Stan Stumble: Central Asia Travel Humour

By Narendra Simone

STAN STUMBLE is the second book in the one of a kind travel humour series presenting history, culture, tradition and taboos through globe-girdling tales of Narendra’s travels to 100 countries that run the gamut from eccentric expats to baffling repasts, wrong roads taken to cultures mistaken, curvaceous dollies to embarrassing follies, unadulterated hilarity to unanticipated insincerity, and road less traveled to no roads at all.

Competing in a race to reach 100 countries and a quest to find the perfect wine brought the one who must always be obeyed and I to Central Asia. This is the land of Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, and Tamerlane where Al-Khorezm developed Algebra and Al Biruni deduced that the earth circled the sun, some 500 years before Copernicus. Ever wondered how the whole Aral Sea was drained in just two weeks and millions became illiterate overnight?

Yes, this I the magic land of Central Asia, still one of the least known regions of the world, where Alexander the Great remained in bed so long that today most people in Tajikistan have blond hair and blue eyes. Many of Central Asia’s stories have remained a secret. That is up until now. I’m going to reveal it all. It’s going to be a little scary at times but most of it will be an adventure. Pack your sense of humour with your aspirin and come with me to eat meals that you can’t even pronounce, taste drinks that are pure alcohol, and listen to the stories of ancient culture that even your grandpappy doesn’t know. These stories are not necessarily you want to share with your children but you would have hilarious tales to tell to your friends.
Happy you could join me. Lets do it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781988382029

Book preview

Day 1 – ALMATY

At last, due to sheer exhaustion, I dozed off. But just for a second as the bumpy landing woke me right up. "Perfect," I muttered under my breath. I was feeling cranky due to lack of sleep, a sore neck and painful nose. I hoped and prayed that they would have a hotel room for us this early so I could climb into bed and get a few hours’ sleep.

Our three and a half hour flight from Baku to Almaty was uneventful. Uneventful in the way that there was no food, no drinks, and no service of any kind except prerecorded messages on the PA system that were hard to understand. I did wonder if there was a pilot on board. There was a large Kazakh in the seat in front of me – that much I knew. I also knew how much hair he had on his head as most of the time his head was virtually in my lap. But it was over now so I eased out of my chair, shook his dandruff off my trousers, and stretched my legs and arms to limber up in preparation to tackle the immigration line-ups.

I hate lining up at immigration, especially in countries in the developing world, because these countries don’t believe in queuing. They prefer using times like this to practice rugby scrums. And I hate contact sports. So I have developed a habit that annoys the one who wants her partner to be perfect in every way. You see, I’m kind of a laid back man; I take my time even when we go for a fast walk. No, no, that is not the annoying part. The annoying habit of mine is that whenever we disembark off a plane, I’ll do a few exercises to loosen my limbs and joints, especially my hip joints and legs and then I will quickly walk, almost run, to the immigration desk.

She often shows her annoyance at this by saying, We spent hours in flight, so why rush now?

As it happened, I was the first person at the immigration desk and was taking some deep breaths to control my breathing as I presented my passport. Sitting behind the desk was a strange looking Kazakh who was so big that I thought he was standing up while he was still seated. He had thick, crew cut, black hair, a square jaw and bushy eyebrows that were almost joined in the middle, like a goon from the moon.

Visa application? he growled, flicking my passport back to me.

But—,

Over there, he interrupted sharply, pointing towards a desk by the far wall.

Sir, if you would—

He frowned and his eyebrows merged to form an angry-looking, thick unibrow. He stood up and I fled towards the wall. I picked up an application form and started filling it out while cursing under my breath as other passengers had started to swarm around the immigration desk.

The one who doubted my belief in Buddhism sauntered to where I was standing. What’re you doing? We already have visas in our passports.

I know but that jerk wants me to fill out an application for a visa. If I wasn’t tired, I’d have taught him a lesson he wouldn’t have forgotten for a long while.

Calm down, Tiger, she mocked me. Did you tell him that we have visas?

I tried, but he is much bigger than me.

Come, Lady Authority herself instructed. I collected my filled-out application and followed her.

I don’t know what it is about her aura but she can part crowds with her elbows. The huge immigration officer noticed her and waved her to the front of the horde. The people parted, as no one wanted to upset the immigration king.

She gestured to me and I pushed my application form under his big nose. Passport with visa page and not the application, she whispered to me. I ignored her. I had gone through the trouble of filling my visa application form out and by golly, I wasn’t letting my effort go in vain.

He looked at my application as if it was a test paper. Triumph! I looked at my wife and whispered, See, we do need an application form. You better go and get one. I don’t want you to be holding us up.

She did what she was best at—she ignored me.

You did not fill out your visa application correctly, his voice boomed so everyone could hear him.

Why? What’s wrong? I whimpered.

He pointed at a question with his thick index finger. For the question ‘In case of emergency notify’, you put down, ‘Doctor’.

In Canada, that is where we go in an emergency, I said politely. I half turned to my wife and said in an inaudible tone, It was a silly question anyway.

For ‘Next of kin’, you wrote down ‘Doctor’ again, he shouted. You are supposed to write the name of your next of kin. Maybe your wife.

I have, I answered smiling broadly. She’s a doctor.

He ground his teeth and my wife tenderly took my passport, opened to the page where the Kazakhstan visa was and, placing it in front of the officer, gently tapped it with her bejeweled index finger.

Ah… The big guy smiled showing all his advance-whitening Colgate scrubbed teeth. No need for application. And he stamped both our visas and waved us through.

As we walked towards the carousal to collect our suitcases my wife shook her head and I defended, I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen. Honestly.

We waited for our luggage. It was pitch dark outside, several hours before sunrise. The Almaty International Airport, the largest international airport in Kazakhstan, is located 10 miles northeast of Almaty, the country’s largest city and the commercial capital. Interestingly, it has been reported that more people leave than arrive at this airport—about 8,000 more. The mind boggles. Not where do these people go but why? It kind of sets the stage to arouse one’s curiosity, doesn’t it? Oh, come on. I know you’re wondering too. It also begs the question—does the government know they are losing their citizens? Or perhaps they’re under the misconception that some of their citizens are on long holidays abroad.

Suddenly, my wife pointed to our two large suitcases which were heading towards a black hole and about to disappear from the moving belt. I plunged myself into the crowd surrounding the moving belt and then lunged, grabbing the suitcases and dragging them off the conveyor belt. This resulted in only minor collateral damage—one bump on a head, two crumpled up toes, and a bruised leg. Gesturing with her index finger, she who is always calm instructed me to follow her.

With sleepy eyes, I stumbled into the arrival hall looking for our guide. There was only one guy holding a placard with a name written on it. The name read: Palaghat Kolungode Vishwnatha Narayanaswamy. The good news was that it was an Indian name so I could have easily hijacked the guide and the ride to the hotel. The bad news was that it wasn’t my name. Thank God. Just to be sure I tilted my neck to one side and tried to read the name in full while my whole body was leaning heavily to one side. My fair lady nudged me and whispered, Stop it or you might get a slipped disc. I bet when Shakespeare said, What is in a name? he wasn’t thinking of South Indian names.

Standing a few feet away from the placard guy was a tall, well-built, dark-haired woman keenly watching the passengers coming out of the arrival doors. I squinted my eyes and noticed she was holding a regular size envelope like one we would normally use to send a letter. What is a letter? Well, a letter is what we used before text messages and emails arrived. Ask your parents. Anyway, out of curiosity I approached her; I couldn’t believe it when I saw what was written on the back of the small envelope she was holding. It was my name scratched out with a pencil.

We introduced ourselves and she smiled. My name is Begaim Rasulbaeva. I am your guide.

Real nice to meet you, Begaim. Do we have a hotel this morning? Could we get a few hours’ sleep? I showered her with my questions.

She played with her ponytail and answered, That would be fine. Today is a rest day anyway. You know to rest from your long journey.

Thank you, I said with a sigh of relief. But I don’t need the whole day. It was only a three and a half hour flight.

Of course, but others are coming in today and two of them are from the States.

Others? I questioned.

She smiled. Yes, there are two brothers from India and they are coming in a little later this morning. And there are two ladies from the States who will be arriving around noon. You’re in a group of six.

So we have a free day today? I asked the obvious, wondering why my wife would book a group holiday. Perhaps at short notice, that was all she could get?

Almost, Begaim responded. I’ll come around later today and give you an introductory talk on the history of this country and tomorrow we will have a full day of sightseeing.

We climbed in a minibus with 12 seats and I relaxed and tried to close my eyes when I heard Begaim say, Welcome to Kazakhstan.

I opened my eyes again wondering if it was a recording. But apparently she was simply following the way she had been taught to begin her tour. If you are not too tired then may I explain a few things on our way to the hotel?

Of course, the one with a keen interest in foreign culture answered.

The airport you arrived at was built in 1935. It used to be known as Alma-Ata Airport and later, was reorganized as Almaty Airport OJSC. Now its name is JSC Almaty International Airport.

Why are people of this region so enamored with airports, I wondered? What’s with OJSC and JSC? I must say I was curious with such names.

Some commercial deal, I think, Begaim answered hesitatingly. Open Joint Stock Company and then later Joint Stock Company.

That’s transparency for you, I responded. Say it the way it is. To lighten up the conversation I tried changing the subject. Begaim, we had a scary landing in thick fog. Do you get quite a bit of fog?

Ah fog… Begaim said, as if remembering something. "It used be a lot worse but the government took care of it in 2002.

Took care of it? How? What happened in 2002? I had to ask. Wouldn’t you?

"In December 2002, Almaty airport began a fog dispersal operation by way of artificial seeding of the freezing fog using liquid nitrogen. It causes a deep and rapid drop in air temperature to levels that lead to crystallization of the moisture in the fog. We still do get some fog, but nothing like what it used to be."

Whaaat? I cried. Is it safe to fly through crystalized air?

We made it, didn’t we, the one who could rationalize all my irrational thoughts said calmly.

Begaim tried to defend the local government by offering, The government is spending a lot of money on this airport. They have been trying to modernize the airport to support their bid for the 2022 Winter Olympics.

Yikes, I muttered because they had just lost their bid for the Olympics to Beijing. I guess Begaim hadn’t heard about it yet. Why Beijing won, I have no idea. Beijing has absolutely no snow, not even ice crystals, just smog. Go figure! Perhaps it has something to do with official corruption…I mean, perception.

Unfortunately, Begaim continued, "on July 9, 1999, a fire started in the shashlik kitchen of the airport restaurant. The kebabs caught fire and the whole terminal building burned down in just a few hours."

Umm… I whispered to my partner. Revenge of the burning kebabs, eh?

She shook her head while Begaim went on, But the government was determined to have a new terminal and the construction of the building was completed in 2004.

I hope they’ve learnt their lesson and built a shashlik-proof terminal? No, I didn’t say that but I was thinking of it.

We arrived at our destination and after checking into Kazjol, a hotel with few modern upgrades unsuccessfully trying to shake off its Soviet Union-style past, we promised to see her later and retired to our room. The room was large and the bed looked comfortable. After a quick shower, I slept like I have never slept before—on a sofa because my wife was already spread diagonally on the bed fast asleep.

After three hours of sleep we woke to a harsh iPhone alarm set by my lady and a bright sunny day. My wife was already up and ready for me to get dressed so we could get out and about. Around 8:30 am we were ready to go out to a cafe to have some breakfast. I desperately needed some black coffee to keep my eyes open. We asked the concierge if he could recommend a place for breakfast. He cheerfully suggested the American Cafe. It has a cowboy atmosphere.

No, thank you, the lady of impeccable taste responded. Something local, please.

The concierge suggested the Coffeeroom on Satpaev Street and that was where we went. It was a crowded place and as we looked around, a gentleman with a David Niven moustache, slick black hair and dressed in silver gray slacks and a dark navy blazer stood up from his table and waved at us. Seeing there was no other place to sit, we approached him.

I say, he greeted us in a broad British accent, Southern England to be more precise, that matched his prim and proper attire, it is a rather busy place. Care to join me? The name’s Christopher.

We accepted, introducing ourselves as he helped my wife by pulling her chair out like a gentleman should do. I know such things because the one with refined taste in manners and etiquette always reminds me.

Tourists? He raised his eyebrows.

From Canada, I answered.

You could have fooled me, old boy. He smiled. I would have guessed from…India. I know when I see one from the good old British Raj.

It was the desperate need of black coffee that stopped me from throwing a dozen different responses back in his face—none pleasant. Without waiting for my answer, he snapped his fingers at the passing waiter gesturing him to bring some menus.

What brings you to Kazakhstan? I asked the gentleman, keeping my tone polite.

Oh, I am writing a book on the history of this place. Fascinating stuff, old boy.

The waiter arrived with a couple of menus. A quick glance and we both ordered eggs and toast with coffee.

Christopher intervened. "Forget the coffee. Have some chai. This country lives on chai."

So we changed from coffee to tea while my wife asked, If it’s not too much trouble, I would love to hear what you think of the history here?

Not too much trouble! She sure knew how to tackle the British gentleman. Looking rather chuffed at her polite request, he smiled, My dear lady, what I can tell you is that vultures create cultures. Yes sir – that is the bottom line.

I’m sorry? My wife wore a puzzled look.

It’ll become crystal clear as you see how throughout history various civilizations have evolved through the conflict between bands of brutes vying for control and power and peace-loving people minding their own business.

And this applies here in Kazakhstan and you are writing about it? she persisted.

Well, Christopher sipped his chai and wiggled in his chair as if to get comfortable while saying, the early history of Kazakhstan is a shadowy procession of nomadic empires, most of whom swept into the region from the East and left few records. Recurring themes down the millennia include a great deal of large-scale slaughter and a contrast between Kazakhstan’s far South, which was within the ambit of the settled Silk Route civilization of Transoxiana between the Syr-Darya and Amu-Darya rivers, and the rest of the country, which remained the domain of nomadic animal herders on horseback until the 20th century.

Achoo. I hate murderous wars. The talk of them makes me nervous. And I always sneeze when I’m nervous.

Bless you, he said, pausing for a breath. But I think first I had better tell you the motivation behind the development of the Central Asia region so you can enjoy your days here learning about the history of Kazakhstan.

We nodded our agreement almost in unison. He waited for a few moments as the waiter placed our breakfast on the table. Once the waiter left and we had poured our tea he resumed.

The sole source giving birth to civilization in Central Asia is a very insignificant thing.

Insignificant? I asked. Not religion then, you know like in Armenia and Georgia?

He laughed. Not at all, chap. Not even close. Not religion. Grass.

Really? Grass? It sounded incredulous.

Yes indeed. Grass. The steppe is a vast grassland extending eastward from Hungary to Mongolia. It offered opportunity to those who were looking to settle down and live off the land while their animals could easily find nourishment. In those days, grass and water were like gold and silver to us now.

That is so interesting, the lady of charm chimed in. Do tell more.

Most agricultural civilizations prefer permanent, sedentary settlements, typically in the river valley regions and often referred to as ‘civilized’; however, the vast grasslands of Central Asia gave birth to pastoralism. Animal herding and domestication became the lifestyle of certain people who embraced a nomadic culture and were often referred to as ‘barbarian’. In reality, the history of Central Asia is that of the barbarian and their conquests over the civilized.

I knew what was coming next. Lady Google never went anywhere unprepared. She had been reading all about the Central Asia region for days and I knew she wasn’t going to miss an opportunity like this to show off her knowledge. She put her teacup down.

If you permit me, she said slowly. I’ve read that such a culture had no boundaries due to annual seasonal migration and the people sought pastures for herds. This often put the nomadic pastoral civilizations on a collision course with the sedentary agricultural civilizations. Mind you, the power hungry nomads often found that the agricultural lifestyle was more conducive to living a happy life than being constantly on the road. So, many nomadic conquerors did settle down in the southern parts of Central Asia and established several sedentary kingdoms.

Suddenly there was a bright spark in Christopher’s eyes. He moved to the edge of his seat and grinned, showing off his very white teeth. I say, jolly good. Madam, you have indeed got it right. Well done. And the interesting thing is that those who remained nomadic faced yet another problem. Lack of sustained leadership! Nomadic people relied heavily upon their leaders.

That hasn’t changed much, I observed. Just look at Iraq, Libya and Egypt.

Different book, old boy, he laughed. These old Central Asian societies, without permanency of stay and infrastructure, could not maintain strong leaderships. Several nomadic empires rose and fell within a generation. The harsh lifestyle was fraught with instability and uncertainty gave birth to innovation in warfare technologies. With time, the unification of agricultural and nomadic civilizations evolved into large kingdoms that enjoyed both stability and sustainable prosperity.

Lady Google was warming up to the challenge and elucidated, Yes. From the 8th century BC onward the Scythians in the Western Steppes waged war with the Persians, Greeks, and Mesopotamians. The Scythians were renowned for their superb horsemanship, a characteristic common among all nomadic groups.

I am sure they could have discussed the entire history of Central Asia for hours but suddenly Christopher looked at his wristwatch and, tapping it with his index finger, said, Got to run. If you are ever in Essex…Cheerio. And in a moment he was gone.

When our bill came I realized that the English gentleman wasn’t such a gentleman after all. He had left us to pay his portion of the bill too. Ah, well. He did share his knowledge of history with us. I drew Lady Love’s attention to my watch gesturing that we ought to be getting back. It was almost time to meet Begaim at the hotel.

We returned to our hotel by 10:00 am and found Begaim waiting for us in the lobby in discussion with two men. As we approached, the two men stood up. They looked almost identical with dark complexions, short, black curly hair, and black eyes. And they both sported similar round potbellies.

One of the men folded his hands and said, Namaste. My name is Palaghat Kolungode Vishwnatha Narayanaswamy.

And I am Maruthhur Gopalamenon Ramachandran, said the other.

Of course, of course, I uttered and then we introduced ourselves. I couldn’t resist and asked, I thought you two were brothers?

We are, the first one said.

The other said, We’re from Shout India.

South India, my lady whispered to me. Perhaps a little speech impediment?

But your names, I mean…

From Shout India, they answered as if reciting a chorus line. Where are you from? one of them asked.

Sidney by the Sea on Vancouver Island in Canada. We have a seaside condo there, I answered. The one who had asked the question smiled.

Aha, a sheashide condo in Shidney by the shea.

I sighed. Perhaps they were cousins, I mused and let go of my original inquiry. I was more intrigued as to why they had mile-long names than different names but I decided not to pursue that line of questioning either. Oh, you look disappointed! If you want to know why two brothers have such long names that are very different then I’ll tell you what? I will send you their contact details and you can ask them yourself. Okay? I was there for a higher cause: to explore wines, not the mystery of the South Indian brothers and their names. Shee what I am shaying?

Where was I? Oh, yes. We all sat down and Begaim said, You will have a few hours to explore on your own after I give you a brief history of the area. And tonight I’ll take you all to an authentic dinner.

What about the two ladies? my wife asked.

Begaim hesitated before saying, They’re not coming with us.

They’re not? Couldn’t they make the flight? Or are they ill? the physician who is always curious asked.

They’re in their room and had a disagreement about something. Apparently, it has something to do with who would take the photos! They have been friends for 37 years and share a camera. They alternate who is the photographer on trips but can’t remember who took the photos on their previous trip. So the problem is they cannot decide who will take photos on this trip.

They’re willing to ruin their holidays for which they paid thousands of dollars for the sake of the cost of a second camera? I was flummoxed. And jeopardize a 37 year old friendship?

The stern blue eyes gestured me to silent my thoughts. It was none of our business and she wanted to keep it that way.

Now they are refusing to go ahead with the tour. Both are demanding separate guides and cars for personal tours instead.

I was about to open my mouth when I heard a sharp warning from my Commander-in-Chief. No.

Our office is arranging things, Begaim exhaled slowly.

Oh great! So, we were lumbered up with Tweedledee and Tweedledum but the two who couldn’t remember who took what shot last would get private tours.

Begaim offered all of us some tea and consulted her notebook. Closing it she explained, We’ll talk a lot about the local history during our tour today but for now I’ll give you some details of the ancient history.

Tweedledee and Tweedledum looked uncertain but wobbled their heads in unison.

We got comfortable in lobby sofas and she started. In the 6th century BC, Begaim began as she poured tea for everyone, "the Achaemenid Persian Empire and later, Alexander’s Empire, expanded into the edges of the Western Steppes. At the edges of these two empires the result was a mixing of nomadic and sedentary cultures. Perhaps the greatest example of such multiculturalism is the Kushan Empire of the