It’s good because it means I recognise the faces and they know me (even if I can’t remember their names.) It’s bad because it means I need to think of new things to discuss with them. I hadn’t thought of anything, and neither had they: as far as they’re concerned, that’s my job. They pay to learn here, so they had a good point, but I didn’t have a good idea, which I thought was also a good point. I turned to the board, which was as blank as my mind. I wondered what I was doing in Kyrgyzstan, and decided to ask them. The lesson evolved into a description, with me feeding them the lines, of Kyrgyzstan, and a discussion of what I should visit. It was hard work, but it was quite successful as a lesson.
Next: Elementary Talking Club. I tried the same topic, and it worked ok. Most of this class aren’t interested in constructing sentences, for them it’s enough to blurt out words, so whereas the first class of morning were, with help, making sentences like “You should visit Osh,” or “Issyk-Kul is very beautiful,” with this class I get “Osh!” and "Issyk-Kul. Very beautiful!” They’re just not interested in making complete sentences and teaching them is frustrating.
Another Elementary Talking Club, another guided tour to the sights of Kyrgyzstan. I like this class, but their English is very ‘Elementary’ and so it’s hard work to teach them. But from one simple idea I'd managed to teach three classes.
I overheard Danny describing some kind of accident to some of his students. He’s an emotional man, and opinionated: his world seems to be divided into black and white and he is not short of self-confidence. Later I got the full story, though by this time he’d clearly told it several times and embellished it more with each retelling.
He’d been helping a friend move house the night before and at about 2am they’d decided to get something to eat. Walking along Toktogul Street, a car had swerved to a halt in front of them and three men jumped out. The first, a big man, swung his fist and floored Danny’s friend. He then flattened Danny’s other friend, before fighting with Danny. Of course, Danny wasn’t flattened with one blow – he was telling the story after all – and he grappled with the man. His two friends did nothing to help, nor did the other two men from the car. Danny’s shaved head picked up a lot of cuts when the two of them fell to the ground, and after they both got back to their feet, the big man said “Friend, friend” in Russian and offered his hand for shaking. Confused, Danny reached to shake it, and the man hit him in the head. Then events are a little unclear, but it seems the men got back in their car and drove off. No mugging, no money was taken, this man simply wanted to fight.Picture: the corner of the street where the attack happened.
This was the second attack in two nights, and both had taken place on Toktogul Street. I decided it might be a good idea to avoid this street, especially tonight, but unfortunately I happen to live on it. Danny was actually attacked at the junction of Toktogul and the street where we work: so that’s the corner I walk past several times a day.
At lunch time I met Bolek and lent him my keys so that he could get his own cut. We ate lunch together: Sharma. It’s like a doner kebab but in a thinner wrapping, rolled up into a parcel, and with rather dry potato chips inside. Two of these cost about a euro and are enough to fill the hole for a few hours. It made a change from the spaghetti I cook most days.
The afternoon lessons were like Wednesday’s. I am noticing a pattern: the classes seem to alternate each day between Grammar and Talking Club. I also noticed another pattern: my 3.00 class are no fun to teach, the 4.20 class lack any enthusiasm for learning, the 5.40 class are great, the 7.00 class don’t think I know enough to teach them, and the 8.30 class, despite my initial reluctance, are a good class.
Back at the flat, Bolek had moved in. He didn’t expect to stay for more than a couple of days and was content to live out of his suitcase. He was very grateful to me for letting him stay, and I wondered if perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad as I’d feared. I’d got used to living alone, but maybe it would be a good thing to have some company.Picture: my living room, now Bolek's bedroom. Incidentally, the TV works but there is no signal.
We decided to go for a beer. The ‘Metro’ Bar was closing (it was midnight), but eventually we found a Turkish-owned place still open. It wasn’t a bar, it was more of a restaurant, and we ordered kirieshki with our beers. It was good to end the week with a drink, and to swap stories about the countries we’d visited. Poles, unlike Germans, do not bother looking each other in the eye when they say ‘Cheers’. I thought they were like the English: don’t waste valuable drinking time, especially when you have a fresh beer in front of you. But it seems Poles like to make toasts before they drink, so they probably waste even more valuable drinking time than the Germans.
Bolek also told me that he’d learned from a Turk that touching your cups together originated in Ancient Greece. In those days, it was considered bad form to murder a guest in your house, so even your enemy could eat with you, drink with you, and sleep in your house. However, poison was considered an acceptable alternative, so it was not unusual to try to poison your enemy. To prevent this, a guest would knock his wine cup against his host’s, ensuring that some of his wine spilled into his host’s cup. That way if the host tried to poison him he would poison them both.
When we left the bar it was raining outside. We happened to leave at the same time as a group of Kyrgyz people; the girls were very drunk. The boys were initially interested in talking to us, until the girls realised we were European. Then we each had a couple of rather plump drunken Kyrgyz girls hanging on our arms and refusing to let go. The boys were clearly unimpressed by this and stood huddled in a group, obivously trying to work out how to 'win' their girls back. Neither I nor Bolek were remotely interested in the girls or their banal, incoherent conversations, but we couldn’t get rid of them. All the time the rain was pouring down. Eventually one of the boys came and prised their fingers off my arm and pushed me none-too-gently away.
Quite amused by all this, I let Bolek lead the way home. He’s been in Bishkek longer than me and my sense of navigation isn’t too good when I’m sober, let alone after a couple of strong Russian beers. We walked along Toktogul Street, but it seemed deserted in the rain. I hoped this meant we wouldn’t be the vicitims of a third attack, but the streets of Bishkek are barely lit
after dark and often you can’t see somebody approaching until they are just in front of you. It also means you can’t see the pavements, which are in worse condition than the roads: uneven due to the oak tree roots, and covered in pot-holes, which obviously creates puddles everywhere. And it was because of this that I became the third victim of Toktogul Street: jumping a large puddle in the dark, I landed on uneven ground and went over on my ankle. Even with my protective beer jacket this hurt like hell and I limped home cold, went, drunk and annoyed.
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