switched off very early that night. The lady whose father was in Jalal-Abad came by to make sure I was warmly tucked under my blanket. It was strange. At the same time I love the care but I hate the chaperon-like state of affairs. But I was in a foreign place and couldn't had picked a different time. There was killing happening nearby and some shooting had been going on even in the smaller villages of Jalal-Abad, our supposed next-city option. I had to follow the local rules.

I wonder on the back of my mind, almost in a fuzzy fashion to make it not really necessary for me to worry about, almost weakly, that what would have happened if Mr. Usman hadn't taken us in?

The CIA Files: OmigOSH, We're Not There Yet?!

The journey began with a dusty, foreign feeling morning. As I write this, it has been just a shy sniffle over 100 hours since departing Kashgar, and we are sitting down on our lunch mats in a tiny village about 10km away from Osh. Our spirits in the group of two Malaysians and three Japanese are still high but it would be fair to say that we had our individual testing moments since benefiting from the kindness of Mr. Usman and his family.

But let me begin with the bus...

Clutching my opaque lime green bus ticket in hand, not knowing a word of Russian beyond vodka, we kicked off - finally getting on the bus - what we then believed was our 22-hour bus journey to leave China. This was a bus ride to end all bus rides. Some cranky ex-Soviet machine on four wheels coughed and toughed it out carrying her passengers consisting of fellow Uzbeks and Kyrgyzs and us of course, mixing the seating with boxes and bags of bananas, melons, biscuits, baby prams, clothes, flasks, unidentified objects and copious amount of apricots. It was near impossible to move inside this sardine can but somehow we trapezed and hung about anything we could to move to the back of the bus. I imagined this must had been how trekking in the virgin jungles of Indo-Chine felt like to the likes of Kipling? No maybe not, they probably had someone sorting out their refreshments. Inside, we had little baby blue cotton curtains that needed a desperate wash hiding us like precious gems of the olden harems as we moved through the mountains and high roads towards the last border check on China's side before hitting Irshkertam and no man's land for the next 7km. With one final barrage of "are you of Han stock?" and "how come your Mandarin is so good if you're from Malaysia?", I showed my passport for checking for the seventh time to a saluting officer. Suddenly I felt quite floaty actually, of the imperial kind. Ah, the musings of a commoner...

So there we were, off into the wilderness, unprotected and unshielded by the predictability of PRC. Strangely, a feeling of freedom and relief enveloped me for a moment before I hunted for a bush to relieve myself of a different kind. The thunder bellowed afar while we struggled to help our big mommas to haul their baggage into the already stuffed bus. And then the hail hit us hard. One little bastard came shooting down at my right eye and it was just the omen I needed for the journey ahead. Rock 'n' roll people but first, let me continue with the big mommas...

They were a mix of ladies across all ages and villages. Different fantastic headgears had us in giggles giving them names. My favourite is the Queen Bee of the Alien Egg Nest. She looked over two-metre tall because her green veiled headgear towered us like an eclipse cutting off the sun. These ladies were extremely cautious at first but after we exchanged a few bananas and apricots of our own, a few words on where we came from, the party descended upon us! The bus was atrociously packed and suffice to say, it was a mesh of bodies and blankets, jokes and gossip in a foreign language. The mood was high and the ride was rough. Our big mommas had taken on the role of the matronly kind by the time we got through the first Kyrgyzstan check point. We girls made our little "watch group" whenever we had to hunt for the next private spot to relieve ourselves. I bought a watermelon in a lunch stop town that I had absolutely no idea of, checked out a few goats, had one with the sniffles sneezed at me. Got some interesting biscuits and none whatsoever of the kind that I was used to find in China. It still was so thrilling to fathom that we were only across the border and things were worlds apart. More soldiers at the border check were curious at us and with the chilly evening wind blowing down, we saw a few of them were slaughtering a sheep for dinner. It would be another check point before night fell. We were there, our final passport check and I decided to run behind an army oil tank to take a leak. In a flash I was gone. Hindsight would tell me that was pretty naive because as quickly as I ran off a soldier with some real mean looking rifles swooped down on me. He retracted equally as fast when he realised that I was not running off to some guerrilla camps. If anything, Rambo their guard dog would have chased me down. Unfortunately I was not fast enough to pull my pants up and may had mooned the poor soldier who was old enough to be my younger brother.

See what happens when you fly out of the wings of the big mommas?

As I write this, two of the big mommas had gone off with their comforters, boxes of cups, luggage and our well wishes, en route to Jalal-Abad and Ozgon, back home. A good sign for us as the roads are opening.

So our first night on the land crossing bus lulled us into sleep. In no time, I was drifting in between consciousness and a fantasy land of walking on a beach filled with walruses bellowing their nightly lullaby. I could have sworn that at midnight, the bus hit a stop and the engine died. Laying in the sea of blankets and some buckwheat pillows, I listened. The ignition tried a few tries and failed. I wasn't sure if I should get up and get down on my knees but a final strike from the keys and the engine gave off a screech before it purred along back to life. So stuffed the felt hats and yurts I say, this was really the adventure I was looking for. Funnily, spirits were high still.

And I woke up from my dream.

The bus stopped at a petrol station with a rusty scratched off sign board that I suspected could bear the name "Mobil" in Cyrillic but that was just empty musings again. All the ladies were talking really quietly now and the blue curtains were drawn tight. I needed to step out for air, only to be welcomed with a choreographed display of Ultraman X-crossed arms and "nyet, nyet!". What were big mommas saying "no" vehemently to? Then I was trying to figure out the left hand saying "Uzbek" and the right, "Kyrgyz" and both fists smashing each other. Was 1990 happening again? More charade came into play. Big mommas did the rifle shooting act, complemented with a convincing "tut, tut, tut, tut" and one dramatically fainted dead. I figured that we may be shot if we came into some trouble. So we waited more in the bus.

By the time we got past our 24-hour mark, we all got down to walk towards a village nearby. A warm couple welcomed us into their house, blocked off from the streets by a high gate. There we sat with chai, apricot jam and fresh bread while listening to a fuzzy television broadcasting the latest news from Osh. Thousands were hurt, close to hundred were dead. Some reported clan clash while the news spilled out that the former President's supporters were leading a coup to overthrow the new Government. Think Russian army tanks rolling in on the tree-lined streets of an ancient town seated at the head of the Ferghana Valley that served as a key stop on the Silk Road for all trade coming in from the Pamirs. Think Riot Police. Think burnt buildings. More cars coming from Osh were rolling into the still-haven't-been-figured-out petrol station. Half an hour later the owner of the station began to lift some rocks to form a blockade on the entry of the station. There was nothing left to sell in the shop nearby. We bought a handful of Fanta Orange, Coke, carbonated water and Snickers. Sneaking behind the curtains again, we heard some more (victorious?) cries from truckloads of men passing by the main road. Our bus driver decided to take the bus up the hill away from plain sight.

We came onto a field of gooseberry trees. A lone cow moo-ed lazily and I went for a walk. One of the big mommas began to cry as she spoke on the mobile. The rest laid out the blankets on the grassy floor. I walked all the way towards a hill drop and could just see the main road. Then I heard the loud bang sickeningly alike to the crackle of a Kalashnikov. The closest experience I had to any combat was watching BBC and sparring on the Judo mat. Looking at the calf, instincts took over and I quickly ducked. The trucks came into sight and they had that bloodthirsty look in their eyes. Clueless but determined. A lot more shouting and honking. Then they disappeared towards Osh. Standing what may had been a minute but feeling much longer, I broke out of my trance and ran back. Panic drew in as I couldn't see my bus. The gooseberry trees didn't look anymore like sweet fruit bearing trees but fearsome tacklers that stopped me advancing towards the safety line. Then I heard hubby's voice calling out as if a cloud of mist had parted. We were to make it to the nearby house for respite.

This was Mr. Usman's home.

China: It's A Wrap!

After two months and about an hour after finding the only wireless connection in ex-Soviet, I want to thank all of the funnies and baddies along the way that made our trip in China such a hoot! Special honourable mention goes to the rude bus driver in Chengdu - YOU ARE LEGENDARY!

And the many friends that we met along the way plus the animals that just reminded us that at the end of the day, you can just sleep it off! A big thumbs up to Dove Chocolate (I don't know how I would have endured those rides without you).

Like they say, you never know if you never ever go! Okay, I seriously got to get out now as the Russian lady is reminding me again. Take care friends and the 'Stans update coming real soon!