Kyrgyzstan, Hiking: Part 4

Eventually, I made my way back to the trailhead. I stopped at a restaurant there for some dumplings and plov (pronounced “pilaf” in English and “polo” in Uyghur, this traditional Central Asian dish is rice cooked in broth with carrots). 

My meal at the restaurant; I am normally vegetarian but ate meat in KGZ when there were no other options. 

A young girl working the tables looked no more than 14 years old. She was kind to me as I ordered in my foreign accent while she ran around getting things for me and the others in the restaurant. The trail, waterfall and hot springs were a popular place for locals and tourists alike, and the restaurant was bustling with customers. 

By the time I was done eating, it was already 3:30 pm. I saw the marshrutka (mini bus) sitting in the parking lot outside. It was scheduled to head back to Bishkek at 4 pm; it was the last mini bus back to Bishkek of the day. It was packed full like a can of sardines. Almost every adult had a kid sitting on their lap and no masks were in sight. I took one look at that COVID container and thought to myself, “no, thank you.” 

(NOTE: I had had a COVID scare only a few days earlier when I had been to a party where two other vaccinated people had tested positive for COVID the next day, so I was feeling on edge about it.)

I decided to just risk it and find a way back to the city on my own. I walked up the hill to the hot spring and paid the entrance fee (100 som or $1.15 USD) to a nice boy at the ticket counter, who proudly asked me "where are you from?" in English. 

The changing rooms were all single-stall and gender neutral, so I was able to go in there and change into my swimming shorts. I kept my shirt on. 

Usually when I hear “hot spring,” I think of some idyllic vision of secluded and small pools of near-scalding water on top of a mountain. In KGZ, “hot spring” is more like a warm community swimming pool with a beautiful view of the mountains. 

It was an old Soviet-made “sanatorium.” Not sanatorium as in “long-term medical facility” as we think of it in the West, but “sanatorium” as they use it in Russia and Eastern Europe, which basically means “spa.” This one was rusty and falling apart. The water was dirty and smelled strongly of urine. Some women had full bikinis, even some in just underwear, and some had full head-to-toe coverage in black body suits. The pool was crowded, with lots of kids in inner tubes and their parents with their smartphones out taking pictures and videos of their kids.

I went into one of the hot spring pools and it was lukewarm. I was disappointed; I had been expecting something more like a hot tub. 

It was crowded, with over 30 other people there in the pool with me. The Muslim women swam with full outfits and hijabs on. 

Nobody blinked an eye at me or seemed to notice or care why I might be wearing a shirt. I stood alongside the other men in the pool under the fountains, where hot water slowly trickled out. I let it cascade over my sore shoulders and neck, hoping its magical healing powers would cure me of all my muscle aches. Nobody bothered me, except one guy who asked me if I spoke Russian. I said no, and he asked if I was a tourist and he explained to me that I shouldn’t spend more than 40 minutes in the pool at a time. It was kind of nice not speaking Russian; everyone just left me alone. I noticed that I don’t even have to try to put on a deep voice anymore, it comes naturally and I pass easily. 

I hung out in the pool for a while longer. It was worth the entrance fee just for the cultural experience alone. Kids continually jumped in the water with huge belly flops right in front of me, covering my face in water much to their delight until I decided to move. Everyone thought it was hilarious every time a kid belly-flopped in the pool and got everyone around them wet. 

Eventually I got out and changed back into dry clothes. I had to change into my jacket since my shirt was all wet. I headed out. On my way out, I saw an older gentleman with a traditional KGZ hat. I asked him for a picture with me since these hats are quite unique and a big part of traditional KGZ culture. The Kyrgyz men in China also wear these hats. 

I walked back down the hill and started walking along the highway, holding my thumb out to hitchhike.

After not too long of a time, a van stopped and I ran up to it. The driver, a young man with braces, spoke to me in Russian. I had to explain that I didn’t speak Russian. He said he didn’t speak English, but he spoke Arabic since he had studied Law in Jordan. But that didn’t help us much, so we switched to Uyghur/Kyrygyz. He wasn’t going to Bishkek, he said, but he was going to Tokmak, and I could get a minibus to Bishkek from there. 

“Sounds good,” I said, so I hopped in, and we proceeded to have an awkward conversation bumping along with our different dialects about what is good and bad about America (bad: homelessness, guns. good: mac and cheese, comfortable housing if you could afford it). At one point he wanted to light a cigarette, so while he was driving he lit a match and tried to light it. But we had all the windows open and the flame kept going out, so I offered to help. He refused, but I grabbed the matches and helped him light it. It finally worked. I felt accomplished in helping him with this seemingly impossible task. 

Finally, we got to Tokmak and I jumped out. It was boiling hot. It was much hotter there than in the mountains and I was burning up in my jacket. I didn’t have a shirt underneath; my shirt had gotten wet in the pool. But I didn’t have anywhere to change, so I sucked it up and bought some bottled water at a grocery store. [This is one reason why I might want to get top surgery some day.]

When I left the store, three guys were outside in the parking lot saying, “taxi taxi taxi,” so I told them I was going to Bishkek. It was going to be 1500 som (after a brief bargain negotiation). I looked up my location on Google maps—turns out I had hitchhiked my way farther from Bishkek, not closer. It was going to be an hour ride to Bishkek. But I was hot, tired and wanting to get back to the hostel. So I agreed to the price, looking out the very cracked windshield of this guy’s car the rest of the way. 

1500 som is about half an average monthly salary for a KGZ local, and this guy was going to earn that in an hour. For me, it was $18 USD, not much more than a burger with fries and coke at a nice restaurant. 

I got back to Bishkek and promptly treated myself to a spicy red curry with tofu and a cherry stout at the local Thai restaurant and craft brewery (cleverly called "Save the Ales"). 

The place had a bougie atmosphere: English-speaking staff, expensive vegetarian food, jazz music in the background, IPA beer on the menu, brightly painted furniture, and decorative light bulbs strung across the patio. The other customers clearly had money. The people around were dressed up and were enjoying their evening out. Economic inequality was tangible and starkly contrasted the taxi drivers and servers I had met earlier. 

It was nice to sit outside on the patio, the breeze kissing my skin. The red curry was rich and spicy with a luscious consistency from the coconut milk. I mixed it with white rice and the poached egg they put on top. The spicy flavors mixed with the creamy texture of the tofu and egg was heaven on my tongue as it mingled on my palate with the fruity dark beer. 

I felt wholly bougie and over-the-top. I was filled with a sense of satisfaction with a tipsy food-coma feeling to ease me into a deep sleep that night. 

Red tofu curry and cherry stout at the local restaurant and craft brewery