Most of the man dont follow a constructed aim, it seems. Just a few stand out here, like everywhere. Most rely on the traditional order, giving them a priviledged position in society, while the woman of a family holds it all together.
And here we are with the right word: knowing. No one knows anything about something in a sense of abstact knowledge. That is almost not existent. It starts with boards and signs to indicate ways and directions. Also helpful would be numbers of long distance roads.
The unnamed person did not know the way, but since it is impossible to admit not to know something, he explained the route to me, which was obvious to see on my map. I bet he saw that way for the first time in his live, but explained it to me as if he was driving there once.
No one knows maps. Very common is, when I show people my map of Krgistan and the surrounding countries, that they ask where on the map is Germany ... .
Orientation is indeed working just on the immediate experience of having been somewhere, which is very sympathetic, but the abstract overview is entirely missing, like the scale of maps to compare and understand distances and the global correlations.
The political reason for it is obvious: people are better controled if they have little knowledge about the world. The need of fixing anything down to absolute trouth is also not that much developed and understood as necessary. I mean, look at the hats the men wear, lots of space obove the skull for further possibilities. And there are even te ornaments which lead the thinking in all kind of directions. Why coming to the core of something? The road signs, map and the scale is just one example. The function of stone-pavement, e.g., is that it creates a solid path to walk on. But it cannot fulfil that function if the edges are not stabilised, either in the way to put extra sand or clay or what ever aside the outer stones, or (!), all of the stones are engraved deep enough at one level, so the edges are not drifting away, ... . Etc.etc..
The common image of foreigners about the lazyness of Kyrgyz people I cannot totally share. I made quite different observations of people working from the morning until bedtime, just interrupted by meals. It is maybe the how. How to work with the recources and efficiency. Apperently the difference in the ability of business-making led to the bloody conflicts in the Osh region, where the economicaly better off Uzbek people were chased out of the country. But it must have happened with the knowledge and maybe even guidance of politicians. At least actively they didnt do anything against it.
Farhad is an architect, besides he is farmer. He is one of the educated exceptions of man I met who have an own plan and know how to relate with the development of their country, thoiugh he is still very rooted with the traditional life. At a very late afternoon he saves me with his place from camping outside within a very populated area in the countryside.
Economically he is doing well. Everywhere houses and office buildings are build. Also for his own ground he has new plans to rebuild it totally.
I would like to stay in this beautiful place and offer my help on anything in exchange for the food and sleeping place I got. But it stays with the offer. Asking the way, he just draws over and over again his own versions for me.
Smaller roads are not necessarily existing, even they are indicated on maps. Therefor others, which the locals dont even really know where they end. My attempts to cross from the Osh region westwards end all with the well meant tip not to go further. So did the old man in his retaurant, father of ten children, warning me of wolves, cold and whatever can happen. It sounded to me first, that he invited me to stay to eat, making the gesture of killing a sheep for dinner. I stood for maybe two hours thinking to stay even over night. Meanwhile, the young woman working there made eyes and chewing gum gestures to me. Jesus Christ, what a beauty. But the men around me must have noticed it and the comments about the direction I should take from now on, let me understand, that I should leave. I pay and the old man wishes me good luck for my tour.
All was fine before, we even exchanged limited thoughts about religion, and it seemed to to accept that in his mind we are of different camps by birth. What a strange thought to be different by birth. In front of god, in front of what we dont undestand, how can we be different.
I met this strange change in different versions a couple of times, from hospitality to the special request to leave. All fine and invitation first, but then you have to know when to leave.
The other attempt to shortcut throug the mountains stopped as well, after I challenged myself and the bike in steep gravel paths, waters crossings and tight bends up or downwards, navigating around half meter deep potholes or taking the slightly smaller ones. Surprisingly the heavy machine did it as if it never had seen anything else, as long it was rolling. Stopping quickly for a photo of cause didnt work and it dropped.
The common opinion, that the 1200GS is too heavy for such trips I can not confirm. It is sometimes more work for the rider than on a 650, of cause, but if you know how to let the bike do the work, it is all possible.
Not following the donkey trail anymore, which would let me run out of gas in the nowhere, I camp one night outside. People pass by with or without their animals and all wave friendly or stop for a smalltalk. Noone asked for the price of the motorcycle.
Next morning looks like badweather is coming up. Having no experience in this mountainous region, I decide it would be better to leave, since I have to get through all the obstacles again I managed the day before, but with rain for sure it would not get better.
So, I take the main road again, now direction Bishkek and will see what is coming.
One day at a restaurant on the main road from Jalal-Abad to Bishkek at Kochkor-Alta
It is about lunchtime and the rider didnt have jet breakfast.
As well it is hot and dry, traffic is high. The road goes steeply downwards and takes a sharp bend. Just a few houses and huts give the curve a bit lively contrast to the dry hills. Already passing one place which looks like food is served there, a boy waves to me and I turn around. It is one of the typical restaurants along the roads where they bake the bread themselves and make a good shashlik. I have both and a soup with meat. The broth is the best, goes directly into the system and makes me stay longer as expected.
Usually the people who work in these places, which is also here the family itself, has one table close to the kitchen area, where they sit and eat and do their family business as well. I am placed right there by one girl of maybe 11. Ainura is not shy and stands out of the crowd on the first look. She takes the orders and keeps the money in a small handbag. In a small booklet she does all the counting of every day. Inbetween she goes shopping a few missing things for the kitchen near by and serves the seated customers and the ones which just stop with their car and fetch some shashlik and bread. Others work there as well, the beautiful Ainagul, who is surprisingly not part of the family, Baiman, the brother, who is supposed to take care that the meat doesnt burn, Frahad the baker and chef of the front buisness towards the street, and of cause Bubu Sawida, the mother who holds the whole business together.
But the unquestioned star of the place is Ainura. Curious as she is, unstoppable she asks me all the usual questions and many more, and immediatly I see her bright mind behind these questions working on a unique construction of her own world. It comes to me that it is worth to take time for her as much she needs. The real surprise is, that within five minutes she asks me, or better said, tells me that she wants me to send her a present from Germany. In a parcel, she explaines, with the post. Pretty clothes and sweet things to eat, things the girls in her age need and food specialities from Germany. Ok, I can do that. Addresses are exchanged including the passport number of her father!?
In my small German-Russian, Russian-German dictionary she keeps looking for the right words for our communication. I between she has to go back to work, but it doesnt take long that she comes to me again with another question or explanation where she lives and how, what she knows about the world and what not, etc..
The mother and me talk about her. The opinion of the mother is, that Ainura is just talking all the time nonsense, which obviously gets on the mothers nerves. My opinion is, that she is over-intelligent and needs to go to the university.
The mother shows me how pretty Ainura is. That happens with the guesture of striking one eyebrow from the middle to the side with the index finger. During that day this guesture is done quite often. I am not sure if it only means prettyness, or also an offer of marriage. That day a few unmarried woman got offered to be married by me and taken to Germany for a better life. Always with this guesture and accompanied with a laughing, which allows the offer to be interpreted as a joke, but it can be interpreted as an invitation to talk about it more seriously. Ainura is the youngest of these unmarried ones in the age of 11. The real pretty Ainagul is seventeen years old and one look of her into my eyes are letting me almost forget anything around me and my past. Her look is so deep thet it seems there is only one future: marry me and take me with you to Gerrmany. Two other unmarried Ladies are introduced to me, that I should take them on my back seat direction the promised land, where everything is so much better. I stay on the joke side of all of these offers.
Meanwhile Ainura is making constantly comments and jokes about everybody. She just doesnt know what to do with her intelligence in this invironment. She is also the first person I meet who can bring my two different maps, the one of the entire world, and the one of Kyrkystan and its surrounding, in a meaningful relation.
All the fun is interrupted when the grandfather comes and orders everybody around, taking main position at the table, so that for a while he is my partner in communication. Luckily he is a funny guy who understands jokes as well and he makes the same offering jokes about all unmarried woman and me, specially with Ainagul, who is ordered to sit with us longer as she wants and her job allows. Just with looks, she makes me understand, that she doesnt like the game the grandfather of the family she works for, plays. Other looks show something different to me. Ainura doesnt miss anything of what is happening with anybody in the restaurant, even she is working at all fronts. Each detail is commented either by some words or looks, sometimes a gesture, so that also me, who doesnt understand everyhing she sais, knows about her opinion, which she puts over all the others.
During all that time I am asked by everybody all privat things, including my wealth, age and of cause the marriage status. Not so much what I work. Any news, someone found out about me, is exchanged with everybody, so that all my details can be given further to anyone who comes by and is curious about the stranger with the huge motorcycle. Main toppic stays my unmarried status and the German origin.
I stay for hours. One reason is the task I have to do with Ainura, answering all her questions, combined with the hope that I can convince the family to send her to university. The other side is my undecisiveness what to do and where to go. So I am asking for a place to stay overnight. Two places, even three get offered by Ainura and Ainagul. The restaurant itself, Ainuras family house in another city and the family house of Ainagul. After the mother returns from a major shopping and finds me still there, I consult her and she offers me to stay at the restaurant itself, and probably that is the best and polite option.
Now the mother sits down sharing with me her dinner, excellent noodles with tomatoes and onions. After that she is preparing some meat for the soups and tells me about her life, filled up with work and worries. She is working in the mornings in the electrical bulb factory and the rest of the day in the restaurant until around midnight. For a couple of years she was abroad for a better salary. She is quite a few years younger then me, but one can see all the years of family and work on her body, having no time for herself.
If I could manage a job in a factory in Germany for her, she asks. Hmm, not so easy. The working permit is the problem, I would not know how to do that. And to get a job at all now in Germany is not so easy at all. She understands, it was just a question.
Ainagul is coming to help with the meat. Flies are allover, so on the meat. Somewhat frustrated she aims with the big knife at one and succeeds. Mother and me look at her astonished about the hit and her missing sense for hygene, I am laughing to dissolve the misfortune, and the fly is taken out.
Dont ask questions about hygenic issues in these places, and, if you can, avoid what is called a toilet in the back yard between piles of half burned garbage. There is no garbage collection on the country side. Everywhere is plastic and glass laying around and noone seems to mind.
Still, the food is excellent in most places and so far I didnt have any problem. The meat is always very fresh, since they dont have a cooling chain. Many butcher by themself or it is bought next door from the expert, slaughtered the same day or just one before. There is no time for germs to mess with it.
It is almost dark by now. A car has a breakdown right in front of the restaurant. Desperate they try to fix new fittings into one wheel. I borrow them my toarchlight and even I can give tips to the untalented crew until a real mechanic comes from the garage next door. He confirms my guess, that the breakfluid cylinder is leaking and has to be replaced. The rest would do it, if cleaned properly.
After the repair is done, I am warned by the driver, not to sleep there, I would be probably robbed. Hmm, no no, not me, I answer a bit positively thinking, ands I would know how to defend myself.
Late at night the girls are picked up to get home finally. My bed is made the same spot where I ate. The place is about to close and the mother is hardly still standing. Her last order to Farhad, the baker, who sleeps over night there to take care of th place, is, that noone is touching the bike!
Farhad and the befriended mechanic of the garage next door are having another late night dinner and some beer which I throw in. Football, cars, motorcycles, economy, and football again until its really time for everybody to hit the sack. It was good to be just with the boys at the end and do boy talk.
Except the noisy traffic close by, the night was better then expected. No rats, no burglaring, no knife needed, which I have always in my sleeping bag when I camp outside. A little worried I was in the beginning about my belongings, so everything got secured with the motion alarms of the bike while the documents and the money was unfindable hidden.
All fine the next day, I leave, thanking Farhad again, and my mind is full with memories of a whole day in a road restaurant, all the people working there and guestst going in and out.
I hope I can do something for Ainuras future with the parcels I have to send now.
Sovjet stile hotel and Marihuana
Right at the Toktogul lake is a hotel. Uninviting is already the fact that the gate at the main road is closed with a simple hook. Telephone numbers are shown on a board and in russian someone explains at the other end that the hotel is indeed open, the gate can be opened. Down at the building nothing indicates a running, locked doors, no cars, no people. My attempt at the last door I try makes the two house ladys inside aware of a potential guest. All is simple and clean, bathtub, Tv, no internet. For a day it will be the right thing to write and sort out photos.
No other guest appears in the soviet stile building, which is probably designed to host larger groups. Since it is away from the major road and at the lake, I think about all the possibilities to get it running. The big hinderence is maybe that the lake in fact is a fesh water reservoir and fenced off, with wholes of cause and some people hang out at the beach.
The vegetation at the beach looks familiar to me and also the smell. Getting closer I see, that it is indeed all marihuana, and some have the thick resin which smells up into the hotelroom when you leave the window open.
Kumis, the mares milk
Back on the main road I am prepared to get chasen by the huge dog I had to pass several times already while looking for a place to sleep. Pepper-spray might be the answer. Somewhere I have to get pepper. They never actually bite, but this beast was crossing my way five centimeters in front of the bike at tempo 60km/h. This time I am prepared and trick him out by slowing down when he is close and speed up again, so he slows a little as well but cand excellerate as fast as the bike.
The mountains get more and more phantastic. More horses, cows and sheep appear with the jurtes aside the road. The owners and the families live during the summer months up there with their herds. all do the same business by selling Mares milk and little balls of the sour butter.
The altitude is now already around 3.000m, sometimes higher at a pass, and the weather changes to rain and cold condition. It is afternoon already and I dont want to sleep outside in the mountains, so I rent for 2,50€ a tiny room in a container behind the roadstop restaurant/shop with great food and for the first time I drink the mares milk kumis. Phantastic. A little sour and refreshing, much better than the kefir or other similar stuff.
Electricity is made by a generator for two hours after dark, just time enough to give light for gthe last guests, clleaning up and charging my computer.
While I was still waiting for better weather to come the hulk is standing in front of me, drunk as I can tell, and only stabilised by his massive huge body. His right ear is crippled like the wrestlers have the so called cauliflower ear. Pretending not to understand him doesnt help. He insists to make me understand, that he wants to ride my bike to Bishkek and I should take the car. Drunk as he is, but I can see that he observes clearly my reaction, if I get impresd or scared. Ok, its time to laugh again. He doesnt. Time to show balls. He probably was a real wrestler. Just a couple of centimeters between our noses he waits. I get angry. What does he think, or does he think at all? My view tells him to fuck off and I turn around to do my own business, I dont need the boys game either to find out who has the bigger dick. With all of his massive body, he is still Asian and might not be able to compare anyway, once the pants are down.
Its a pitty that these encounters disturb the hospitable athmosphere in the country.
There are some more boring incidents, like the guy who wants to give me an airticket back home in exchange for the machine. Good joke, I say, but he insists and wants to know how much the machine costs. 50.000, for you 70.000. He understands and tells me to get lost. What the fuck? He came to me to do games, if he cant respect that I dont want, who should get lost? Yes yes its your country, I have no problem to respect that. I just want to get through, enjoy and leave a few dollars here. So please dont do the dick game all the time.
My "high-tech" bike provokes it of cause. They have to compare their dicks on the motorcycle and BMW should sponsor me for the advertising I do for them.
The two worlds of Kyrkystan come so pictoresque together in the mountains. On both sides of the rushing traffic from Osh to Bishkek and the other way around is happening what the people always did: spending the whole summer in the jurtes and letting the herds browse. The main road is literally cutting in high speed through the culture. Older trucks from Germany and other countries, with the original logos still on, are being passed or are passing the many used cars, Japanese or German prefered, using up what is not needed in Europe anymore.
The next day the weather is much better after a very cold night just above freezing point. The serpentines and the tunnel which come now on 4.000m above sea level confirm my right decision from the day before to stay a little lower over night.
Bed and Breakfast "Dolonsky 78" Bishkek
The capital tries to show its importance with ostentatious sculptures and buildings of power. I dont have the impression that anyone cares a lot about it, the traffic rushes through insanely.
Never pleasant to enter huge cities, also here in Bishkek getting lost without GPS makes me thinking about getting one for these moments and reconsider my opinion about the little units.
The taxidriver doesnt find the Bed and Breakfast for about one hour until the resolute lady of the hostel is called and picks us up with her car just 200 meters from the place and gives the driver a lecture wether he wants to make more money as necessary or if he is a real taxidriver at all. Immediately I like her wild character.
The hostel is full with bikers from all over, some Italians, some Polish, and, believe it or not, the German biker is there as well who I met shortly in Russia. Everybody is busy with prepareations for the coming trip like maintainance and paperwork.
Chinara is constanltly on the phone to solve customs problems for the travellers, Memo is driving around to get this or that for them, tea, coffee, fruit, and snacks are on the table, and for anything else you might need, just ask.
Since its the last day for the Italians and one of them has birthday, we all go together to an Italian restaurant run by Walter. I dont know anymore where I am. Is it really Bishkek, or north Italy, or somewhere else on the planet where a mixed crowd of disrooted people has a good time together. Just the Kyrgyz waitresses reveal the thin trouth.
Driving back with Chinara is adventurous again. Unpaitience in the traffic is the normal, tempo 80 or more in the city no rarity, maximum distance between the fenders is one meter.
The place just opened this season and is still adjusting to how to run it. Memo and Chinara do it because they like to do it. Memo is a biker himself, Chinara is a real cool woman who gives from her heart.
Although everybody takes what is offerd on the table and makes use of all the important free of charge extra services, people start to complain about the room rate. Ok, you all sleep in one huge room, but the bed is the best I had in Kyrgyzstan so far, everthing new and clean, two bathrooms, and maybe most important for the bikers, a complete workshop with all you need for the maintainance.
30$ a night sounds just a lot if you get invited for free by a family in the countryside, or the compared 15$ for a room for yourself but with a bad bed and questionable linen. Also you might think you are better off in a 10$ house where you share a room with 50 other people, one toilet and no sleep. But that is what people have in mind. Hotels in the capital are not less than 100$.
People take, complain, but dont understand the value of this house. It is a great mixture of Italian and Kyrgyz hospitality. The days I am staying here, all is easy and I didnt spend more than 35$ a day since either Memo or Chinara make an extra Pasta or Plov in the evening and I just throw in some beer and I am part of the family.
In the future Memo will have motorcycle tires for sale, maybe some single rooms as well, and, I forgot, the internet is working now excellently.
GPS: N 42 89 0282, E 74 58 7555
Phantastic riding through the mountains from Bishkek to Lake Issykul is only interrupted by two idiots with sunglasses who ask the wrong first and second and third question.
-How much costs the bike?-
-Are you travelling alone?-
-Where do you camp, alone?-
Just these questions, nothing else.
Everybody can figure out in a minute, even without asking, that I am travelling alone, that I have camping gear, and where I will go is obvious, there is only the lake Issykul in front of me. But also everybody can see in less time that these two have mean intentions. So partly I am saying the trouth, partly not. They think also that the sunglasses protect their eyes, but I am able to throw my view through the dark glass. That view is somehow saying: -Do you think I am stupid as you are?- And take off.
But it leaves me with an unpleasent feeling. You never know. They might still think it is a wild country.
At the Lake Issykul
If you barely can communicate through language, is assuming the best the way?
If you can, yes. If you trust, yes. Which means to have no fear as well.
But how did he know that he and his grandson has nothing to fear from me, the biker in his strange outfit, asking for permission to camp next to his jurte? Insight into human nature?
-Not tent, jurte!-
And he shows me the inside, where is a matrass one one side of the lower table, he would sleep with his grandson on the bed at the other side, next to the higher table.
No chance, that he wouldnt let me stay in my tent, I have to sleep inside.
What this place exactly is, I am unable to tell. For sure he rents out small boats on this public beach at lake Issykul, and he is netfishing in thatlittle bay. When I came, his daughter was there s well serving us tea and food, and I dont know if they also sell those to the visitors at the beach. The jurte is not very inviting for those, no carpets, since the ground is wet from being too close to the water, dirty dishes all over, mouse holes around the jurte and inside.
My cellphone gets high attention and is used several times by him, since he doesnt have one. Other members of his family come and I also dont know if this is the normal case or because of me. Some young lads who hang around at the beach are highly interested in the bike as usual, but when one just sits on it without asking permission I shout at him, he gets off and one other stands next to him, too close to me, supporting his body in any case. Ashamed they understand after a while that this was a step too far and a shared cigarette makes it all fine again.
The fisher and his grandson completly trust me, when he takes his boat to bring out the nets and I am alone with his grandson, well what could I do? There is nothing to steal in the jurte and why should I do any harm to the boy?
Finally it is sleeping time, he indicates on a huge clock when he needs to get up, 5.00am. I am not sure if he also meant that I have to leave then, and I am prepared for that case. Unfortunatly it is very windy that night, and, the radio is running all night, so I am sleepless and dont see the point to get up that early. Around 5.30 he gets woken up by his fishing buddy, and here again this strange phenomena happens again that I cant make out, if I am just asked if I go to Almaty in general or if this is a hint to leave. well, I am leaving, but since this is a public beach, I dont like to be told when. Nevertheless, they take off and I am waiting with the grandson.
The short intermission of their fishing is only concetrated on changing the nets and telling me I should take cre of the boiling water for tea, so I have no chance to ask him what I owe him for the food and stay. That has to wait for their final return. Again tea and some bread is served, and I ask. -Whatever you want to give.-
I only have a note of one thousand so we agree that I drive to a shop to change and return, but then he wants to come with me on the bike, I unpack it again and we take off to the nearest shop where I give him more then normal. From that money he gets a bottle of vodka and a pack of cigarettes for me.
Back at the beach he gives me his address and phone number with the demand to call him when I reached my next destination. If I dont want to stay, we could drink some vodka. No thanks, I think I have to go on, though this was a good place.
A whole documentation could be done there about him, his family, the visitors, the lake and the fishing. The German TV stations would love it, to show their spectators how good they live in comparison to him, emphazising at the same time what great life close to the nature he has, what the germans are usually missing so much.
Indeed, the scenery is something: the mountains in the back change their appearence a couple of times each hour, the fish is fresh, ... . A few critical points could be webbed into the documentation, e.g. political circumstances, corruption, social unbalance, gender issues and all that stuff the folks in Germany think to be so good at, including the issue of missing democracy without examining the historical and cultural reasons behind both sides.
No, I am not misusing him for the well being of German viewing public. He trusted me, I trusted him, and it is something only inbetween the two of us.
I don even want to make art there. What is happening during that day, that night, that morning is art enough for the three of us.
Another biker told me before about the salt lake, near Issykul. when I saw the sign, I wondered if I shpuld check it out, 12 km dirtroad it indicates and since I have time enough I take the ride there.
How much is 12k on a bad dirtroad? Better said, just a track direction the big Issykul? I can see big Issykul already, not further then 2 kilometers away the track is going along. On both sides are snow mountains, the water shines bright blue, you could think to be at the ocean somewhere, it just doesnt smell that way of healthy salt, seaweed and some rotten fishes.
Around one other bend with nasty sandy patches is a huge jurte camp. It looks like a tourisic spotwith "cafes" and some kind of infrastructure which makes me curious to find out about.
Being unable to say no, I am immediatly trapped into a jurte-cafe and get my coffee. The daughter of the owners speaks some english and I am hopeing about some conversations, but the only interest seems to be money since she studies economy, like many others I met. After the promise to come back for lunch I am allowed to take a walk and see one kilometer further the "salt lake" after paying 100 sum entrance at a gate. Many people bath in the lake with not much vegetation around it, its salty. Most woman fully dressed which makes them pointable as muslims. Some take a pitch-black mud cover in the shallow part, let it dry in the sun and peal it off. I am not in the mood to have a bath in a tourist spot, take a walk around the salt lake and make my photos.
Back at the camp I eat too expensive and it gets more and more windy. Getting more moody I decide to stay in a jurte of the family. But I cant get in jet because they are all eating there still, all is a bit complicated with them.
The jurte isnt that wind tight as you could expect at a huge lake, trying to sleep two Russian ladys ands a small boy come in a swell to eat, I make photos for them and try to sleep again. when I wake up they are gone and I have it for myself. The wind is making too much noise and I ask for hot water for my own Japanese Sencha to get a bit brain active, sorting out some office work, then a beer and soup. And, I am reading again, which i didnt do for months. during the late evening the wind gets less, so does my mood change a bit to the better. Good sleep.
The young economy student doesnt seem to understand my changes, and I dont bother to explain.
So it happens, when riding out of the camp I get stuck in the loose sand. Down to the skidplate the bike stands by itself. Only sand might be manageble, but small rocks mix with it, blocking the wheel completely. I lay it on the side and try to fill the hole again, which doesnt work jet, so I try to dig the space in front of the wheels free. Strangely, noone helps, though many see it, - I think. Nevermind, anyway I dont like the place.
After the second attempt with blocking stones, two european tourists come and ask if they could help, in German. Daniel and Jessica. That makes others being curious and with the help of eight lifting/pushing hands the mashine is free in 20 seconds.
Jessica, Daniel and me have tea and bread together. While we wait for the bread being baked and watch that process, done by the much more friendly host of them, I tell my story. It is amazing what the German languge is doing with my brain. But more then that I think it is the interest of the both and the intelligent understanding in their mind, which lets me speak like you could print it.
The bread is the best I had for years and you dont need much else. I even think seriously if I should stay with their host, ist cheaper, better, friendlier and not in the middle of the camp, thightly surrounded by the other jurts, but at the side of the camp and my new frinds are very nice as well. But after two hours our talk is exhausted for now and they want to do other things. The exchange was interesting, going beyond the usual and would be worth to extend. I dont know why I left. Maybe it was the instinct which drove me on, to have time to write again, maybe I knew somehow in my calculation I was one day too late.
Riding along the south side of Lake Issykul is worth it. Again, sometimes you are reminded to a big ocean, the other side opf the lake is too far away that you can see it. Only the mountains yonder show their white tops for a part, but usually you cant make out the coastline.
There is even a nice place with hotels and all other touristic stuff, which makes me consider to stay. But one idiot blows it, when I stand in neutral gear, motor running, trying to read my map where I am. Ok, he shows me on the map where we are, nice, but why dies he need to turn the throttle fully up in a moment I am not aware of his hands?
By now I am so pissed of this behaviour. Its always the young men between 18 and 30(!) who just dont respect anything, and when I shout they are puzzeled and cant admit that they were doing something wrong. Really angry I ride off after giving him a lecture in German. Ignorance on his side. Why should he care, its just a tourist.
Not getting any better in my mood I ride until Karakol and find a nice small guesthouse which comes down to tha same like a nice little hotel and I stay three nights to rest and write and wash my clothes again.
The difference of the unfriendlyness of some men, and the friendlyness of some woman is hardly to describe with words. I dont know if they mean it really, the men, but it must be obvious for them that they are also disliked when they give you a mixture of ignorance and reluctance in their view. Not everybody, yes. But enough to stay alert more than usual. Like the drunk guy in with the Mercedes, looking each time at me as if he wants to rob me at the next opportunity. Each time I try to give a positive greeting back. I start to speculate about the Mercedes. Quite new, mabe 4 years, which is nearly new here, probably stolen. How could he afford that car?
Later at night he is really drunk and outside he shows interest to the bike, so I get closer. And well, something like a communication starts, about motors and such, the unavoidable question of the price I lie with 10.000€, but ask the price of the Mercedes. -14.000€- And, he tries to tell me that there is something with it, I am not sure, but I think it is not his car, which gives me more space for speculations about mafiosi business. His appearence fits. Big, almost bold, unfriendly look, always checking who comes in and out, ... .
Well, it gets halfway relaxed between us at my bike until he makes a mistake. I still can say loudly -NJET!- when I see his fingers at the alarm-lock, but unimpressed or too drunk to hear, he moves it, releasing the alarm. Anger from my side and during my lecture I even try out how far I can go with it. Very far, at least until he apologises for his mistake. The lady of the house comes out because of the alarm, meanwuile stopped with my key, and I let her know the stupidity of the guy. That must have been really embarassing him. But we got a little closer, because he showed some kind of emotion there, walked up the stairs back into the hotel and wished good night.
Its a little risky to stay the third night. That way I only have one day to go from here to Almaty, a little more then 300 kilometers, but including a border and no information about the road conditions. Still I will do so, I want to reach the next station of the work ready, without having to write about the previous stretches.
I am nervous without knowing why. Is it the jump to another country again and unknown roads, border stuff, again not being able to do more than hoping that all what will come will work out fine? Or is it all the unpleasent encounters with the described guys, who get more the further I go east?
Well, I will see the next evening when I am happily in Almaty.