Under Cover of Darkness, Tashkent

I can't really go into it just yet but due to some associations I had made in the last 48 hours I was strongly advised to depart the country. I was in no danger except for being held longer than I wanted but no matter. At 5am this morning one of the embassy workers got Kirsten out to London and I followed soon thereafter, taking a double-prop Altyn Air Yak-20 puddle jumper over the mountains and into Uzbekistan. So far Tashkent, the capital, has been pretty impressive, although I have to admit that I slept most of the day in this hotel. After being told to get out within 6 hours, I pulled an all-nighter.

If anyone was really pining for Kyrgyz souvenirs, I apologize, they will have to wait until next time.

Bishkek Smiles in the Day, but ...

Five Kyrgyz soldiers, donning camouflage suits, sizeable batons and square-faced grimaces, surround Fatboy's, the British-owned expat hangout where I now sit. Let me put aside the hilarity of me actually being in a cafe with this name -- there are two vegetarian options and, most importantly, Coca Cola Light, apparently the only such vendor in Bishkek. Today is Independence Day, celebrating fifteen tumultuous years of self-governance, the Kyrgyz are out in masses and many families from the rural villages have convoyed in to enjoy the celebration. Last year's partially successful Tulip Revolution, styled after similar successful Color Revolutions that tore through the ex-Soviet satellites Georgia and Ukraine, sought to overthrow President Askar Askaev's increasingly corrupt regime. During the crackdown in which three people were killed, the police and militia were so overwhelmed by angry mobs that they simply went home. The ensuing looting, focused mainly on Turkish and Western owned businesses, was intense. Since then, the police presence in Bishkek has been slight and street crime after dark has spiked. Bishkek smiles in the day but shows its teeth at night. I have already been warned by two embassy workers to not walk alone at night as Kyrgyz men will attack in groups of four, beating foreigners and taking everything, including their clothing. That severely limits the amount of fun to be had by this urban trekker!

I now watch Kyrgyz passersby staring/glaring curiously/suspiciously at the fellow foreigners around me. To my right, a group of Germans blabbering auf Deutsch about their oil investments and the cheapness of life here. On the left is an effete backpacker trio and, judging from their pit-stained tees, chain smoking and noticeable lack of testosterone, they must be French. One of them sports a black nappy-fro (ala Spin Doctors, 1992) and garners titters and stares from every other sidewalk gaper. The two rotund pseudogentlemen in front of me, they who most epitomize the name of this establishment, are naturally American. Texan. I believe that I am the only Spaniard/Portuguese/Italian or whatever they think I am today.

Kirsten, my new journalist friend, suspects that there may be riots in the square tonight, fueled by her conversations with the embassy. The military presence speaks otherwise but they are outnumbered 50 to 1. Her plight has become a bit more bleak as she may face Kyrgyz prison on Monday. An international incident may be blossoming as her situation is apparently being monitored daily by Condoleeza Rice. The New York Times is coming to the hotel to interview here tomorrow. From what I have put together, she interviewed some of the "wrong people" down south in insurgent-infested Osh and now the government wants names. She has so far refused since that would effectively be a death sentence for them. Even though many of us feel that the United States is on the wrong track with respect to its domestic and foreign policy, we must also step back and appreciate and value the legal protections afforded its citizens.

Thousands of jovial Kyrgyz are out and celebration is in the air. When economic disparity and unhappiness mix with cheap and free-flowing beer, the sundown results can be unpredictable and sudden. It's getting dark soon and I will need to thread the needle through the near-infinite police officers looking for bribes to get back to the hotel. Naturally, I plan to watch the fireworks from the Silk Road Lodge patio.

The Elusive Bankomat

It has come to be a familiar event for me, after many pratfalls through Eastern Europe, Russia and now Central Asia. A freshly unshoed foot mummified in sweaty, matted sock, making a duct tape sound as it is carefully peeled off, with bits of skin attached. Of the six blisters now on my soles, only one was bleeding, but two others needed lanced. Badly. The sidewalks here are torturous and in awful condition -- uneven, cracked, dusty and pocked. Street lighting is generally nonexistent so, upon the onset of dawn, the ground ahead becomes as black as the hand in front of your face. A daytime inventory of the numerous uncovered manholes is probably mandatory here if one wishes to live to the next year. All this in an effort to procure colored slips of paper printed with funny looking Kyrgyz statesmen.

Although I had read that Bishkek was overwhelmingly a cash economy, I foolishly neglected to research the actual availability of ATMs in this city of 1.1 million. I guess it shouldn't really be a surprise that there are only four ATMs in the city and I, after covering a 4-mile radius on foot, found all of them. Too bad they were all out of service, meaning they had run out of money. My normal operating mode of not carrying much cash on my person, instead hitting the bankomats on a need-to basis, has finally run aground. I arrived on Monday with about 800 Russian rubles (about 32 dollars), exchanging it immediately into 1250 Kyrgyz som. Unfortunately I'm down to 250 som and my only currency right now is my dumbass grin. I've been charging my daily meals of vegetable puree and Siberskaya Korona to my room so I'm not starving, but I am somewhat concerned about not being able to purchase transport into Uzbekistan, the next stop in Rod's stumble-a-thon through Central Asia. Things could be worse, though.

Last night I had dinner and drinks with a fellow guest at the Silk Road Lodge, a journalist from Dallas who is in seriously dire straits. She had been filming a documentary down south in Osh, Kyrgystan's second city and the epicenter of government oppression and Kyrgyz-Uzbek ethnic violence. Apparently her project had been deemed too sensitive for public consumption because she was taken into custody and her passport confiscated, effectively imprisoning her indefinitely since mid-July. On top of that she developed a kidney infection after going three days without adequate water. Fortunately, the embassy got her medical care and set her up with accomodations. She has been threatened with a 3-year sentence for spying and the embassy does not seem to be able to adequately deal with the situation. Her story may break in the media, however, and John McCain called her parents yesterday. So there may be movement afoot. This country is critically dependent on tourism and keeping a blonde American girl a political prisoner would go a long way towards sabotaging their carefully conceived marketing strategies.

Today: Must find a working ATM and a way to Uzbekistan. Things are not bad here, it is friendly here, and I'm enjoying myself despite the sad state my feet are in.

UPDATE: ATM found and withdrew $200 in Kyrgyz som. This is four times the monthly salary of a well-paid job here so I'm kinda nervous, -- already people have been staring at the large wad of bills in my pocket. Like Belarus, this currency has no coinage, it is all paper. Additionally, I bought an airline ticket for Tashkent, but it's not leaving until Saturday morning. So I get to celebrate Independence Day with the Kyrgyz, who will be celebrating 15 years of autonomy from the Soviet Union. I believe the traditional gift for that anniversary is crystal. Somehow I don't think I'll be seeing much of that although broken glass comes in spades.

Made it to Bishkek

I'm here, it's hotter than hell, there's dust throughout my hair and eyes, but I made it. Kyrgyzstan is like no other place I've been. The mountains in the backdrop are simply amazing. The plane ride was uneventful but getting through customs was more than a little annoying. The Lonely Planet Guide says you can buy a visa upon arrival, which is ostensibly true. Of course there's no guarantee that the little hermit behind the twelve inches of plexiglas will actually be working there. It took ninety minutes for the little man to show up and bark at me all while visions of Kyrgyz bagslashers, hunkering over my solitary bag on the carousel, danced in my head.

Add to that I was making the independent traveller's biggest gamble: Arriving in a foreign place without preplanning (a) accomodation or (b) a way from the airport to the city. Fortunately I had sent a quick email to Milana, the overly competent russka in the Moscow ISTC office, asking if she could book a hotel/car for me and it all somehow worked out.

The 30 kilometer straight shot to Bishkek city was mind-melting. Windows down, wind whipping, yaks, goats and pyramids of watermelons flying by left and right. The Tien Chuan mountains tower in the horizon, shirtless boys dart back and forth on the road as they dodge taxis and trucks. Dust, dirt and diesel.

I will be exploring the city today and tonight and hope to find a way to Lake Issyk-Kul, the second largest mountain lake in the world, just an hours drive away. August 31 is Kyrgyzstan's Independence Day and I fear that the entire place will shut down completely, effectively locking me in here.

Face-down, Listless in Novosibirsk

So my feelings of sickness yesterday were apparently not produced by too much Baltika the night before. Most of today's afternoon has been spent face down, drooling, in my pillow in Room 810 of the Hotel Sibir. I am not redline sick, just listless and dulled, drifting back into another hour of sleep just as I thought I was awaking. The walk to this internet cafe just six blocks away was more difficult than it should've been. The weather grey, the people sullen, my legs muddy. It is unnaturally cold here. Yes, hello, it is Siberia, but an August day is still supposed to be warmish this time of year. I don't really have a frame of reference as this is the deepest in the calendar I've been in Russia. August's monthlong vacation winds down as citizens return to work, to school, to their routines.

My self-diagnosis thus far has me in a superposition of the following states:

[State A] Midwestern allergies reawakened in the plains of Siberia
Evidence: Waking with yellow-crusted eyes and more phlegm than humanly normal

[State B] Mis/malnourishment due to Rod's Eastern Europe diet, devoid of protein (goodbye Clif bars!) and an abundance of slimy potatoes
Evidence: Waking with pinkish, oily blemishes on forehead and nose

[State C] Diet-borne microorganisms in my bloodstream, straining my once impenetrable immune system
Evidence: Unusually colored items in commode

Tomorrow morning I board a 757 bound for Bishkek, the first of my Central Asia stopovers. I carry more dread than usual since I'm not even close to being at 100% and, from my substantial prior experience being hauled around in ex-Soviet flying carriages, the flight will not be pleasant. Humid, creaky cabin, noisy engines, people smacking their meat while licking their fingers, the people pushy and pungent. Once landed, luggage carts will be impossibly loaded with suitcases, boxes and bags, all hermetically sealed with the ubiquitous blue shrinkwrap, half of which will be strategically aimed for the back of my ankles. Put-upon babushkas will elbow their way to the baggage claim, secretly longing for the sweet relief of death's finger. Since my unshaven complexion has paled from brownish to greenish-white, the xenophobic stares will triple and the scaring of Slavonic children will be my only reward.

I am just a little uneasy because Novosibirsk was intended to be the safe, familiar staging area before launching into unknown Kyrgyzstan, but right now I can barely draw the energy to type. For my loved ones, don't worry. As long as I'm not writing or quoting poetry, my superhuman metabolism will win the day.