Cyrillic Knickers and Yurt Mortgages

                                

15 June 2009

                 

Left Osh yesterday morning for what is being touted as Bush Camp from Hell in some circles—okay, not really, but potentially could be dreadful, and equally conceivably, fantastic. The Gin Twins have bailed and opted to fly straight to Bishkek for the week; not fans of being cold and bored, and didn't want to take the chance—fair enough. Disconcertingly quiet without them, though the two extra seats make a world of difference. I can see that from Odyssey's POV it makes sense to fill the truck and have that much more income/kitty, but lord, how much more comfortable it is to not be crammed into table seats with three other adults.

   

The Twins off on their ongoing mission to patronize McDonald's outposts the world over, we're driving up to Song Kul. Last night we camped on the banks of a reservoir lake of a peculiar jade-green, so beautiful it looked like we'd been dropped into a painting of steep green mountains tumbling down to still, clear water. Hot afternoon ended refreshingly with a dip in the cold cold lake—and we collectively smell all the better for it today. Though Emma fears the flesh-eating virus will now taint us all.

                                 

The virus that leveled David a few days ago has reared it's head again and taken down both Emma and Louise. Being ill on a driving day is less than pleasant, poor things, but everyone else who's had it has been better in about 24 hours, and both of them seem on the mend.

                            

The market is Osh was more full of dodgy Chinese bits and bobs than the others we've been through so far, reminding me that we're not far off now. The amount of Engrish and shameless knock-offs is fabulously entertaining; also makes the point that copyright is pretty much pointless. Britney and Scarlet and Paris have their faces plastered on everything from soap powder to chocolate bars, to perfume, there's a copy of Dove soap called (rather hilariously) “Dave”, Calvin Klein has morphed into Ciavin Kalin, and Dolce & Gabbana have become Dolce & Gannaba. Have acquired knickers printed in a Chinese version of Russian, and sleep shorts which barely squeeze over my arse and yet are marked XXXXLL. Textiles are of the retina-burning variety; tinsmiths use recycled metal to make decorative trim that looks more like gingerbread than rubbish.

                                              

Another bush camp tonight and then we'll be at Song Kul for four nights. Nature time. Yay.