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...
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.
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.
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.
This was Mr. Usman's home.
