You know what I love about Shymkent? Besides having the best thirst quenching drink in the entire country when the temperature breaches the high thirties, the cheap but probably best made samsa and shashlyk to date, and just the easygoing people, it reminds me of my favourite hometown with its hot cloudless sky, fluttering flags, bazaar, and just a good vibe energising the way people move, traffic flows and a good intention to chill and relax in the traveller.
We just need a really big pool here since the nearest sea is probably the Aral, which automatically disqualifies the race.
We just need a really big pool here since the nearest sea is probably the Aral, which automatically disqualifies the race.
Daydreaming aside, our train rolled in on time this morning. Summer was full and officially here, with the early breeze giving way quickly to the mercury reading charting up a few plus up the thermometer. During the course of our journey from Almaty, we discovered (much too late) that the air conditioning in our car was malfunctioning. This occured to us at the pristine time of dinner as we waddled our way through the cars, crossing the belly of the writhing python into the immortal category of first class passengers. Heck, even the toilet bowl looked bigger and the toilet paper were soft. We did every self-respecting traveller would - wash our hands at least in the higher class toilet, bitched about the inequality of income distribution, had really expensive laghman (the bill presented a tax percentage that jacked up the price by another 300T per bowl!) and retired to our bunks, wiping ourselves with wet towels, sleeping without our shirts on and legs and arms all sprawled out like King Kong on a holiday.
There were priceless moments. While we sought salvation in the form of cold beer, we had one - what appeared to be - polar bear / half naked / fully stunned / very out of shape passenger that bellowed in our indecipherable comprehension of Russian "WHERE DID YOU GET THE BEER?!?!" as indicated by his big, hairy index finger towards the golden elixir clutched protectively by our hand like a mother bear shielding her cubs. We had kids running around in their diapers, oblivious to their parents' sweaty faces. We loved our compartment. No seriously. By the time we jumped off to the arrival platform, it was kind of like biding goodbye to a newly found friend that you can't wait to see again - just next time, we need to score the air conditioning that works!
After tea and rock hard muffins, we jumped onto another form of transport, namely our beloved marshrutka to get to town. After much kindergarten masala between fellow travellers (not my fault, when two men waffled, the woman learned to switch off) we roamed around the streets, diving for shade and walked right into a really sorry excuse for a "hotel" charging rack rates for a double room to the very hefty, horrifying price of U$100 per night. By the way, tax not included and you have to pay for wireless in the lobby. Post cursing LP's last updated version of room rates, I tried approaching the woman behind the counter who was trained by human resource to never smile at dusty, train mauled backpackers that the LP, the holy bible, the trump card of us mortals prowling the world - that the room was just 5,500T. "Nyet" was all I could squeeze out of her. Defiantly we sat for a while in the lobby, using the air conditioning (this is free) to restrategise our quest to not sleep on the streets tonight.
After tea and rock hard muffins, we jumped onto another form of transport, namely our beloved marshrutka to get to town. After much kindergarten masala between fellow travellers (not my fault, when two men waffled, the woman learned to switch off) we roamed around the streets, diving for shade and walked right into a really sorry excuse for a "hotel" charging rack rates for a double room to the very hefty, horrifying price of U$100 per night. By the way, tax not included and you have to pay for wireless in the lobby. Post cursing LP's last updated version of room rates, I tried approaching the woman behind the counter who was trained by human resource to never smile at dusty, train mauled backpackers that the LP, the holy bible, the trump card of us mortals prowling the world - that the room was just 5,500T. "Nyet" was all I could squeeze out of her. Defiantly we sat for a while in the lobby, using the air conditioning (this is free) to restrategise our quest to not sleep on the streets tonight.
That's how we ended up inside this really small cab driven by a really big man. He wanted to get to know us more than send us to our cheapie hotel (by local standards but oh-so-heavenly as we are smacked right downtown with a view of the mosque!). So hubby took the turn this time and played the charade. His name was Jimmy and he is Hindustani. I praised this day as our room's air conditioning works! We got our double room but our fellow traveller faced a dilemma of either looking for another hotel, or he had to pay for a double room for single occupancy, or well, he could lease it out for another traveller. So us three little birds decided to crash into one double room. The receptionist shrugged her shoulders when we practically begged for allowance. Purring, she led us upstairs and handed us over to an alpha chimp that wore the tag "floor attendant" and she wasn't too pleased that we asked for extra blankets. I love how fast we were becoming acquainted to the ways of the jungle.
Now you've heard how I raved about the food and easygoingness of Shymkent. Even with the heat, it's really a lovable city. Hubby and I decided to attempt a romantic accord never done before and headed off to bask in the sun, walking towards the bazaar with one hat between us. My fault really. Laziness is my vice. The summer hours were playing funk with my brains and I was gasping at why people were packing up when we arrived. Read: 1830 hours, duh! Having said that, we met loads of people smiling, waving and asking us a lot of questions. There was the odd one by this (I swore I was about to kiss the extending hand and addressed him "Don Corleone") butcher "ARE YOU OK?" with glitzy fake Gucci sunnies perched precariously in between the plum-coloured whitehead-studded nose. Someone even called hubby "Salman Khan" and we burst out laughing. Not sure if hubby took it as a compliment. I decided to call him Shashlyk Shah... there, much more regal. We met a woman who was genuinely friendly and wanted us to feel welcome in her town. No, she's not the mayor but I bet she could run for it! Profusely apologising for not having an updated email address, she gave us her mailing address and mobile. It did feel weird - not that I suspected any menace in her - but that I realised I had got so comfortable with building a wall while living in the city that meeting people who just disclose their daily whereabouts and intentions like "come try this", "I'm going home now" and the likes revealing a little bit intimacy into their schedules was eye opening for me (no pun). There was also the usual lumps of fresh liver, meat, a butcher distributing sliced watermelon (maybe I should put that one up for Harvard's MBA review on marketing strategy) and all types of pulses, watermelon by the carts, flour, bread and eggs, laundry powder, jugs of oil, kitchen ware, bric-a-brac, birch leaves in the bundle, and roast chickens as far as the eye can capture.
Now you've heard how I raved about the food and easygoingness of Shymkent. Even with the heat, it's really a lovable city. Hubby and I decided to attempt a romantic accord never done before and headed off to bask in the sun, walking towards the bazaar with one hat between us. My fault really. Laziness is my vice. The summer hours were playing funk with my brains and I was gasping at why people were packing up when we arrived. Read: 1830 hours, duh! Having said that, we met loads of people smiling, waving and asking us a lot of questions. There was the odd one by this (I swore I was about to kiss the extending hand and addressed him "Don Corleone") butcher "ARE YOU OK?" with glitzy fake Gucci sunnies perched precariously in between the plum-coloured whitehead-studded nose. Someone even called hubby "Salman Khan" and we burst out laughing. Not sure if hubby took it as a compliment. I decided to call him Shashlyk Shah... there, much more regal. We met a woman who was genuinely friendly and wanted us to feel welcome in her town. No, she's not the mayor but I bet she could run for it! Profusely apologising for not having an updated email address, she gave us her mailing address and mobile. It did feel weird - not that I suspected any menace in her - but that I realised I had got so comfortable with building a wall while living in the city that meeting people who just disclose their daily whereabouts and intentions like "come try this", "I'm going home now" and the likes revealing a little bit intimacy into their schedules was eye opening for me (no pun). There was also the usual lumps of fresh liver, meat, a butcher distributing sliced watermelon (maybe I should put that one up for Harvard's MBA review on marketing strategy) and all types of pulses, watermelon by the carts, flour, bread and eggs, laundry powder, jugs of oil, kitchen ware, bric-a-brac, birch leaves in the bundle, and roast chickens as far as the eye can capture.
Downstairs the samsa lady is still advertising her famous product as each bus or passer-by stops in front of her shop. Her voice a tad lower now, hoarse from a full day's shouting to garner the attention deserving for her delicious effort. With the sun setting, the square's flag poles swayed from picking up the quickened wind. The golden dome of the mosque glistened a romantic breath of relief to a day calming down and giving way to Lady Night bringing in the charms of a lullaby sung by the late night diners, kebab grills infusing the nostrils of patrons with the spice of cumin, pepper, mutton fat and onions, the dull hum of trolley buses penetrating the hilly streets from beyond the tree-walled suburbs beyond the square.
Another day we approach, closer to the trail to the golden valley of Uzbekistan. For just a slight moment, my daydream forgave me for the incorrigible indulgence in wandering off into the garments of a silk trader, leading her Bactrian camel for a cool drink by the bazaar as she was making plans on where to lay her head down tonight.
Another day we approach, closer to the trail to the golden valley of Uzbekistan. For just a slight moment, my daydream forgave me for the incorrigible indulgence in wandering off into the garments of a silk trader, leading her Bactrian camel for a cool drink by the bazaar as she was making plans on where to lay her head down tonight.
