China-China-China, Krygz dance recitals and abandoned Soviet factories
By
Everything’s a bit shit at the moment isn’t it? And by everything I mean the USA. And this blog post. Like many of you I’m honestly sick to the back teeth of hearing the name of Donald Trump, and seeing his chicken fillet face spout the words ‘China’ and ‘wall’ at mindless, brain-dead supporters shrieking as only Americans can shriek at something not worth shrieking about in the first place. I do always chuckle though – because ‘trump’ was the word for ‘fart’ in our household as children, and I’ll never take him seriously as a result. And that’s what he is. A fart. Fuck off you smelly cunt.
Short foray into politics over.
Speaking of China, I’m about to find out if I can apply for a visa. Yes, yes I’ve been saying this for an age and you may wonder why the silence? Well quite frankly things have been all quiet on the hitching front as I previously mentioned, I’ve been waiting out the cold weather, and figuring out which Chinese embassy actually has employees. If Trump is barking on about their efficiency – he’s never been to one of their consulates. Mind you neither have I – I’m just trying to be clever.
Winter in Bishkek looks to have left us with all but a whimper, spring has sprung and the time to move on is drawing nigh. In the meantime, current partner in crime Alex and I have been having adventures. On International Woman’s Day (something they take very seriously here in Kyrgyzstan) we took a day trip to Issy Kol lake. Alex is also something of a keen urban explorer (one of the many things we see eye to eye on) and she’s been champing at the bit to explore the ruined, abandoned former soviet factories and boat yards of Balykchy. This of course is music to my ears and porn for my camera. We set off early morning to cram in as much dereliction as we can.
Bleak
Apparently once a bustling lake port and industry hub, Balykchy is now a wasteland of crumbling factories, glimmers of former glory and what surely is a record number of Lenin effigies. The population rose sharply in the 70’s and early 80’s, but with the fall of the Soviet Union, like many other CIS backwaters clinging to history, Balykchy has been left to wrack and ruin. Being a Russian speaker, Alex has talked us into an all but derelict boat yard, and in chatting with the security – one of whom believed me to be James Bond – we glean that the town used to thrive with business and commerce. Our thirty-something guide remembers times as a child when he used to frequent the docks to witness the throng of workers hammering the rivets in a deafening symphony of opportunity. Now industry has dwindled to nothing – with only a decrepit tanker being converted into a floating night club for the summer season two years hence, presumably for the more popular resorts along the shores of Issy-Kol. Yet one wonders if anyone will want to voyage on her at all.
Hustld? Someone has been. The floating night club takes shape
The locals loss is the urban explorer’s gain, and Balykchy doesn’t disappoint. What does is the light however, and with a four hour trip back to Bishkek we need to make tracks. Our highlight came in the twilight though, as we finally track down and scale a fence into a former Soviet power plant, hug close to the walls, and find ourselves inexplicably whispering. It’s exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure, as the old behemoth makes unfamiliar noises, creaks and groans – perhaps a security guard on patrol or the floor about to fall through. Margot (our K9 companion) doesn’t help matters by giving away our position with constant yelping, but to most she would just sound like any other street dog. With light fading, we barely scratch the surface – including what appears to be an old hospital which is more or less intact. I guess we just have to save that for another day – it’s not going anywhere for the next 50 years – except slowly into the dust.
Breaking and entering
The collapse of the USSR has got a lot to answer for (and more well than I could ever hope to cover in decades of blog posts) but countries that previously flew the hammer and sickle continue to fascinate me. The architecture, the traditions, the art, the languages, the crazy hats. The choices communities make in what to hold onto from by-gone days and what to leave as relics in a not too distant past. Some – like the crumbling industry of Balykchy or the decaying ships of the Aral sea – were not out of choice. But I was (un)fortunate enough to be invited to a dance recital in Bishkek, which has traditions long established in soviet culture and is alive and well for better or for worse.
Pure nightmare fuel – and some bored looking kid dressed as a samovar
Picture – if you will – maybe thirty 4 and 5-year-olds on a stage, wearing eyebleedingly garish garb, dancing in near perfect unison to something that sounds like a vocal royal rumble between the Teletubbies, the cast of Rainbow and the backing track of the Disney ride “It’s a Small World.” Utterly terrifying and genuinely uncomfortable, nonetheless the watching parents gush with pride and adulation while I witness the apocalypse.
Please make it stop
And it didn’t end there – the event went on for a fucking eternity (as only they know how) while the curtain call was longer than the actual performance. Different age groups took to the stage in droves to bless us with their interpretations of every dance EVER, surrounded by a sea of grotesquely garish flowers, balloons, bouquets and colour clashes that would make Monet weep. (I’m coming to the flowers anon). But it was always when the toddlers twerked from the wings that we squirmed in our seats and didn’t know where to look – especially when doing numbers you might witness at “The Titty Twister.” How much do they know what they’re doing? How much are they implicit in this? Is it my fault I have a problem? My own conditioning from a nanny state where filming a nativity play is illegal?! The iPhones were out in force as toddlers in ra-ra skirts spun twirls and kicked legs like a vaudeville can-can act in a gunslinger saloon, but you’d be in the back of the Police wagon in the UK if you took a picture of a kid that wasn’t yours.
Where do you draw the line between respecting cultures and time-honoured traditions, or ripping the absolute piss while so damningly convinced that it this needs to die? Yet for the most part the youngsters seemed to live for it – and so each to their own. Live and let live eh? One 4-year-old’s dream is another’s nightmare right…?
Also just as baffling is how much they venerate exorbitant bouquets of flowers, and just how much men can get away with depending on the size of the vase required. For example – on a dating website – EVERY female profile (I kid you not) has at least one picture of her sniffing a MASSIVE bunch of blooms, regularly accompanied by one heel in the air and sporting those giant celebrity bug-eyed bitch/tart-sunglasses. (It’s similar to western women sucking on a drinks straw in their profile pictures to make them look like they’ve got big lips. Honestly girls it’s just was bad as pulling the duck face).
“Look how much I’m loved/was loved by another dude! How many roses can YOU buy me?”
“My man’s cock was THIS big! This is why I’m still single and on a dating website!”
“He cheated on me several times – but so long as he gives me ALL OF THIS STUFF I’ll take him back!”
Seriously have a word with yourselves. Money can’t buy you love. Just ask Donald Trump.
I’ve heard the reason behind such flamboyance is a simple one. That from where people once had nothing, now they have a something – however little – and they’re desperate to flaunt it. So was true for visiting the “silicone valley” in Belgrade, where women brandished brand-new boobs and men drove around in pseudo-flashy cars. This unashamed brashness and display of gaudy wealth might make most folk with taste a little sick in their mouths – but certainly in the UK you only have to go out downtown of a night to see exactly the same behavour. I was supporting “homeless” people who’d just bought enormous wide-screen TV’s, brand new smartphones and loud Nike trainers, but couldn’t afford to feed themselves. Perhaps I’m noticing it again recently because it’s more commonplace behind the former red curtain?
Fascinating stuff, but onwards to update the update. I’m stranded. The Chinese government have seen fit to not allow anyone into the country unless you’re flying. Currently I can’t get a visa without going through the airport and getting into one of those plane things that go missing or randomly fall out of the sky, so you can imagine I’m not game for that. Here therefore I will reside, with possibly a sneaky, unplanned visit to Tajikistan while I await the situation to change. But in the meantime with the company I’m keeping, there are worse places to be than still stuck in the Bishkek bubble.
China-China-China, Krygz dance recitals and abandoned Soviet factories
Everything’s a bit shit at the moment isn’t it? And by everything I mean the USA. And this blog post. Like many of you I’m honestly sick to the back teeth of hearing the name of Donald Trump, and seeing his chicken fillet face spout the words ‘China’ and ‘wall’ at mindless, brain-dead supporters shrieking as only Americans can shriek at something not worth shrieking about in the first place. I do always chuckle though – because ‘trump’ was the word for ‘fart’ in our household as children, and I’ll never take him seriously as a result. And that’s what he is. A fart. Fuck off you smelly cunt.
Short foray into politics over.
Speaking of China, I’m about to find out if I can apply for a visa. Yes, yes I’ve been saying this for an age and you may wonder why the silence? Well quite frankly things have been all quiet on the hitching front as I previously mentioned, I’ve been waiting out the cold weather, and figuring out which Chinese embassy actually has employees. If Trump is barking on about their efficiency – he’s never been to one of their consulates. Mind you neither have I – I’m just trying to be clever.
Winter in Bishkek looks to have left us with all but a whimper, spring has sprung and the time to move on is drawing nigh. In the meantime, current partner in crime Alex and I have been having adventures. On International Woman’s Day (something they take very seriously here in Kyrgyzstan) we took a day trip to Issy Kol lake. Alex is also something of a keen urban explorer (one of the many things we see eye to eye on) and she’s been champing at the bit to explore the ruined, abandoned former soviet factories and boat yards of Balykchy. This of course is music to my ears and porn for my camera. We set off early morning to cram in as much dereliction as we can.
Bleak
Apparently once a bustling lake port and industry hub, Balykchy is now a wasteland of crumbling factories, glimmers of former glory and what surely is a record number of Lenin effigies. The population rose sharply in the 70’s and early 80’s, but with the fall of the Soviet Union, like many other CIS backwaters clinging to history, Balykchy has been left to wrack and ruin. Being a Russian speaker, Alex has talked us into an all but derelict boat yard, and in chatting with the security – one of whom believed me to be James Bond – we glean that the town used to thrive with business and commerce. Our thirty-something guide remembers times as a child when he used to frequent the docks to witness the throng of workers hammering the rivets in a deafening symphony of opportunity. Now industry has dwindled to nothing – with only a decrepit tanker being converted into a floating night club for the summer season two years hence, presumably for the more popular resorts along the shores of Issy-Kol. Yet one wonders if anyone will want to voyage on her at all.
Hustld? Someone has been. The floating night club takes shape
The locals loss is the urban explorer’s gain, and Balykchy doesn’t disappoint. What does is the light however, and with a four hour trip back to Bishkek we need to make tracks. Our highlight came in the twilight though, as we finally track down and scale a fence into a former Soviet power plant, hug close to the walls, and find ourselves inexplicably whispering. It’s exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure, as the old behemoth makes unfamiliar noises, creaks and groans – perhaps a security guard on patrol or the floor about to fall through. Margot (our K9 companion) doesn’t help matters by giving away our position with constant yelping, but to most she would just sound like any other street dog. With light fading, we barely scratch the surface – including what appears to be an old hospital which is more or less intact. I guess we just have to save that for another day – it’s not going anywhere for the next 50 years – except slowly into the dust.
Breaking and entering
The collapse of the USSR has got a lot to answer for (and more well than I could ever hope to cover in decades of blog posts) but countries that previously flew the hammer and sickle continue to fascinate me. The architecture, the traditions, the art, the languages, the crazy hats. The choices communities make in what to hold onto from by-gone days and what to leave as relics in a not too distant past. Some – like the crumbling industry of Balykchy or the decaying ships of the Aral sea – were not out of choice. But I was (un)fortunate enough to be invited to a dance recital in Bishkek, which has traditions long established in soviet culture and is alive and well for better or for worse.
Pure nightmare fuel – and some bored looking kid dressed as a samovar
Picture – if you will – maybe thirty 4 and 5-year-olds on a stage, wearing eyebleedingly garish garb, dancing in near perfect unison to something that sounds like a vocal royal rumble between the Teletubbies, the cast of Rainbow and the backing track of the Disney ride “It’s a Small World.” Utterly terrifying and genuinely uncomfortable, nonetheless the watching parents gush with pride and adulation while I witness the apocalypse.
Please make it stop
And it didn’t end there – the event went on for a fucking eternity (as only they know how) while the curtain call was longer than the actual performance. Different age groups took to the stage in droves to bless us with their interpretations of every dance EVER, surrounded by a sea of grotesquely garish flowers, balloons, bouquets and colour clashes that would make Monet weep. (I’m coming to the flowers anon). But it was always when the toddlers twerked from the wings that we squirmed in our seats and didn’t know where to look – especially when doing numbers you might witness at “The Titty Twister.” How much do they know what they’re doing? How much are they implicit in this? Is it my fault I have a problem? My own conditioning from a nanny state where filming a nativity play is illegal?! The iPhones were out in force as toddlers in ra-ra skirts spun twirls and kicked legs like a vaudeville can-can act in a gunslinger saloon, but you’d be in the back of the Police wagon in the UK if you took a picture of a kid that wasn’t yours.
Where do you draw the line between respecting cultures and time-honoured traditions, or ripping the absolute piss while so damningly convinced that it this needs to die? Yet for the most part the youngsters seemed to live for it – and so each to their own. Live and let live eh? One 4-year-old’s dream is another’s nightmare right…?
Also just as baffling is how much they venerate exorbitant bouquets of flowers, and just how much men can get away with depending on the size of the vase required. For example – on a dating website – EVERY female profile (I kid you not) has at least one picture of her sniffing a MASSIVE bunch of blooms, regularly accompanied by one heel in the air and sporting those giant celebrity bug-eyed bitch/tart-sunglasses. (It’s similar to western women sucking on a drinks straw in their profile pictures to make them look like they’ve got big lips. Honestly girls it’s just was bad as pulling the duck face).
“Look how much I’m loved/was loved by another dude! How many roses can YOU buy me?”
“My man’s cock was THIS big! This is why I’m still single and on a dating website!”
“He cheated on me several times – but so long as he gives me ALL OF THIS STUFF I’ll take him back!”
Seriously have a word with yourselves. Money can’t buy you love. Just ask Donald Trump.
I’ve heard the reason behind such flamboyance is a simple one. That from where people once had nothing, now they have a something – however little – and they’re desperate to flaunt it. So was true for visiting the “silicone valley” in Belgrade, where women brandished brand-new boobs and men drove around in pseudo-flashy cars. This unashamed brashness and display of gaudy wealth might make most folk with taste a little sick in their mouths – but certainly in the UK you only have to go out downtown of a night to see exactly the same behavour. I was supporting “homeless” people who’d just bought enormous wide-screen TV’s, brand new smartphones and loud Nike trainers, but couldn’t afford to feed themselves. Perhaps I’m noticing it again recently because it’s more commonplace behind the former red curtain?
Fascinating stuff, but onwards to update the update. I’m stranded. The Chinese government have seen fit to not allow anyone into the country unless you’re flying. Currently I can’t get a visa without going through the airport and getting into one of those plane things that go missing or randomly fall out of the sky, so you can imagine I’m not game for that. Here therefore I will reside, with possibly a sneaky, unplanned visit to Tajikistan while I await the situation to change. But in the meantime with the company I’m keeping, there are worse places to be than still stuck in the Bishkek bubble.