Saturday, June 18, 2016
малина!
малина is the Russian word for raspberries. The English word "raspberry" is horrible sounding and that's probably why the word is also used to describe the obnoxious blowing sound one makes with the tongue and lips to signify contempt or derision. It's also the kind of peculiarly spelled word that drives students of English as a Second Language nuts. But, the Russian word for raspberries, малина, is pronounced "Malina" and, unlike the word raspberry, Malina is a pretty and delicate word, just like the small berries themselves. Am I talking about the word for raspberry in two different languages because I have finally lost my mind after spending the past week climbing up and down the endless flights of stairs to my apartment because the elevator in my building, it seems, will never be fixed? NO! I am talking about raspberries because it's the beginning of raspberry season in Kyrgyzstan and I bought a wonderful container of my very favorite fruit today. Yes, I like them even more than watermelons--especially their portability. And, by the way, the first handful I ate were sublimely delicious.
Monday, June 13, 2016
What not to buy when you live in a 6th floor Bishkek apartment
After work, every few nights, I stop by the tiny fruit stand near my apartment. The guy who runs the stand is very polite, speaks English, and offers tasty fruit at a reasonable price, so I like to shop there, rather than at the local supermarket chain, for my produce.
It's been very hot for the past couple weeks and there was a new product at the stand that looked like it would serve as wonderful summertime refreshment: big, beautiful watermelons.
The man who runs the fruit stand told me he had the best possible watermelon saved just for me; it would be so sweet and delicious, he assured me, I would thank him for allowing me the privilege of purchasing it. So I bought it and began the trek home, six kilogram melon perched on my shoulder because it was easier on my back to carry it this way. After making the 200 meter walk in the sweltering heat, I arrived at my apartment building sweating, somewhat sore and winded, only to remember that the elevator had been broken when I had left for work in the morning. The cranky old elevator in my building usually falls apart about once a week, alarms a blaring, then by the time I return from work in the evening someone has fixed the infernal contraption and I am able to make the somewhat uncertain journey up to my apartment on the 6th floor. Not today. My mechanical nemesis, having thwarted the efforts of the repair crew on this summer's day, remained as unmoving as the mountains that surround Kyrgyzstan's capital city.
I thought about just leaving the watermelon on the ground floor for someone who lives on one of the lower floors to discover and cart back to their own apartment as an unexpected present. But, the thought of the taste of fresh watermelon was too tempting, so I tightened my belt, strained a bit, and re-positioned the melon back on my shoulder as I began the slow trudge up all the stairs.
Carrying a watermelon up multiple flights of stairs is kind of like going jogging with a bowling ball. You kind of have to watch your balance and be very careful to keep from dropping your precious cargo on your toes. When I got to the third floor I could hear someone coming up behind me, gaining ground bit by bit. By the time I reached the fourth floor, my pursuer had caught me and overtaken me. It was the tough, elderly, Soviet-era Russian woman with varicose veins who lives on the seventh floor who shuffled past me. I think I detected her rolling her eyes at me as she ambled by, sending mental snark waves in my direction for being the dimwitted, inarticulate American struggling up six flights of stairs with a giant watermelon on his shoulder.
Finally, I reached my apartment door on the 6th floor and realized my keys were in my left pants pocket, where they couldn't be reached because the watermelon was precariously perched on my left shoulder. I had a feeling, as exhausted as I was, that if I tried to put the watermelon down on the ground I would simply drop it and have it explode into five jagged pieces. But, my frantic efforts to reach deep into my left pants pocket with my right hand weren't working either. Somehow, though, I managed to lean up against the door with the watermelon and gradually slide the humungous piece of fruit down to the ground without shattering it. Thank goodness my elderly neighbor hadn't witnessed the entire pathetic spectacle because I think she would have given me a Soviet-style beatdown and stolen my watermelon from me just to teach me a lesson.
After I was finally able to open my apartment door, I rolled the watermelon through my apartment and wedged it into my refrigerator, happy that I had somehow made it without requiring a visit to the local physician. So, now you know what not to buy when you live in a 6th floor Bishkek apartment. Next time I visit my tiny neighborhood fruit stand I am purchasing a couple of kiwi fruit and a small bag of cherries.
It's been very hot for the past couple weeks and there was a new product at the stand that looked like it would serve as wonderful summertime refreshment: big, beautiful watermelons.
The man who runs the fruit stand told me he had the best possible watermelon saved just for me; it would be so sweet and delicious, he assured me, I would thank him for allowing me the privilege of purchasing it. So I bought it and began the trek home, six kilogram melon perched on my shoulder because it was easier on my back to carry it this way. After making the 200 meter walk in the sweltering heat, I arrived at my apartment building sweating, somewhat sore and winded, only to remember that the elevator had been broken when I had left for work in the morning. The cranky old elevator in my building usually falls apart about once a week, alarms a blaring, then by the time I return from work in the evening someone has fixed the infernal contraption and I am able to make the somewhat uncertain journey up to my apartment on the 6th floor. Not today. My mechanical nemesis, having thwarted the efforts of the repair crew on this summer's day, remained as unmoving as the mountains that surround Kyrgyzstan's capital city.
I thought about just leaving the watermelon on the ground floor for someone who lives on one of the lower floors to discover and cart back to their own apartment as an unexpected present. But, the thought of the taste of fresh watermelon was too tempting, so I tightened my belt, strained a bit, and re-positioned the melon back on my shoulder as I began the slow trudge up all the stairs.
Carrying a watermelon up multiple flights of stairs is kind of like going jogging with a bowling ball. You kind of have to watch your balance and be very careful to keep from dropping your precious cargo on your toes. When I got to the third floor I could hear someone coming up behind me, gaining ground bit by bit. By the time I reached the fourth floor, my pursuer had caught me and overtaken me. It was the tough, elderly, Soviet-era Russian woman with varicose veins who lives on the seventh floor who shuffled past me. I think I detected her rolling her eyes at me as she ambled by, sending mental snark waves in my direction for being the dimwitted, inarticulate American struggling up six flights of stairs with a giant watermelon on his shoulder.
Finally, I reached my apartment door on the 6th floor and realized my keys were in my left pants pocket, where they couldn't be reached because the watermelon was precariously perched on my left shoulder. I had a feeling, as exhausted as I was, that if I tried to put the watermelon down on the ground I would simply drop it and have it explode into five jagged pieces. But, my frantic efforts to reach deep into my left pants pocket with my right hand weren't working either. Somehow, though, I managed to lean up against the door with the watermelon and gradually slide the humungous piece of fruit down to the ground without shattering it. Thank goodness my elderly neighbor hadn't witnessed the entire pathetic spectacle because I think she would have given me a Soviet-style beatdown and stolen my watermelon from me just to teach me a lesson.
After I was finally able to open my apartment door, I rolled the watermelon through my apartment and wedged it into my refrigerator, happy that I had somehow made it without requiring a visit to the local physician. So, now you know what not to buy when you live in a 6th floor Bishkek apartment. Next time I visit my tiny neighborhood fruit stand I am purchasing a couple of kiwi fruit and a small bag of cherries.
 |
| My Bishkek traveling companion. Perhaps I will bring a couple of pieces up to my tough, elderly neighbor. |
Did you know those teeny tiny temporary tires can go more than 50 kilometers?
I am interviewing candidates for the position of Student Life Advisor and I had to take a group of three of them from Bishkek to Naryn so they could see the campus and get an idea of where they might be living for the next year of two if they get the job.
About 60 kilometers into the trip, the hired vehicle we were riding in began to shimmy and then we all heard the ominous thump, thump, thumping sound of what was, of course, a flat tire. Bekbol, our exceedingly good-natured driver, changed the flat in no time at all and we resumed our trip.
Problem is, he replaced the flat with one of those teeny tiny tires that the vehicle owner's manual says you should never drive on for more than 50 kilometers. And, the manual also explains, you should never go over 80 kilometers per hour on the teeny tiny temporary tire.
I guess Bekbol has never read the owner's manual. Bekbol continued driving the vehicle at his customary 120 kilometers per hour. "Are you sure you're supposed drive this fast on the spare tire?" I asked. "What are you talking about?" replied Bekbol, his perpetually sunny smile beaming across his face.
That was before we entered the mountain pass section of our journey. That's when we went careening around hairpin turns on our teeny tiny temporary tire, went flying down 12 degree grades or steeper on our temporary tire, zigged and zagged and avoided assorted cows, goats, and sheep (and one wayward pedestrian) on our temporary tire, and successfully navigated 50 kilometers of gravel road and potholes while traveling through road under repair on our teeny tiny temporary tire.
Finally, over 200 kilometers after suffering our flat, we arrived at the campus in Naryn. "Are you going to the tire shop now to get that flat fixed?" I asked Bekbol. "What tire shop?" was the cheerful reply.
So, after our campus tour and our Naryn city tour, off we traveled on the teeny tiny temporary tire back to Bishkek. Back over the gravel roads, dodging more sheep and goats and cows, over the mountain pass and down the steep grades, through the hairpin turns, almost 300 kilometers more to Bishkek.
Our teeny tiny temporary tire made, by my calculation, a 500 kilometer journey at many different speeds, most of them above 80 kilometers per hour. I don't know about the teeny tiny temporary tires I have read about in my owner's manuals, but this particular one was a pretty impressive workhorse that greatly exceeded its mandate. I must admit I was very happy when we disembarked in Bishkek. Bekbol said farewell in the always cheerful and unconcerned manner he employed and I took my three candidates out for dinner hoping that they, after their journey on the teeny tiny temporary tire, might actually still consider working for us. But most of all, I was simply grateful for journeys concluded successfully.
About 60 kilometers into the trip, the hired vehicle we were riding in began to shimmy and then we all heard the ominous thump, thump, thumping sound of what was, of course, a flat tire. Bekbol, our exceedingly good-natured driver, changed the flat in no time at all and we resumed our trip.
 |
| Bekbol changing our flat; we offered to help, but he'd would have none of that |
I guess Bekbol has never read the owner's manual. Bekbol continued driving the vehicle at his customary 120 kilometers per hour. "Are you sure you're supposed drive this fast on the spare tire?" I asked. "What are you talking about?" replied Bekbol, his perpetually sunny smile beaming across his face.
That was before we entered the mountain pass section of our journey. That's when we went careening around hairpin turns on our teeny tiny temporary tire, went flying down 12 degree grades or steeper on our temporary tire, zigged and zagged and avoided assorted cows, goats, and sheep (and one wayward pedestrian) on our temporary tire, and successfully navigated 50 kilometers of gravel road and potholes while traveling through road under repair on our teeny tiny temporary tire.
Finally, over 200 kilometers after suffering our flat, we arrived at the campus in Naryn. "Are you going to the tire shop now to get that flat fixed?" I asked Bekbol. "What tire shop?" was the cheerful reply.
So, after our campus tour and our Naryn city tour, off we traveled on the teeny tiny temporary tire back to Bishkek. Back over the gravel roads, dodging more sheep and goats and cows, over the mountain pass and down the steep grades, through the hairpin turns, almost 300 kilometers more to Bishkek.
Our teeny tiny temporary tire made, by my calculation, a 500 kilometer journey at many different speeds, most of them above 80 kilometers per hour. I don't know about the teeny tiny temporary tires I have read about in my owner's manuals, but this particular one was a pretty impressive workhorse that greatly exceeded its mandate. I must admit I was very happy when we disembarked in Bishkek. Bekbol said farewell in the always cheerful and unconcerned manner he employed and I took my three candidates out for dinner hoping that they, after their journey on the teeny tiny temporary tire, might actually still consider working for us. But most of all, I was simply grateful for journeys concluded successfully.
Thursday, June 9, 2016
Images of Crumbling and Decay II
Despite the current building boom in Bishkek, where luxury apartment buildings are springing up faster than dandelions, there is a parallel phenomenon where building in the public sector is almost non-existent and old projects that are now unfunded sit idle indefinitely.
Below is a building behind the Philharmonic Theater, not far from my apartment. It was started several years ago during the rule of the despot who was thrown out of office in the 2010 uprising. His sons used public money to engage in building projects, but after the uprising when they fled to the UK, many of these projects were halted and remain incomplete to this day. No one seems to know what this building was supposed to be. This sturdy and thickly constructed structure that resembles a pine cone or a hand grenade looks like it could survive an intensive bombardment. But it appears this abandoned shell will live out its life as a stillborn skeleton, never achieving birth.
Below is a building behind the Philharmonic Theater, not far from my apartment. It was started several years ago during the rule of the despot who was thrown out of office in the 2010 uprising. His sons used public money to engage in building projects, but after the uprising when they fled to the UK, many of these projects were halted and remain incomplete to this day. No one seems to know what this building was supposed to be. This sturdy and thickly constructed structure that resembles a pine cone or a hand grenade looks like it could survive an intensive bombardment. But it appears this abandoned shell will live out its life as a stillborn skeleton, never achieving birth.
Monday, June 6, 2016
Quiz of the Day
The picture below depicts which of the following:
A. What I saw while walking home from work last week
B. The current status of the 2016 United States Presidential Election campaign
C. The quality of play of the Cleveland Cavaliers in the first two games of the NBA Finals
D. All of the above
E. None of the above
It's a slightly tricky little quiz, so choose your answer carefully. Don't cheat and look at the answer below the picture until you've made your guess.
The correct answer is D, All of the above, as A, B, and C can all be classified as dumpster fires.
A. What I saw while walking home from work last week
B. The current status of the 2016 United States Presidential Election campaign
C. The quality of play of the Cleveland Cavaliers in the first two games of the NBA Finals
D. All of the above
E. None of the above
It's a slightly tricky little quiz, so choose your answer carefully. Don't cheat and look at the answer below the picture until you've made your guess.
The correct answer is D, All of the above, as A, B, and C can all be classified as dumpster fires.
Saturday, June 4, 2016
Visiting Mr. Nice
Recently I visited the dentist in Kyrgyzstan which, even the thought of this visit, caused my cohorts to worry greatly for my well-being. They seemed surprised by my relative serenity when facing dental treatment, but little did they know that of all the service providers who work on our bodies, it is not the dentist, or even the physician, who worries me the most: it is the barber. It all goes back to childhood. My father was my first barber, armed with a do-it-yourself home haircutting kit as part of our family's wise approach to home budgeting. While my father is a man of great and varied talents, haircutting might have been his weakest skill. I admit I was a very poor customer, fearful, squirming, and crying, but the day he cut my ear with his scissors causing blood to spill everywhere was the day my mother put her foot down and ended my father's home barber career, much to the relief of all parties.
Not that the professional barber was much better. I vividly remember a barber in the coastal town we lived in when I was a child, who would cough down the back of your neck every couple minutes, breath smelling of whisky or some other potent beverage. Then there was the barber, when we lived in the Columbia Basin--the only haircut he would give anyone who entered his shop was an ultra-short, Marine Corps style buzzcut. I was very young at the time and I don't remember his exact words, but it was something about refusing to give people "hippie haircuts."
The barbers I have visited in my adult life have possessed varying degrees of skill, but what they have shared in common is an unpleasant and unyielding political extremism. African-Americans, Mexicans, Liberals, Foreigners, Arabs, Muslims, Democrats, Chinese (usually called "Orientals" in the barber vocabulary), Gay people (in the barber vocabulary usually called...well, never mind), Commies, Feminists, Tree Huggers, Hippies (of course), Humanists, and Godless Atheists (barbers can be a little redundant), are the usual targets of the male American barber in the tiresome, never-ending speeches you have to listen to while getting your haircut in the United States. I always remain silent because I believe it's never good policy to argue with people wielding razor blades and other sharp objects. Unfortunately, though, my barbers would never quiet down, because with my luck, there is always the waiting customer sitting in the shop who speaks up, seconding the barber's thoughts and encouraging the speeches to continue. It makes me wonder if every barber college has a secret political propaganda class in its curriculum designed to indoctrinate rookie barbers in negative, extremist thought. No wonder I prefer visiting the dentist, or even the proctologist, where at least your misery is usually silent.
Visiting a barber in another country, while blessedly free of political talk, or any talk at all, presents its own challenges. When you go to a barber you can't communicate with, it's like a game of Russian Roulette: there's a five in six chance everything will be fine, but there's also that one in six chance your barber thinks you're telling him you want your hair dyed orange. There are things you can do to reduce the risk. Like when I lived in Japan, I would have one of the bi-lingual Japanese teachers I worked with write out instructions to the barber on a piece of paper. I would bring the paper into the barber shop and hand it to the staff of four barbers who would, before cutting my hair, all huddle up, gesture emphatically, and spend about five minutes in heated consultation on how they should deal with my hair as if they were debating who would win the Grand Sumo Tournament. Fortunately, none of the teachers I worked with was a prankster, and they always did their best to represent my wishes faithfully, so I managed to escape my time with Japanese barbers relatively unscathed.
Now you know why I am reluctant to go to the barber, wherever it is I find myself, and why I am always a little anxious before going to get my hair cut. The first haircutters I visited in Kyrgyzstan were the ones near my apartment. They weren't barbers, but a group of female hairdressers. Ironically, in the two previous times I had visited they were the ones who found my visits unpleasant, as everyone had a look of consternation whenever I walked into their establishment, as though a potential armed robber had entered their midst. Today, when I stopped by, the entire shop was in a panic to see me. It turns out the cashier who speaks English and always translates my wishes had the day off. "Aaaaaah..." "Eeeeeeeeh..." "Ohhhhh..." was what they said when they saw me. "Well, maybe I'll come back later," is what I said just as I was leaving.
That's when I remembered seeing a barber shop about a half a kilometer from my apartment. The name of the place is "Mr. Nice."
I walked into the place and the first thing I noticed was the shop's gigantic logo. Suddenly, I was a bit anxious as Mr. Nice really didn't look all that nice and, furthermore, I wasn't particularly impressed with his grooming.
But, I was in the shop and there was no turning back as I certainly didn't want to face the wrath of Mr. Nice that I would have encountered had I left.
Luckily, one of Mr. Nice's barbers could translate my instructions to the barber who had drawn the short straw and had been assigned my case. My haircutting experience took about an hour. I received a shampoo, had my hair cut with three different scissors and two different clippers, got my neck shaved and, for what reason I don't know, received an emphatic three-minute massage of my neck and shoulders. Then, in a custom peculiar to Kyrgyz haircutting establishments, I had my hair shampooed a second time, and received a styling and hair drying session, followed by hair gel, and hair spray. I had won another game of Russian Roulette as this experience turned out to be one of the empty-chambered, five out of six. All that for less money than a Supercut or a twenty-minute rant from an angry American barber.
As I left, the manager provided me one final, unexpected surprise. He gave me a copy of Mr. Nice's Spring Music Collection, Volume 2 as a parting gift. The Spring Music Collection consists of 33 tracks of assorted pop, reggae, and hip hop music. It turns out Mr. Nice isn't as mean as he looks; he actually is pretty nice. And I now have another story to add to my anecdotes of barbers.
Not that the professional barber was much better. I vividly remember a barber in the coastal town we lived in when I was a child, who would cough down the back of your neck every couple minutes, breath smelling of whisky or some other potent beverage. Then there was the barber, when we lived in the Columbia Basin--the only haircut he would give anyone who entered his shop was an ultra-short, Marine Corps style buzzcut. I was very young at the time and I don't remember his exact words, but it was something about refusing to give people "hippie haircuts."
The barbers I have visited in my adult life have possessed varying degrees of skill, but what they have shared in common is an unpleasant and unyielding political extremism. African-Americans, Mexicans, Liberals, Foreigners, Arabs, Muslims, Democrats, Chinese (usually called "Orientals" in the barber vocabulary), Gay people (in the barber vocabulary usually called...well, never mind), Commies, Feminists, Tree Huggers, Hippies (of course), Humanists, and Godless Atheists (barbers can be a little redundant), are the usual targets of the male American barber in the tiresome, never-ending speeches you have to listen to while getting your haircut in the United States. I always remain silent because I believe it's never good policy to argue with people wielding razor blades and other sharp objects. Unfortunately, though, my barbers would never quiet down, because with my luck, there is always the waiting customer sitting in the shop who speaks up, seconding the barber's thoughts and encouraging the speeches to continue. It makes me wonder if every barber college has a secret political propaganda class in its curriculum designed to indoctrinate rookie barbers in negative, extremist thought. No wonder I prefer visiting the dentist, or even the proctologist, where at least your misery is usually silent.
Visiting a barber in another country, while blessedly free of political talk, or any talk at all, presents its own challenges. When you go to a barber you can't communicate with, it's like a game of Russian Roulette: there's a five in six chance everything will be fine, but there's also that one in six chance your barber thinks you're telling him you want your hair dyed orange. There are things you can do to reduce the risk. Like when I lived in Japan, I would have one of the bi-lingual Japanese teachers I worked with write out instructions to the barber on a piece of paper. I would bring the paper into the barber shop and hand it to the staff of four barbers who would, before cutting my hair, all huddle up, gesture emphatically, and spend about five minutes in heated consultation on how they should deal with my hair as if they were debating who would win the Grand Sumo Tournament. Fortunately, none of the teachers I worked with was a prankster, and they always did their best to represent my wishes faithfully, so I managed to escape my time with Japanese barbers relatively unscathed.
Now you know why I am reluctant to go to the barber, wherever it is I find myself, and why I am always a little anxious before going to get my hair cut. The first haircutters I visited in Kyrgyzstan were the ones near my apartment. They weren't barbers, but a group of female hairdressers. Ironically, in the two previous times I had visited they were the ones who found my visits unpleasant, as everyone had a look of consternation whenever I walked into their establishment, as though a potential armed robber had entered their midst. Today, when I stopped by, the entire shop was in a panic to see me. It turns out the cashier who speaks English and always translates my wishes had the day off. "Aaaaaah..." "Eeeeeeeeh..." "Ohhhhh..." was what they said when they saw me. "Well, maybe I'll come back later," is what I said just as I was leaving.
That's when I remembered seeing a barber shop about a half a kilometer from my apartment. The name of the place is "Mr. Nice."
I walked into the place and the first thing I noticed was the shop's gigantic logo. Suddenly, I was a bit anxious as Mr. Nice really didn't look all that nice and, furthermore, I wasn't particularly impressed with his grooming.
But, I was in the shop and there was no turning back as I certainly didn't want to face the wrath of Mr. Nice that I would have encountered had I left.
Luckily, one of Mr. Nice's barbers could translate my instructions to the barber who had drawn the short straw and had been assigned my case. My haircutting experience took about an hour. I received a shampoo, had my hair cut with three different scissors and two different clippers, got my neck shaved and, for what reason I don't know, received an emphatic three-minute massage of my neck and shoulders. Then, in a custom peculiar to Kyrgyz haircutting establishments, I had my hair shampooed a second time, and received a styling and hair drying session, followed by hair gel, and hair spray. I had won another game of Russian Roulette as this experience turned out to be one of the empty-chambered, five out of six. All that for less money than a Supercut or a twenty-minute rant from an angry American barber.
As I left, the manager provided me one final, unexpected surprise. He gave me a copy of Mr. Nice's Spring Music Collection, Volume 2 as a parting gift. The Spring Music Collection consists of 33 tracks of assorted pop, reggae, and hip hop music. It turns out Mr. Nice isn't as mean as he looks; he actually is pretty nice. And I now have another story to add to my anecdotes of barbers.
Wednesday, June 1, 2016
An update on the first day of summer, as it is measured here.
Today is the first day of summer. Perhaps not where you live, but according to the Kyrgyz, June 1st represents the first day of the season. I am hoping that October 1st will not be the first day of winter as measured by the Kyrgyz, but I will not ask as I will find out soon enough.
A few of you inquired, so I am sending an update. Yes, I do have hot water. My water heater was fixed about 24 hours after I made my blog post on the topic. I still don't know what was wrong, but I don't mind being without explanations. When you don't speak any of the official languages of a nation you might get lucky and be able to figure out the "who" or the "where" of a situation, but usually it's the "why" that gets completely lost, like Amelia Earhart, never to be discovered. And so it is with my hot water heater. I was never able to find a "why" to explain the reason it wasn't working, but when it's a good outcome, you let the "why" slide by.
And, I got my dental filling last week. No problems at all. The English-speaking receptionist wasn't working on that particular day, so I really have no idea what the dentist did exactly or why, but there was no pain in the dental procedure and I have a new object in my mouth and the pain of a sore tooth I had experienced has dissipated. Let's hope Kyrgyz fillings aren't made out of lead or uranium, but otherwise, I think I'm set in the dental realm for awhile, knock on wood.
But, don't believe for a moment that everything is clear sailing. Not only is June 1, the first day of summer, but it's also "Everything Falls Apart at Your Office Day" in Kyrgyzstan. We lost our electricity for much of the day, the worst of it was having one of my co-workers trapped in the building's elevator for half an hour until they pried the door open and hauled her out. We also lost our water, and our internet, and the connections on half the phone calls I had to make to Tajikistan never even got established as I must have set a world's record for uttering the phrase "Can you hear me?" in the course of an hour. Why had all this mayhem taken place? Why? No one seemed able to explain. Evidently the "why" was missing, located, I'm assuming, somewhere near the lost continent of Atlantis.
By the time the work day had ended, I sat in my sweltering office as the mercury today hit 32 degrees--that's 90 degrees for you medieval folks--and I let out an exasperated laugh to myself because I realized it really isn't a normal day in Kyrgyzstan unless something has gone completely, and inexplicably, sideways.
A few of you inquired, so I am sending an update. Yes, I do have hot water. My water heater was fixed about 24 hours after I made my blog post on the topic. I still don't know what was wrong, but I don't mind being without explanations. When you don't speak any of the official languages of a nation you might get lucky and be able to figure out the "who" or the "where" of a situation, but usually it's the "why" that gets completely lost, like Amelia Earhart, never to be discovered. And so it is with my hot water heater. I was never able to find a "why" to explain the reason it wasn't working, but when it's a good outcome, you let the "why" slide by.
And, I got my dental filling last week. No problems at all. The English-speaking receptionist wasn't working on that particular day, so I really have no idea what the dentist did exactly or why, but there was no pain in the dental procedure and I have a new object in my mouth and the pain of a sore tooth I had experienced has dissipated. Let's hope Kyrgyz fillings aren't made out of lead or uranium, but otherwise, I think I'm set in the dental realm for awhile, knock on wood.
But, don't believe for a moment that everything is clear sailing. Not only is June 1, the first day of summer, but it's also "Everything Falls Apart at Your Office Day" in Kyrgyzstan. We lost our electricity for much of the day, the worst of it was having one of my co-workers trapped in the building's elevator for half an hour until they pried the door open and hauled her out. We also lost our water, and our internet, and the connections on half the phone calls I had to make to Tajikistan never even got established as I must have set a world's record for uttering the phrase "Can you hear me?" in the course of an hour. Why had all this mayhem taken place? Why? No one seemed able to explain. Evidently the "why" was missing, located, I'm assuming, somewhere near the lost continent of Atlantis.
By the time the work day had ended, I sat in my sweltering office as the mercury today hit 32 degrees--that's 90 degrees for you medieval folks--and I let out an exasperated laugh to myself because I realized it really isn't a normal day in Kyrgyzstan unless something has gone completely, and inexplicably, sideways.
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