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!
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!
