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