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.
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?
