Vostok delo Tonkoe

[TheDrunkardAnglo]

The title is an old Soviet expression it translates to "The East is a delicate matter". Now I am no Soviet man, but believe me it is much more profound than it sounds. I am just A simple man with an alcohol inflamed liver, smoke polluted lungs and a massive head seeking hope, purpose and adventure out there in this blue sphere we call Earth. We have a mission ahead of us to travel through Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan. Three out of five of Central Asia's Soviet Republics.

As I escape one of the world's most expensive airports Istanbul, yet again, with my wallet lighter, Efes in my belly and some minor problem with me needing to take a sludgy shit more than what most would consider convenient or perhaps healthy. It is a lovely airport but outrageously expensive with a beer costing 17 euros. The cheapest thing to do is just smoke. So that is what we did whilst we wait for our connecting flight.

As a warning to those of you who have made it this far, the format will be changing, but alas, it wont be getting any shorter. Brevity is overrated. So get fucked you sons' of whores.

We arrive at Samarkand Airport at four o'clock in the morning. Quickly realised the NATO sanctions on the Russian Federation has really buggered our taxi Apps with yandex, the Russian world's uber being unobtainable for those with Western sim cards. we smoke some cigarettes and then l ask a lurking taxi driver for a quote to our hotel. It is three Pounds. We agree.

Following a late arrival we sleep and then head for plov and piva. It is 36 degrees. We walk through the old town of Samarkand once a path trodden by Alexander the Great and the Khan of Khans. Our boy Ghengis. It is one of the oldest continuously inhabitsted cities on the planet, founded between the 7th and 8th century bc. Flourished with being on the main path of the silk road.

Time transcends from the old town close to Rajestan Square and the newer Soviet built "Russia town" where there exists the not so famous beer street. It goes from dilapidated pedestrianised streets, overground sewage system and an abundance of sellers of bread, vegetables and meat. No supermarkets or chains. To more apartments, paved roads and importantly pubs.

It is approaching 40 degrees no where in Samarkand has air conditioning. We're heading for a night out. We walk to this Russian craft beer place near the centre of the old town have some wheat beers outside in the heat before having dinner and then head to the beer street.

We find a place. We sit inside. The locals are eating, each has a bottle of uzbek cognac on their table. They're going all out. We can smoke inside. We order the local beer and some long island ice teas. We're there until closing. We then move across the street to another beer place. We have more beer and more long island ice teas. Everything is closing.

We get a taxi and ask him to take us somewhere we found on Google. We arrive it is shut. Next door they have a shashlik place. There's people drinking inside and out the back in a courtyard.

We leave at 4am. There's no way for us to call a taxi so I wave my arms in the street. A car pulls up I ask him how much it would cost to get to this address. He gives me a number. We agree.

I'm smoking my cigarette I say "ya mogu kurit?" He replies "da". We jump in the car. Smoking our cigarettes as we go along. It strikes me quite clearly this is not a taxi driver, the alcoholic fumes coming from his breath make it clear. He is but rather a booze hound looking to recoup some of his beer costs from that evening.

We awaken. We head for some shashlik. Little grunt of an adolescent comes with some attitude. I've just looked at the menu and he's lurking over me. Some real fucking creep. I put the palm of my hand out with some get your breath out of my face type of attitude and say "odin minute". He complies. Skewers and skewers of meat arrived with a nice salad and some bread. We devour. It's hitting 40 degrees again. We head back for a little siesta before we hit the night again.

See our old Russian friends at the craft beer place. Filled with middle class families and draft dodgers. We grab a cab to the resturant. One of the more premium restaurants in Samarkand. We order uzbek champagne and beer. Though our waiter is obsessed with how much we earn. He asks my friend about his watch. Saying his manager likes it. He asks how much it costs. My friend gives him a low ball number, over half it's actual value. He still gives a face of surprise. He's asking how much my friend earns. My friend doesn't tell him. Just states the average UK salary stating also that it is an expensive country to live. The personal intrigue is increasing. My friend goes to take a shit. It's just me and the waiter. He tells me "Great Britain's empire was 35.5 kilometer squared" as well as other facts. As my friend comes back from his his shit the waiter asks me "do you sad that Empire over?"

I ask for the bill.

As we're walking to the bar. My friend goes "thank fuck we got out of there. At one point I thought they were going to mug me. That little shit seemed to be asking questions he learned to ask from KGB school".

"Tvoriach, there is no stealing in the Republic of Uzbekistan. These are not the streets of Detroit. He can ask his questions, an innocent citizen has nothing to hide" I calmly assure him.

We enter the bar. It's called something like Blue Jazz Bar or some shit. It's basically a little slice of Americana on the quiet streets of Samarkand. Neon lights, no air conditioning, and smoking everywhere. We order two beers and two shots of cognac. The waitress fucks up and pours two shots of vodka. I tell her "ne problem. Vodku tolje". We drink the beer. Down the vodka, shocking smooth. These uzbeks aren't fucking around with this stuff. The cognac, not quite as good. Still tasty and smooth.

We move onto beer street we go to one of the ones we have already been to. We order beers, long island ice teas and shots of vodka. I'm flirting quite outrageously with the waitresses. Because of their features dear reader I was expecting them to be Russian nationals. I was surprised to hear that they were uzbek nationals. Many of whom have never been to Russia. What happened dear reader I do not know. Did thousands of Russians move to Uzbekistan during the Soviet Union? Build a life, build a career and then were more or less priced out from ever returning to the motherland following the collapse of the Soviet Union on that fateful day - December 26th 1991? I think so. Vostok delo tonkoe.

Its approaching 2:00.They're closing. The minxy one who is charmed by my poor Russian. Is suggesting we order four beers, two shots of vodka and two long island ice teas. Those long ice teas never arrived dear reader. Alas we still get very fucked. As we leave I get one of the waiters to order us as a Yandex back to our hotel.

We stumble in. My friend runs to the bathroom to chunder. I crash out.

We awaken. I am death. We check out of our hotel. Leave our bags at the hotel as we spend our final hours in Samarkand. We go to one of the more traditional plov places in Samarkand. They have big wok like devices filled with plov, being stirred with giant shovel like ladles.

We're inside. It's scorching at 42 degrees. No air conditioning. Every bite I am closer to ruin. The lamb is rich, fatty and also quite gristly. Some of the lowest quality of meat we have eaten on this trip. The compot, a cherry one, is too rich for my fragile stomach.

We pay and head to the market. One of the longest continuing markets on this earth. The heart of the silk road. Filled with spices, fabrics, fruits and today a lot of cheap mass produced Chinese goods. Is this samarkand pottery made in Samarkand dear reader? Are these Samarkand fabrics woven in Samarkand? Perhaps, but the cynic in me believes it is more likely made in China and brought to Uzbekistan. That those camel hair scarves are actually cotton polyester made in Guangzhou.

My bowels are beginning to fail me. We find a tea house. We smoke cigarettes drink tea. I go to the bathroom. It is a mess. Thankfully they have this water gun type bidet system which means I can wash my shit plagued arsehole with some efficency. The concentrated stream of water attacking my shitty arsehole is also cooling me down.

I leave renewed.

We visit a mausoleum and then catch a fast train to Tashkent. It's quite an impressive train. Something similar to a japanese shinkansen. Though I understand that they're made in Europe. My poor friend is stuck next to a talker. For the entire two hours he is chatting. I watch a movie and have a little nap.

Arrive in Tashkent we leave the Voxhal (Russian for train station, it turns out the engineers who visited the UK's train network in the Victorian period stopped off at Vauxhal and as a result assumed that was the word for station) we are met by taxi drivers.

"Ti hochu taxi"
"Da, skolko stoit Hotel Uzbekistan?"

The price I was quoted was excessively high.

I say "STO? ETA DOLOGAR!" and tell him how much I want to pay.

He tells me I wouldn't even get a coffee for that in Tashkent. He then tries to haggle the price.

"Nyet, spaciba." Then only after I throw out "poka, poka" does he leave.

This joker has no fucking idea. I haven't just got off the boat.

We by coincidence bump into my friend's train companion. He orders a yandex for us.

As soon as we jumped in and were driving through the city of Tashkent, with its wide roads, tall apartment blocks, monuments and stately architecture I knew we were in a city I could enjoy.

We arrive at the famous Hotel Uzbekistan. In the Soviet Union the government built a number of luxury hotels in their various republics for committee members, diplomats, visiting artists etc. This was Uzbekistan's in the heart of Tashkent. It is fucking glorious. Anyone with a minor interest in the Soviet Union may get a sudden rush of blood through their gentleman's sausage just by being in its presence.

We go through the lobby. No different today than when it opened in 1974. They have reception at one end and at the complete opposite they have the bar. On the left (if you were facing reception) they have Cafe Wien which is another location you can drink. The bar is 24/7 and yes, you can smoke in it, like almost anywhere in Uzbekistan. The decor is the same it was in the 70s. Lots of cream, turquoise, deep burgundy and accents of gold.

It screams of fallen grandeur. Something akin to Wes Anderson's Grand Budapest Hotel.

We head for dinner at a resturant a short walk away. More expensive than what we have paid by quite a significant amount. The old fashioneds we ordered were bordering undrinkable. One of these adolescent pricks squeezed a lemon into them. Assuming they're teetotal and are not tasting their product.

The waiters were also incredibly irritating. Never giving us much peace, always wanting to teach me more Russian or Uzbek.

Im already hungover and this shit is taking the focus away from my horse, noodle stew.

We go back to the hotel. I make a big point to reception that there is no ash tray in my room. The receptionist tells me to ask for one at the bar.

I ask for one at the bar. The barman isn't happy. He calls the reception. They're at the opposite ends of the room. Kind of looking at each, but also kind of not. It's awkward and very funny. My friend has to lean on a table as he is laughing at the situation.

The barman comes to me and says that an ash tray will be sent to my room in five minutes.

I go up. Step onto the balcony about to light up and sure enough I get a knock at the door with the delivery of an ash tray.

We sit back have some cigarettes before heading to a few bars. We keep it quite tame still being hungover and well suffering quite the bit from the decadent horse based meal. We get back just before 1:00.

We awake. Have some cigarettes before heading out for an early lunch. It was in the fancier side of town so we were able to take advantage of their business lunch. Cheap, cheerful and generally not too bad. Stroganoff and some beers.

Following this we ride their metro to the famous tashkent market. Stopping off enroute to pay homage to the cosmonauts at cosmonaut station. The Tashkent market is a Soviet dome filled generally with rotting meat, tea and spices for plov. The stench is quite extraordinary. We gag as we walk around declining any prospective business with the vendors.

We head back to the hotel. Have a few beers at the bar at the top of the hotel overlooking Tashkent. Smoking our cigarettes.

Off to a beer place. Its called steam bar. Its basically got a steampunk theme. Does beer and western pub food with the addition of shashlik. Common across the whole region. We're sitting outside. We have some food and drink through a shit tonne of beer and long island ice teas. There's a lot of Uzbek beauties about. Inside they have this dodgy nightclub scene happening. We're watching as dodgy Chinese/Korean men try to dance with young scantily dressed girls. As one can imagine it is very entertaining.

Off to a cocktail bar. We spend the night there. Old fashioned followed by a manhattan. The rest of our time there we spend drinking vesper martinis. Smooth, drinkable, but absolutely wrecking. We get very blotto. There's two girls one of whom is a blonde smokehouse and one guy. I initiate conversation. They're both lesbians. In Uzbekistan? I say. Homosexuality is illegal. They explain its illegal but the real cultural problem is with the men. They just don't like the idea of men sucking each other's cocks and fucking each other up the arsehole.

We're back in the bar in the hotel lobby. I'm talking broken Russian with the Uzbek barman. The poor guy is pretty much a modern slave. The bar is open 24 hours. He does a 22 hour shift basically. We smoke cigarettes, drink beer and finish on some of the worst brandy I've had. It's uzbek brandy I'm assuming of the V.S. level. It is rough. My friend leaves his believing life is too short to drink shit. I neck mine. We open the door to the room I fall over, but eventually make it to my bed.

I then crawl into the bathroom where I furiously mastarbate before going to sleep.

We're now off to Kyrgyzstan. Bishkek formerly known as Frunze, after the Old Bolshevik revolutionary and general who defeated Admiral Kolchak in Omsk and drove Wrangel out of Russia. His backing of Zinoviev over Stalin led him to die of complications during his surgery. He is still buried at the Kremlin.

We arrive and manage to get a local e sim with a number which allows us to use Yandex, the Russian world's uber. Does this mean we're now dodging Russian sanctions? I don't know maybe. We check in to our hotel and head for food. Lagaman and these dumplings called manti. Fucking delicious.

It's baking. We go to a beer garden. A problem has arisen. I assume it's due to the general low quality food hygiene in central asia. We both have the shits. I for example have increased my daily shitting rate by at least 240%. The only benefit is due to it mainly being liquid, the cleanup is super quick. The problem bere is that the toilets are not western toilets but squatters.

I hold on. There's one table filled with a huge group of massive Kyrgz men. Going through bottles of vodka. Quite a sight to witness.

We leave for another bar viking bar. It's a craft beer place with a Nordic theme. I then coming to the shocking realisation that Kyrgyzstan's smoking rules are not quite as liberal as Uzbekistan.

We leave and then head to a cocktail bar good spirits. It's a great little speakeasy bar. We go through old fashioneds and pop outside to smoke cigarettes. The heat is exceptional but in Kyrgyzstan air conditioning is very common. So that is something. We meet our first Kazakh of the trip. We ask him about Almaty, unhelpfully he is from Astana. Last orders are coming I order another old fashioned and 10 shots of flavoured vodka.

My friend is not happy with me. We take them out shot by shot. The last one he chunders. He does it very neatly back into the shot glass. We leave.

Buy some more cigarettes and we find a bar. Nothing to exceptional, but it is open. We have a couple of gin and tonics. At this point we're wasted. We settle up and walk back to the hotel stopping enroute for shwarma.

We wake up go to a restaurant have some tea, lagaman, manti, and this stew type thing in bread. It's good.

A bit of sightseeing then we have a Partagas P2 in a cigar lounge and then hit the bars. We go to a bar called Times Bar. It's overlooking Bishkek. We eat an unremarkable meal, have some beer. Smoke a shit tonne of cigarettes, then we move on. We try this bar called munchen but they took too long to serve us. Our suspicion is that they prefer their customers to be Kyrgz.

We go to a craft beer place. Have one, then go. We ultimately end up in this dive bar called no name bar. We start on the beers. We then start talking to these two dodgy Kyrgz and move onto gin and tonics. We end having four rounds.

One of them is then suggesting we go to a whore house. We decline. They then push to go somewhere else we decline again. The eagerness to go to a dodgy club or brothel is alarming. I suspect that we could be overly paranoid but we assumed there would be some con to get some money out of us. Or make money out of us.

They leave we carry on drinking. The bar closes. We seek out another bar nearby, but alas we fail. We get a Yandex to a bar called Metro Pub. It's pretty quiet but there is smoking inside. We have a g&t then this old drink Russian lady keeps on approaching us. My assumption is that she's a whore. She's very touchy but is also negging us. I don't understand everything she says, it's all in russian. We pay and leave. Stopping off for more Schwarma before we head to bed.

We arrive in Almaty, formerly Alma-Ata, Kazakhstan. Arguably the birthplace of the modern day apple. The second of two central Asian cities to have a metro. Usually only provided to Soviet cities which met a population criteria.

Unfortunately for the good people of Almaty the construction of the metro began in 1988 and construction was ceased following the collapse of the Soviet Union. So it was only opened in 2011. As a result it is only one line. The stations are also significantly less ornate than those in other former Soviet Republics. It isn't as useful or as impressive as the metro in Tashkent for example.

On arrival to Kazakhstan it is very clear that Kazakhstan is the wealthiest country in the region. Not a single Lada in sight. Lots of modern cars and luxury sports cars.

We arrive at the famous Hotel Kazakhstan. Much like Hotel Uzbekistan it was built to host diplomats and Soviet big wigs. It too was opened in the 1970s. 1977 to be exact. Though unlike Hotel Uzbekistan it has been renovated. Much of the charm of bygone luxury has been replaced with actual luxury. Inside it now feels and looks like any other high end hotel. As a result the place is filled with Indian tourists. Arguing and bartering with the concierge whilst their children run wild.

We drop our bags off and go to a nearby pub for a burger and a pint. Fuck. A pint of Stella is the equivalent of £6! I am freaking out. We go back to the hotel. I ask the concierge for the best place to drink. He is only suggesting the bars within the hotel. I say student bars. He plays dumb. Fucking slut.

We regroup. My friend reasons with me. "It's just this part of town. With all the hotels and tourists. We'll find somewhere with beer for less than 2000 tenge".

We do. Almaty saved from my condemnation. First a steakhouse which is more of a pub, then we stumble across another craft beer place before finding a hipster type bar. All Soviet furniture. Lots of traditional paintings depicting rural life before the Soviet Union. They have a picture of the two Kazakhstan presidents hanging from the ceiling from a piece of rope. It is unclear if this is an offensive political statement or merely a tongue in cheek joke.

We go through a few beers before we end up talking to a couple of Kazakh students. Nice kids, but probably homosexual. Who knows? Not I Rabbi. The bar closes and the students end up taking us to beerhall type place.

We order long island ice teas and Kazakh vodka shots.

We leave at 5:00 we bump into two Russian girls. I flirt with them both outrageously. They're fascinated to know why we're here. I tell them that we came from London to see this shitty courtyard in Almaty because Benedict Cumberbatch went here. They ask me if it's true. I reply "sweetheart, it hurts me that you would ever think I would lie to you like this." We go on about existentialism, for some reason quirky Russian women love that and part ways.

The combination of alcohol and that interaction really put some fire in my pencil. Enroute to get some food two girls speed past on these electric scooters. I shout at them "baby, you're speeding. I might have to write you a ticket" they giggle and circle us. Teasing sluts.

We return to the hotel. Crash out.

Awaken, head to a Stolavaya a Soviet cafeteria for lunch. I have compot, fermented horse milk, meat with rice and some bread. We take a cable car to the mountains and have a beer and some cigarettes. Perving over some beauties as they take selfies with the city skyline in the background.

We go out straight away from the mountains. First to a craft beer place and then a popular chain of pub type restaurants. I make the school boy error of ordering their fish and chips instead of picking a local delicacy. I mean what could possibly go wrong Almaty is only two thousand plus miles away from the Caspian sea. I don't know what kind of fish it was. I'm assuming river fish. It was roughly chopped, not deboned and poorly fried in what I assume is also their chicken breading. The only inedible meal of the trip.

We head back to our favourite little bar. We're greeted like old friends. We drink cocktails all night. Going from old fashioneds to martinis. Ending on shots. During our innings there we played chess with some locals and my friend had a real heart to heart with the bartender. It turns out the guy is only 23. I found it surprising, I assumed he was in his late 30s. Tough paper round. We were then joined by two girls, sadly not attractive. Though one worked in the music industry doing the promotion for western bands visiting Kazakhstan, a cool gig.

We end up going to a club the barman recommend as he closed up. He said he would see us there.

I cannot recall too much of the events that transpired this night as I did blackout towards the end but I will do my best.

We reverted to gin and tonics. We bump into the barman he says hello and quickly makes his excuses. We were a little bit like don't recommend a place if you want a quiet drink alone you introverted cuck.

We moved to another bar. I can't remember too much of this bar. I think i tried but failed to flirt with a few girls. I also remember getting into an argument with a very feminine gay man and calling him a queen.

Daylight had now fully emerged. We end up in another bar. I understand we had 2 gin and tonics here. I recall we had some drinks with a Kazakh who for some reason had one of his glasses lenses completely clear and the other with a sun shade.

We go outside to smoke. I'm struggling to support myself. Some Kazakh is talking to my friend. The weight of my massive head is weighing me down. I can feel my throat airway tighten. I think I'm about to vomit. A taxi driver tries to win my custom. I tell him to fuck off. We get a yandex back to the hotel. I fall over, crawl to bed and crash out.

With that this concludes the drinking across Soviet Central Asia. Vostok delo tonkoe. Here we have three countries. Large majority of the population is Muslim and they have their own customs that cause confusion to those in the west, whether that be Russia or the democratic world and yet they drink, they smoke, they party.

I have loved every minute moving across the silk road. The food has been good and the people have been kind and welcoming. I leave having left my previous assumptions about the region behind, and with a new passion to maintain and improve my pretty poor Russian.

[oettinger]

Wow very long read, where can I buy the audio-book?

[Hugh]

"Daylight had now fully emerged. We end up in another bar. I understand we had 2 gin and tonics here. I recall we had some drinks with a Kazakh who for some reason had one of his glasses lenses completely clear and the other with a sun shade."

That was Salman Rushdie you dummy.

[Badfellow]

Ah, so you've been whoring around the ol' Uzbek stomping grounds of my dear, departed friend Islam Karimov, have you? That Samarkand sunshine must be bloody hell on your sensitive Englishman's complexion. Let us know when you make it into Turkmenistan.