Women and vodka in large quantities

Observe any flower seller (of which Kyrgyzstan seems to have a surplus) around the weekend of the 8th March, and one will notice a flurry of excitement.

The reason? The eighth of March marks a celebration of women. Not just mothers, or lovers, or wives. Women, vapshe (generally). As many a drunk gold-toothed man pointed out during toasts at our work celebratory meal, women are ‘mothers, sisters, daughters, cousins, neighbours, colleagues...’ The more vodka had been consumed, the longer the list.

Initially skeptical due to memories of sitting through hours of performances in Russian on women’s day in Kazakhstan, the women in the office soon convinced me of the need for women’s day as a global institution. 

After all, how many countries allow women employees half days off work in the run up to mothers’ day and/or valentines day to beautify themselves? Several haircuts/eyebrow treatments/manicures were had by colleagues in the days preceding our work celebration; every lunchtime talk would turn to outfits and hairstyles. The men didn’t seem to bat an eyelid at the time taken away from work, and fully approved of all beauty treatments.

After having been told by my colleague who spent two years in America that ‘women in the West dress to be comfortable. Women here dress to look good’, and chastised by the women in the office for not wearing heels, I felt I needed to make an effort. I have been reminded that cultural appropriacy takes many forms, and if I’m prepared to don a hijab then I should also be prepared to wear heels every day. 

With this in mind I turned up at a local hair salon, accompanied by a friend, to be greeted by a host of teenage boys. Indeed, hairdressing in Kyrgyzstan seems to be an up and coming profession for teenage boys. Forty five minutes later, four pounds poorer and with the second worst haircut I’ve ever had, I reminded myself that outward appearance isn’t everything. Alas, it does really seem to be here. 

All prepared for my first major social gathering in Kyrgyzstan I arrived at the restaurant and received smiles of love and approval from the girls at work due to my thick layer of makeup and smart clothes. I breathed a sigh of relief.

I was joyfully seated in between two of the ‘watchmen’ (aka doormen/drivers) from the office, who proceeded to quite openly attempt to get me drunk. As they are both in their fifties and have amazing fur Russian hats I enjoyed their company, and thankfully know enough Russian to pretend I understood what we were talking about.

Every ten minutes someone would make a toast, to ‘mothers, sisters, daughters....’ and a shot of vodka was drunk. After consuming somewhere in the region of five I noticed that the women were only having a sip each time. Lesson learned. As the only Westerner I was obliged to make a speech, which was relatively short as my Russian speechmaking vocabulary is limited. I managed to rescue this with cunning use of Arabic, as there are several common words with Kyrgyz, ‘alhamdulilah’ etc. Job done.

Next up was the dance competition. I joke not. Everyone was partnered up, and categories included Kazakh dancing and seventies moves. My Kazakh moves were some of the best I may add, though the five shots of vodka probably helped. 

After a couple of hours at the local Chinese ‘discoteca’, complete with very bad nineties house sung in English by Russians, I was ready for bed. Though I will add that my manager came alive on the dance floor, John Travolta would have been seriously jealous.

I’ve made an appointment for nail extensions next week. This cultural appropriacy thing sure is difficult.

 

(For anyone concerned about my vodka drinking habits please be assured I will avert to the ‘woman technique’ next time toasts arise)

A memorable aviation experience

I have never been scared of flying. Until today that is, when I was ushered up the stairs of a dilapidated Soviet airplane which looked like it belonged in an aviation museum rather than on a functioning runway.

Until that moment my sense of alarm had been coupled with slight bemusement, caused by the fact that million dollar US aircraft were juxtaposed with tiny Kyrgyz aircraft that had seen better days and in all likelihood probably no restoration and minimal maintenance. When confronted with this picture of military and economic wealth versus an ex-Soviet state struggling to survive, it is easy to see why the government of Kyrgyzstan voted this week to rid the US of their Manas airbase. When faced with aid from Russia versus little more than a handshake from the US it’s possible that this action could have been precipitated by a little less bravado and a little more caring.

Upon being seated I attempted to lean back on the carpeted faded grey chair. This turned out to be a mistake. The mechanism controlling the chair back had apparently failed and I had no option but to spend the entire journey either in a horizontal position or without leaning back on the chair at all. I chose the latter.

Despite the lack of safety demonstrations and the state of the aircraft, though it must be admitted I have an untrained eye when it comes to aviation, the flight proceeded as a flight over European airspace would have done. It is worth remembering at this point that Kyrgyz air, along with Uzbek and Tajik airlines, are banned from flying in European airspace.

Mid way into the flight an airhostess in remarkably tight shiny black leather trousers offered me tea, water or some fizzy sweet drink that looked fairly unappetising. I requested green tea, primarily because I couldn’t remember the word for black in Russian, and was proven to be the least Central Asian person on the plane.

Was this due to my lack of Russian and/or Kyrgyz? Or perhaps my flat shoes in comparison to every other woman with heels and impeccable makeup?

You would be forgiven for assuming these factors as indicating my non-Kyrgyz status. However, what marked me out as different was the fact that after carefully ascertaining that the tea was still rather hot and scalding my tongue in the process I decided to wait until it had cooled down before proceeding further. Now I am no tea addict but I consume at least two cups a day, so when I say ‘cooled down’ I don’t mean I was waiting until it was lukewarm. Imagine my astonishment then when the airhostess had finished serving the forty or so passengers and immediately returned to collect empty cups. Sure enough every person on the plane had managed to down their boiling tea the same way they down vodka. This was an impressive feat and I wondered whether the British knew they had competition for their status as the nation of tea drinkers..

Had my language skills been better I would have asked the man sitting next to me what he thought about Britain, its ally the USA, and the closure of the Manus airbase. This closure is the fourth time Kyrgyzstan has been on the front page of any Western paper in its own right in the past eight years. Similarly I would have loved to have asked the man across the isle from me, engrossed in examining a gaudily decorated present bought for a female, his opinions. As it is I will never know, and I am left wondering whether the 40 or so passengers aboard that aircraft realised the commotion in the press surrounding the nine US aircraft I counted on the tarmac that day, and the many more hidden from view.

Had they been aware of how heavily it was featuring in Western press, would they have wanted to add their own opinions?

As I glanced around at my fellow passengers, I suspect that million dollar demonstrations of military wealth were of secondary concern. The city we were flying to after all is in one of the poorest regions of Kyrgyzstan where ethnic conflict is rife, and the impact of food crisis is currently being mitigated by aid agencies.

My final recollections of my antique aviation experience? Dangerous it may be, but it could be argued that far more dangerous are the fighting machines heading to Afghanistan sitting side by side commercial aircraft. Besides, if its good enough for the Kyrgyz, then it’s good enough for me.