November 13,
2008
You Won’t
Believe What I Did!
Mostly because I don’t make episodes of my life like this public. But
let me begin with yesterday. I was in Bishkek to visit AUCA (American
University of Central Asia), hoping to secure a master class gig in January
when we’re on holiday break. It’ll give me something to do for a few days
during a cold, cold gray winter and it should be loads of fun. During lunch
with the director of the student theatre, said gig was secured. Later, I
attended a student dance performance at the city’s Opera House, an old ornate
building that dates back to the Soviet era. Earlier in the day I visited a
public school and worked with high school seniors (11th Form). That was a
blast. I gave them a fictitious headline and, from it, they created characters
and a storyline for a short play. They also had a gazillion questions about NYC
and Barak Obama. I’m telling you the world is abuzz with Obama-mania. Yesterday
was a great day. And then there was today.
I should have known it was going to be rocky when the receptionist at my hotel had a hard time getting me a taxi. I ended up riding with a driver who dropped off another fare, not the cab she reserved. He wanted 180 soms for a 100 soms ride. We settled on 120. He took me to the bus station where I would catch a marshrutka home. He pointed me to the waiting area and I hopped in to a waiting vehicle. In Kyrgyzstan marshrutkas don’t leave until they are full, so I had to wait about an hour for this to happen. That’s not really very long and I had a book to read. I thought the fare was less than it should have been but didn’t question it. The van was big and held lots of passengers. We took off and I immediately realized we weren’t going back the way I came. Then we hit the Kazakh border, but I still didn’t blink because a) sometimes in the winter the drivers go through Kazakhstan to get to my city because there is too much snow in the mountains and b) I have a Kazakh visa. Let me tell you, getting across the border was an ordeal. Not for everyone. Just me. To leave Kyrgyzstan, the lady soldier took my passport and wrote all my information on a piece of paper, then called someone. I was finally allowed to leave. Then I walked a hundred yards and had to go through it all again as I tried to enter Kazakhstan. This time all the info was punched into a computer and my photo was taken. Meanwhile, I’m hoping the bus doesn’t take off without me. I’m also hoping by this time next year the world has a higher opinion of America and Americans and life will be easier for us overseas. (Do your thing, Barak!)
Back on the bus I sit back until we stop again. Now we’re in Taraz, Kazakhstan and everybody is getting off the van again. I think it must be time to go back into Kyrgyzstan so I get off with them, but I’m getting a funny feeling because Taraz isn’t on the border. It’s close, but that doesn’t count. I ask the driver if I need my passport again and I figure out that this is the end of the line. Then I look at the sign in the front window of the marshrutka, the one I didn’t look at before boarding. Sure enough, I took the wrong one. You see, it all goes back to that taxi driver from the hotel. I told him I needed a marshrutka to Talas and he thought I said Taraz. Damn those language barriers. I’m really not panicking yet, but wondering how the hell I’m going to get home that day, and more importantly, how much is it going to cost me. I had about 1500 soms on me, but there was no guarantee that would be enough to get me home. And it almost wasn’t. Not to be overly dramatic, although I am wont to do so at times, but let me tell you the scariest part. I looked around that bus station parking lot and there was no one around me. I was the lone tree in the field. I saw a waiting area full of folks, but what was I going to do, walk up to each of them until I found someone who spoke English even a little bit? I realized/decided since I was totally on my own in communicating with anyone who could possibly help me, I’d start with my driver. And if I couldn’t get through to him, who knew what I would do. As a last resort I’d probably start asking anybody I could find, but only then. If that’s not motivation to improve my Kyrgyz, nothing is.
Talking to my driver, who helped me back at the border crossing into Kazakhstan, I found vocabulary I didn’t know I knew. Amazing what desperation does to the mind. Anyway, he was nice enough to help me find a ride back to the right country. We waited until we saw a shrut (gettin’ tired of spelling the entire word) heading for Talas. I thanked him about six times, got on the bus and was ready to get home. That lasted about two minutes. I was told to disembark off for some reason having to do with my passport. Not knowing Russian, I had no choice but to obey. Then this weasel looking taxi driver started spouting more Russian to my shrut guy. My “street” antennae activated. I’ve seen this guy’s cousin driving a cab in Brooklyn, if you know what I mean. Like alpha males, every country also has its crooks and con men. Still he says that he can get me across the border and home for 500 soms. Steep, but again, what choice did I have? He also wanted the money upfront, which goes against what the PC told us, which is to always pay at the end of the ride, but this guy wasn’t moving until I handed him the cash. I did. We took off and he’s talking like I understand every word he’s saying, trying to be all friendly-like. Next thing I know we’ve pulled into this back lot where I see a few more taxis. Our trip took 5 minutes. I knew I’d been had. He points me to another car and says that’s my taxi home and it will cost me 500 soms. I said, “I just gave you 500!” Then he drew his finger across his throat while saying something I figured to mean “Fugidaboutit” or close to it. One thousand soms, the amount I just shelled out in the last 10 minutes, is about $25. Not much by American standards, but I’m not making an American standards salary. And I don’t have access to my American standards bank account. My newest, and third driver of the day, must have figured out the Russian weasel cheated me because they started yelling at each other. I didn’t get any refund, but I appreciated his saying something.
Settled into what I’m praying is my final vehicle of the day, I realize why I’m paying this guy 500 soms. In Kyrgyzstan, every taxi has a flat rate based on distance traveled. So, from Taraz to Talas it’s 500. If there’s only one passenger, he pays the whole fare. Two passengers split 500 and so on, until you get 4 people max. Since the other three passengers were the driver’s wife, infant son and a relative, it was like having just one passenger aboard, hence my 500 soms fare. But I finally felt safe because I didn’t think this guy would try anything with his wife in the car unless they were the Kyrgyz version of Bonnie and Clyde. Actually, they were very friendly, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk. I was too pissed at myself for not looking at the window sign back in Bishkek. For all of my survival instinct, at times, I’m the CEO of Airhead, Inc. I’ve slammed into walls and plate glass doors because of a preoccupation with a new play idea or some such thing. Anyhow, after only a couple minutes of self-flagellation, I decide to make the most of what’s left of my trip. I actually had a good Kyrgyz conversation with Samatbek and his wife. They are very nice people. Before taking me home, he dropped his wife, child and cousin at his father’s house. A crowd of people were there and all wanted to stare at the American in the car. One older dude actually got into the car and began speaking, I mean, slurring something in an unintelligible language. His bad breath and cigarette smoke gagged me. I needed fresh air. When I got out of the car, he got the hint and left. Then, after all the crap I’d endured today, I realized once again how the universe puts us right where we belong. A couple comes up to the car and apologizes for all the attention I’m getting. And they said it in English. And they live in Brooklyn! Sheepshead Bay. They’re Kyrgyz and back here for the sad occasion of the husband’s father’s funeral. They go back on Sunday, but said they were glad to talk to a fellow Brooklynite and I said likewise. We chatted for a couple minutes, I recapped my day and we said good-bye. Then I realized Samatbek was trying to tell me about this couple for several minutes but I couldn’t understand who he was talking about. All I could understand was that someone from Kyrgyzstan came from New York. Nothing more. Anyhow, what a nice way to end a long and hectic day.
I should have known it was going to be rocky when the receptionist at my hotel had a hard time getting me a taxi. I ended up riding with a driver who dropped off another fare, not the cab she reserved. He wanted 180 soms for a 100 soms ride. We settled on 120. He took me to the bus station where I would catch a marshrutka home. He pointed me to the waiting area and I hopped in to a waiting vehicle. In Kyrgyzstan marshrutkas don’t leave until they are full, so I had to wait about an hour for this to happen. That’s not really very long and I had a book to read. I thought the fare was less than it should have been but didn’t question it. The van was big and held lots of passengers. We took off and I immediately realized we weren’t going back the way I came. Then we hit the Kazakh border, but I still didn’t blink because a) sometimes in the winter the drivers go through Kazakhstan to get to my city because there is too much snow in the mountains and b) I have a Kazakh visa. Let me tell you, getting across the border was an ordeal. Not for everyone. Just me. To leave Kyrgyzstan, the lady soldier took my passport and wrote all my information on a piece of paper, then called someone. I was finally allowed to leave. Then I walked a hundred yards and had to go through it all again as I tried to enter Kazakhstan. This time all the info was punched into a computer and my photo was taken. Meanwhile, I’m hoping the bus doesn’t take off without me. I’m also hoping by this time next year the world has a higher opinion of America and Americans and life will be easier for us overseas. (Do your thing, Barak!)
Back on the bus I sit back until we stop again. Now we’re in Taraz, Kazakhstan and everybody is getting off the van again. I think it must be time to go back into Kyrgyzstan so I get off with them, but I’m getting a funny feeling because Taraz isn’t on the border. It’s close, but that doesn’t count. I ask the driver if I need my passport again and I figure out that this is the end of the line. Then I look at the sign in the front window of the marshrutka, the one I didn’t look at before boarding. Sure enough, I took the wrong one. You see, it all goes back to that taxi driver from the hotel. I told him I needed a marshrutka to Talas and he thought I said Taraz. Damn those language barriers. I’m really not panicking yet, but wondering how the hell I’m going to get home that day, and more importantly, how much is it going to cost me. I had about 1500 soms on me, but there was no guarantee that would be enough to get me home. And it almost wasn’t. Not to be overly dramatic, although I am wont to do so at times, but let me tell you the scariest part. I looked around that bus station parking lot and there was no one around me. I was the lone tree in the field. I saw a waiting area full of folks, but what was I going to do, walk up to each of them until I found someone who spoke English even a little bit? I realized/decided since I was totally on my own in communicating with anyone who could possibly help me, I’d start with my driver. And if I couldn’t get through to him, who knew what I would do. As a last resort I’d probably start asking anybody I could find, but only then. If that’s not motivation to improve my Kyrgyz, nothing is.
Talking to my driver, who helped me back at the border crossing into Kazakhstan, I found vocabulary I didn’t know I knew. Amazing what desperation does to the mind. Anyway, he was nice enough to help me find a ride back to the right country. We waited until we saw a shrut (gettin’ tired of spelling the entire word) heading for Talas. I thanked him about six times, got on the bus and was ready to get home. That lasted about two minutes. I was told to disembark off for some reason having to do with my passport. Not knowing Russian, I had no choice but to obey. Then this weasel looking taxi driver started spouting more Russian to my shrut guy. My “street” antennae activated. I’ve seen this guy’s cousin driving a cab in Brooklyn, if you know what I mean. Like alpha males, every country also has its crooks and con men. Still he says that he can get me across the border and home for 500 soms. Steep, but again, what choice did I have? He also wanted the money upfront, which goes against what the PC told us, which is to always pay at the end of the ride, but this guy wasn’t moving until I handed him the cash. I did. We took off and he’s talking like I understand every word he’s saying, trying to be all friendly-like. Next thing I know we’ve pulled into this back lot where I see a few more taxis. Our trip took 5 minutes. I knew I’d been had. He points me to another car and says that’s my taxi home and it will cost me 500 soms. I said, “I just gave you 500!” Then he drew his finger across his throat while saying something I figured to mean “Fugidaboutit” or close to it. One thousand soms, the amount I just shelled out in the last 10 minutes, is about $25. Not much by American standards, but I’m not making an American standards salary. And I don’t have access to my American standards bank account. My newest, and third driver of the day, must have figured out the Russian weasel cheated me because they started yelling at each other. I didn’t get any refund, but I appreciated his saying something.
Settled into what I’m praying is my final vehicle of the day, I realize why I’m paying this guy 500 soms. In Kyrgyzstan, every taxi has a flat rate based on distance traveled. So, from Taraz to Talas it’s 500. If there’s only one passenger, he pays the whole fare. Two passengers split 500 and so on, until you get 4 people max. Since the other three passengers were the driver’s wife, infant son and a relative, it was like having just one passenger aboard, hence my 500 soms fare. But I finally felt safe because I didn’t think this guy would try anything with his wife in the car unless they were the Kyrgyz version of Bonnie and Clyde. Actually, they were very friendly, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk. I was too pissed at myself for not looking at the window sign back in Bishkek. For all of my survival instinct, at times, I’m the CEO of Airhead, Inc. I’ve slammed into walls and plate glass doors because of a preoccupation with a new play idea or some such thing. Anyhow, after only a couple minutes of self-flagellation, I decide to make the most of what’s left of my trip. I actually had a good Kyrgyz conversation with Samatbek and his wife. They are very nice people. Before taking me home, he dropped his wife, child and cousin at his father’s house. A crowd of people were there and all wanted to stare at the American in the car. One older dude actually got into the car and began speaking, I mean, slurring something in an unintelligible language. His bad breath and cigarette smoke gagged me. I needed fresh air. When I got out of the car, he got the hint and left. Then, after all the crap I’d endured today, I realized once again how the universe puts us right where we belong. A couple comes up to the car and apologizes for all the attention I’m getting. And they said it in English. And they live in Brooklyn! Sheepshead Bay. They’re Kyrgyz and back here for the sad occasion of the husband’s father’s funeral. They go back on Sunday, but said they were glad to talk to a fellow Brooklynite and I said likewise. We chatted for a couple minutes, I recapped my day and we said good-bye. Then I realized Samatbek was trying to tell me about this couple for several minutes but I couldn’t understand who he was talking about. All I could understand was that someone from Kyrgyzstan came from New York. Nothing more. Anyhow, what a nice way to end a long and hectic day.
What a
day that was!!! It ranks at the top of the list as the singularly most
interesting day of my service. Everything I wrote happened, but some of what
happened I didn’t write. I’m ready to reveal now, because the embarrassment
associated with that day passed long ago. It's all in the book. : - )
