Bishkek Bulletin #5 - Apocalypse Now

Dear Readers,

Sometime around 3am, I regained consciousness with my face plastered to the cold tiles of what felt suspiciously like the bathroom floor. “Hmmm,” I thought to myself. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but I got the feeling that something had gone very wrong with my previous evening. For a moment, I didn’t move a muscle except to let my eyes creak open and survey the scene. Indeed, this was definitely the bathroom. And I was definitely lying in a twisted heap, still wearing my jeans and a half-hiked polo shirt that I had tried and evidently failed to pull off.

Now, I had found myself in stranger situations before. But usually there was a good explanation, and this time I couldn’t remember how or why or what had precipitated this rather crude awakening. Then, it all came back to me…

Only a few hours earlier I had been wrapping up a tranquil evening at Metro Pub, the local ex-pat oasis with decent burgers and beer on tap. It was about midnight, and we were arguing movie trivia over a few pints of cold Siberian Korona. Stuart, the cardigan-wearing Swedish PhD student, was convinced that the surfing colonel in “Apocalypse Now” had been played by James Caan. Dude, no way. The actor’s name was on the tip of my tongue. I could picture him clearly. Standing barrel-chested and unflinching as rockets exploded around him, gazing off at what was officially the only two-way left-right beach break in all of Vietnam (and Cambodia as well, unofficially). No, that definitely was not James Caan.

I decided to call it an early night, so I settled my tab and headed for the door. I was followed by Aaron, the guy who had been occasionally crashing on my couch as he wove his way back and forth from Kyrgyzstan to Uzbekistan. Aaron deserves an entire Bulletin for himself. But let’s just say that he is the kind of guy that would never hurt a fly, but manages to accidentally inflict massive damage upon himself on a weekly basis. I would have done well to remember this.

Halfway home, Aaron veered off towards a sidewalk vendor with a table of neatly arranged packets of gum, cigarettes, and candies. He didn’t reach for any of these, but instead leaned down and whispered something to the old woman attending the table. She nodded. From her flowered smock she pulled a thin plastic package and handed it to him in exchange for a few wrinkled bills. My interest piqued.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched Aaron open the package and empty what looked like dark green peppercorns into the palm of his hand. Then, in one swift motion, he flung them into his mouth, snapped it shut, and started moving his jaw from side to side. Now the curiosity was killing me, and I had to ask what it was. “It’s sort of like tobacco,” he explained, trying not to open his mouth too wide. “But you can only find it in Central Asia.”

That was the hook. Whatever this strange substance was, I would probably never see it again in my lifetime. So no matter how unpleasant it looked or smelled or tasted, I absolutely had to try it at least once. (Readers should note that I have since reconsidered and roundly rejected this line of reasoning) I asked Aaron to give me a very small amount, just a little to get the taste. They looked harmless. He tilted the packet over my cupped hands and flicked it until six or eight of these curious pellets rolled out.

But harmless they were not. Within seconds, my jaw started to tingle and I was feeling dizzy. Luckily we were already inside the apartment building, but I was fumbling just to get my keys into the lock. By the time we got inside, my world had become a quivering funhouse mirror and I had lost my equilibrium. I fell backwards heavily onto the couch, and seemed to continue sinking endlessly into the plush cushions. Whoa. A swirling fog entered your faithful correspondent’s head, who by now had realized that this little taste test was turning into much, much more. My neck went slack, and my head started to flop from side to side like a Buckwheat bobble-head doll. Aaron’s voice drifted through, echoing, “You alright, man?”

Then suddenly, everything changed. The fog cleared, and my funhouse vision snapped into sharp focus. I launched forward off the couch and found myself standing in a moment of total lucidity and infinite knowledge. It was as if my whole life had lead up to this moment. Without thinking, I grabbed my cell phone off the table and quickly thumbed out an SMS message containing two critical, brilliant words:

Contact: Stuart

Sent: 13-08-2006, 12:54 AM

Message: ROBERT DUVALL

Son of a bitch, that was IT! I took a deep, triumphant breath. But alas, quickly as my moment of total consciousness came, quickly also it went. The fog of nothingness returned with a tidal wave of nausea. My internal organs roared, protesting the foreign substance I had willingly ingested only 15 minutes earlier. My legs wavered. Things were again going downhill fast. There was only one logical place to go.

I started stumbling haphazardly towards the bathroom, my left shoulder crashing into the wooden doorframe. I bounced back a few paces and lined up to make another attempt. Who the hell changed the gravity in this place? As we now know, I eventually made it through the door. But what happened after that, I cannot say. It is a secret locked in those cold blue ceramic floor tiles. In truth, this is probably for the best.

Ending up on the bathroom floor was actually something of a best-case scenario, as things could have been much worse. After I went down, Aaron managed to find his way out of the apartment and into the unlit streets of Bishkek. He got lost, of course. Sometime before sunrise found a park and decided that his best option was to stop and sleep in the dirt. He slept, probably quite peacefully, until he was woken by two Russian grandmothers on their way to Sunday market. They got him to his feet and dusted him off, quietly muttering their disapproval. Still extremely disoriented, he asked for directions to the apartment and swerved off down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. He would realize only later that he had lost the spare set of apartment keys and all of his money.

And now, dear reader, I have a piece of bad news. I am sad to announce that this less-than-flattering tale marks the end of your Bishkek Bulletin subscription. On Monday I start the long journey home from Kyrgyzstan, passing through Yerevan, London, and Chicago before arriving in St. Louis. After a week there, I will eventually continue on to my true home: study cube #103 in the SAIS library. It’s back to books for your correspondent.

I truly hope you’ve enjoyed reading these lengthy ramblings as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them. For your continued enjoyment, I have archived all past Bishkek Bulletins and Beanland Diaries at the following location: http://beanlanddiaries.blogspot.com. Unlike most blogs, nothing much will happen here in the foreseeable future, until your correspondent receives his next foreign assignment. Until then, amigos, take good care and send an email when you get a chance. Hasta la proxima!

Sincerely,
Your Correspondent, Moskva St, 8^th Micro-region, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

[Please send comments and criticisms in writing to 5 Ridgewood Rd, St. Louis MO 63124 attn: Jerome]