Uyghur, Please!

I had a couple days to spend in Bishkek, and since you know I am actually not interested in spending another second of my life in Bishkek ever again, I decided to go to the Issyk Kul, which is a bumpin’ summer getaway for cost-conscious Russian families.  It was early November, so thankfully I wouldn’t have to compete with these Russians for places to stay so I took a bus to the town of Issyk Kul and then hopped into a marshrutka that was going around the rim of Lake Issyk Kul to Karakul on the other side.  The view out the window of the marshrutka was unbeatable, except I couldn’t see it because I was in a completely inopportune area of the marshrutka and it had curtains and I ended up talking to an American Peace Corps worker who occupied the majority of my time with conversation that was…peppered with condescension to say the absolute least.  

The Road to Issyk Kul

When we finally reached Karakul it was dark.  I had hoped he would know of some cheap accommodations and he only knew of a couple of families that took in people but it was took late to contact them (it was 5pm) and that I should probably stay with him.  I didn’t totally want to, but I figured it was a good option.  He had two enormous 5L jars of kimchi that he had just made and was bringing back, and we had taken a taxi to the apartment.  When he was helping an old lady out of the shared taxi he handed me the two jars and and i was struggling to carry it and my bags so in attempt to get a better grip on the jars and the bags, one of the jars popped out of my grip and onto the ground and smashed, sending up a heavy waft of sour, spicy garlic.  He was not happy.  I wasn’t happy, but here we were, unhappy.  

Some beautiful mountain scenery and the charming taxi economy

He gave me a room to sleep in and I hit the bed fairly hard, exhausted from a long trip.  The next day I planned to explore the city and find some acceptable accommodation that would allow me to breathe and manage my own affairs.  This wasn’t possible, as he took me to some village where he taught Korean (-?  He wasn’t even Korean.  I must admit I admire his linguistic prowess) and I was free to wander around, which I really enjoyed because Kyrgyz villages on the threshold of winter’s embrace are quite beautiful.  I met the family he had stayed with when he first moved there, and we enjoyed some tea and cookies.  I couldn’t quite understand the mothers’s Russian, no doubt a fault of my own incapabilities, but my host helped by yelling at me the same words louder and aggressively in Russian. Thanks.  I believe this is along the lines of “saying it louder and in English” in theory.  After I helped the mother pick apples and then took a walk up the hillside to survey my domains.  

Fun stove

I then met my caretaker after his lesson and we returned to Karakul.  Okay, is it weird that I say “washroom”?  Because every time I said I needed to use a “washroom” he looked at me in a strange way and said “You’re not going to find one of those here” which is totally fine by mean I will pee literally anywhere, but then after I asked again a few hours later he finally said, “What the @#$% is a washroom?”  Ugh.  

I asked to buy this but was told there is no guarantee it works and therefore the seller felt it would be an unfair transaction.