Visa Woes

Bishkek is a transit limbo, a place where travelers wait for visas to Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kazakhstan and sometimes Iran, China and Turkmenistan. Maybe because of this the city gets a bad rep, for being boring and a place where all you do is wait.

After Nick left I surveyed my options and decided to go to Uzbekistan - I wanted to see the ancient cities I'd read about in Peter Hopkirk's "The Great Game". Tajikistan was too out of the way, Dushanbe too hard to get to. Almaty, the former capital of Kazakhstan, is close to Bishkek (a five hour ride) but supposedly not very different or interesting. So Uzbekistan it was.

To get an Uzbek visa you first have to call the embassy to get on "the list." I called on a Friday, with exactly two weeks left to travel. I figured if I could get it in a week (and hopefully less) that would leave me enough time to head south, cross the border by Osh, and head to Andijon or Tashkent before Samarkand and Bokhara.

So I called. Most of the following interactions took place in Russian. I said I wanted to get a Visa to Uzbekistan. The woman on the other end of the phone said, "What nationality are you?" "American," I said. -"You can't come today. I'll put you on the list for Tuesday."

Keep in mind that getting on "the list" only enables you to APPLY for a visa- it doesn't mean you actually receive one. And since the embassy doesn't work on Mondays it meant going to Uzbekistan would be pushed off by at least four days. After I hung up the phone, I remembered that someone had told me that if you just go to the embassy and pester them long enough they'll let you apply. With nothing else to do, this became my new strategy.

I left for the embassy, application form, photos, copy of passport and money all with me. On the way, I ran into a Canadian I had met the day before. He was happy because he had just gotten his Uzbek visa and he gave me a bit of advice: "It's all about the guard out front," he said, "the one at the gate. He controls everything. If he likes you, he'll let you in." I prepared my best sweet talk.

Ten mintues later I found the embassy, saw a few people hanging around outside and spied the gate and the guard. I approached him: "Is it possible to apply for a visa today?"
-"What's your name? You're not on my list."
-"I know, but I really want to go visit your beautiful and historic country [sweet talk]."
-"What's your nationality?"
-"American."
-"Impossible. Come back on Tuesday."

This was dismaying, not least because I failed to grasp the connection between being American and applying for visas on Tuesday.

Right then, an Uzbek man and woman appeared and started talking feverishly with the guard in one of those crazy languages that lends itself well to feverish talking. The guard kept pointing at me. Then he motioned for me to come over; he took the visa application out of my hands and showed it to them. Then he asked in Russian: "Where did you get this?"
-"On the internet."
-"They can't figure out how to print it out."
-"I see," I said, not actually seeing where he was going with this.
-"Did you do it at the internet cafe around the corner," the woman interjected. "Can you come help me?"

The guard seemed genuinely interested in helping these people, probably because they spoke his secret code language. I realized my leverage. I turned to the guard: "If I go show them how to find the form online, will you let apply?"
-"Sure."
Success!

By this time it was 11 o'clock. I walked in to the internet cafe with a 40-something Uzbek woman with gold teeth and a 20 something Uzbek man in tow. The online application form is only in English, which explained why they couldn't figure it out. The woman spoke fine Russian so filling in the information was easy, but she was applying for three separate people so it took a while.

Then it was the guy's turn. He sat down next to me, handed me his documents. I was surprised because it was a Chinese passport and the picture clearly wasn't of him. I started filling in the information I could, but got hung up on "Passport Place of Issue." I asked him in Russian. He responded in one of those languages from over there. I asked him in English - nothing.

At this point I got a little worried about my own chances to apply that day, since the application required some complicated information about purpose of visit and place of stay, i.e. information which would require me to actually communicate with the guy. Luckily the Kyrgyz girl sitting next to me overheard our mutually unintelligble conversation and started talking to the man. Soon she was the de facto translator. As she explained to me, the two men (the one in the passport and the one actually applying for the visa) were Uighurs from Western China. Since she spoke Kyrgyz and Turkish- and Uighur is a Turkic language- she was able to speak with him.

Even with a translator, filling in the form was still difficult. The man didn't know the answers to most of the questions and kept calling his friend. When I asked the translator girl for the applicant's wife's name, she asked him in Turkic-crazy speak and started laughing. Then she turned to me and said, "Which one?"

Eventually we got it done. By this point it was well after noon. I hurried back to the embassy, the gate, the guard. "Where were you? What took you so long?" Unfortunately my Russian was not sufficient for: "I had to fill out three application forms for an Uzbek woman with gold teeth and an incomprehensible, polyamourous Uighur."
"Come back at three o'clock," he said.

I went to lunch and felt satisfied. I treated myself to scrambled eggs and crepes with jam. Life was good.

I went back at three. There was a small line, including the two from before. Slowly, each applicant went in, one and a time, and came out with their passports in hand and, presumably, a visa. Almost an hour later it was my turn, the last of the day. The guard motioned for me to go through the gate.

I walked up to the front door, rang the bell on the intercom. A woman's voice came on, "What do you want?" I recognized it from that morning on the phone. "I'd like to apply for a visa."
-"What's your nationality?"
-"American."
-"Come back on Tuesday."

------------

No good deed goes unpunished, or something. I did end up going back on Tuesday, after spending the weekend camping in Ala-Archa canyon south of Bishkek. I actually got in to the embassy, too. But the fastest they said they could get me the visa was "Friday or next Tuesday." Which meant that I would only have 6 days to travel in Uzbekistan at the most, a couple of days at the least. And they were going to charge me $200.

F that s. I went out to Karakol instead and went camping again. The hassle of applying isn't what annoys me so much. It's the implicit idea that SO MANY PEOPLE want to go to god-forsaken Uzbekistan that they need a list and a tight schedule of applicants to rein in the chaos and commotion. As if it's such a sought-after destination that they need an intake regime like freaking Ellis Island.

Anyway, next time.

Bad Russia #1

Today I was served a pizza which had both sour cream and dill on it. Both my sensibilities and my palate were offended.

Quick Observations on Kyrgyzstan

Happy and sad to be back in Vladimir from my extended vacation in Kyrgyzstan. Sad because classes start again and I'll have lost my freedom to roam and sleep in. Happy, surprisingly, to have Russian food again.

I'll have some good stories in the near future about trying to get an Uzbek visa and some of the strange and interesting people I met; for now, here are a couple of quick things I jotted down:

***
When shaking hands to greet each other men touch the sides of their heads together.

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Manholes are often missing. Some of the drops are ten feet deep. Careful where you walk at night! (I was later told by a Kyrgyz girl that it was because people steal them for scrap.)

***
Manure bricks are often used as fuel, especially in small towns and in the country. It has a particular smell when burning - sweet, muttony, muddy.

***
Females receive straws when they order beer.

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At street stands and in shops you can buy single cigarettes (3som, ~7cents), pieces of gum out of a pack (1som, ~2cents) or plastic cups of vodka (10-15som, ~24-30cents). In Kochkor we saw a man walk into the market, order a plastic cup of vodka, and down the thing on the spot.

***
Nick really, really likes seeing blood and guts.

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A single city block of Bishkek has more internet cafes then I've seen in my entire time in Russia.

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Of the three times I hitch hiked, each time was with Russians and two times it was after Kyrgyz drivers had asked exorbitant prices for the journey.

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There is a Russian military base in the city of Kant, outside of Bishkek. It's not named after the philosopher; it means "sugar" in Kyrgyz.