Day 9 - Osh Bazaar

Osh is the second city of Kyrgyzstan, located in the south of the country. It has a strong Uzbek influence and people there are apparently more religious than the relaxed northerners. Osh Bazaar is a large market in the east of the Bishkek. It’s popular due to its proximity to the centre (the other main bazaars are outside the city) and for the fresh produce, and there are many Uzbeks and southern Kyrgyz people selling goods there.

Ulan arrived fairly promptly by his standards, and we made the short drive to the bazaar. After the souks of the Middle East and the bazaars of Pakistan I wasn’t about to be overwhelmed by this; the guide book warned of pick-pockets and bag-slashers, and corrupt policemen.
On the way there we stopped at the red traffic lights and Ulan gave a few com (“som”) to a beggar. We chatted about beggars and I explained that in Pakistan beggars in the cities are often organised into gangs, with bosses dictating where they should ‘work’, Ulan couldn’t grasp this concept: “They’re beggars, who’s going to organise them?” He was thoroughly puzzled by the idea of beggars working in gangs. I don’t think he believed me.

After parking the car, we walked towards the bazaar. Pretty soon I was being pushed and elbowed out of the way by people who didn't see the point in walking around me. Ulan explained: “You know ‘personal space’? Here there’s no such thing.” He was right. If somebody is in your way, push them out of it. I thought about the ‘future space’ theory of aeroplane boarding, and wondered if the mathematicians had considered the Osh Bazaar approach of simply shoving everybody out of the way.
Picture: For those of you who can't read Cyrillic - Osh Bazaar.

Looking back, I was a little disappointed with the bazaar. It lacked the vibrancy and colour of other bazaars. Checking my guide book later, the authors had the same complaint. On the other hand, as a place to go to for picking up cheap Chinese products, it can’t be beaten (outside China, at least.)

The purpose of the visit was to get me a kettle and a telephone. Kyrgyz people like their tea (it’s good for the mutton fat, see ‘A Kyrgyz Meal’ below) and Ulan was unhappy that I had no kettle.
Bypassing the fruit and vegetable part of the bazaar we made our way to the ‘technical area’ where electrical items were on sale. There were plenty of kettles to choose from, each with its own peculiarity: lids which didn’t close, on/off buttons fixed to ‘off’, etcetera. I was amazed how they would brazenly try to sell you something which was clearly already broken. I couldn’t understand what they were saying but it sounded like “What do you mean, the lid doesn’t close? Just hit it with a hammer and it’ll be fine. The light doesn’t come on? What do you need a light for, do you make tea in the dark? What’s wrong with you?”

Eventually I settled on a fake ‘Tiffany’ kettle: it looked very solid, the lid closed, the on/off button worked, and the stall-holder even plugged it in to prove that little red light shone when it was switched on. The price was 350 com – about 7 Euros or 5 quid – and the stall-holder refused to haggle (“’Ere Bert, this man won’t haggle!”) I wondered if it was because I was English, or if Ulan just isn’t a natural-born haggler. He’d already confided in me that he didn’t like Osh Bazaar. He’s one of those people who prefers to shop in more civilised surroundings, without Dungans wheelng cartloads of onions or bread pushing you out of the way. But Ulan paid the 350 com and we went to look for a telephone.

This was similar to the kettle stall: a large array of telephones, each of dubious provenance; or, more correctly, clearly Chinese fakes of Western or Japanese brands. Ulan recommended a ‘Panasonic’ one. It brought back memories of the terrible tape player we had in Pakistan, which had multi-coloured disco lights that flashed out of time with the music and chewed up all my favourite tapes. That was a ‘Panasoanic’; on this telephone they’d at least managed to spell the name right.
Picture: Kyrgyz bread (as eaten with kajmak.) One large loaf costs 5 com - about 7p or 10 (Euro)cents.

To my amusement, the woman running the stall insisted on plugging it in to prove that it worked, and she and Ulan stood 2 metres apart trying to have a conversation on the phone while Dungans and Uzbeks pushed their way past.
Again, she refused to haggle, but for 300 com the phone was mine.

Next I needed a belt; with all the teaching and sleeping I’ve not had much time for eating and I’ve lost a little weight since I’ve been here. Those of you who know what happens to me when I travel will know the other reason why I’ve lost a little weight. ;-)
Buying a belt was simple enough, but again, no haggling.

After that Ulan wanted to get me a traditional Kyrgyz hat. There are two main types and I just wanted the plain simple one. White and round, made of felt, and we soon found one which apparently fit me well and they said made me look almost Kyrgyz. I don’t have a photo and I can’t find one online; but I like my hat, and when the weather’s colder I’m even going to wear it.

Back home I spent a happy few hours unpacking my telephone and kettle. My kettle stank of cheap plastic and I really didn’t feel like drinking tea; my telephone worked but I had nobody to phone and nobody knew my number so nobody could phone me. I put on my belt and my hat; it was too hot, so I took off my hat. It was an exciting afternoon. I cleaned the kitchen.
Picture: my kitchen. Clean!

Ulan wanted to have lunch with me and arranged to meet me at the school at 3.00. Of course he wasn’t there at three; or at four; or at five, even though I checked back every now and then. This wasn’t so bad: I managed to catch most of the Everton game on the internet, during which they won the local derby match 3-0. It was a good day and Everton went top of the Premiership, if only temporarily.

Eventually I found Ulan at the school at 8.30; by 9.30 I was still sitting there doing nothing. Finally his wife arrived with home-made manty and we sat in a classroom and ate. Simple food and a simple life; just don’t expect anybody to plan ahead or arrive on time. I gave Ulan and his wife a box of chocolates and a postcard from Jena; this went down surprisingly well.
The bad news was that Ulan needed me to start at 7.40 on Monday morning and that I would be teaching another full day.