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Buy snow online in Shymkent

The only thing one hears when slowly surfacing from the underground depths of the Olmazor metro station — the last station on the red, Chilanzar line — is the sound of hard footsteps on the stone walkway, horns honking from the street above, and men shouting. But they are just doing their job, or rather, that which they believe their job to be. Touch me and we will have a problem , the inner, personal-space-conscious American in me thinks to myself irritably. The bus station, or avtovoksali , is a desolate place, huge in its grandeur but empty and barren in its contents. More hard footsteps, seldom in their number, echo off the stone floor, rising up to the high ceiling and back down again, creating a kind of aural accompaniment to the vastly grey visual spectacle. It feels like a mix between a prison and an abandoned, cancerous library, decaying before society itself. Little sky-blue plastic seats sit alone in the enormous room, offering temporary rest to travelers who are only going to soon sit again. Outside the sky brightens and the mob of white cars begin to fill the wide Tashkent streets, just like yesterday and the day before that. I wait on the stone steps leading up to the station entrance. I had him my ticket and in return he hands me an ungrammatical migration card for the Republic of Kazakhstan. I sit and warm my cold ears with the palms of my hands and look out the window and think that this is just about right. The bus left the station and I was the only passenger on board. Much like the empty bus station we had left behind, the seats around me were also empty. I thought about waste of space, watched the crowds outside the passing bazars grow in number and listened to music to drown out music as we slowly exited the millings-about of early morning Tashkent. I know. I wanna know who are these people. At the border, naturally, I was told to disembark and was escorted to a drab building where my bags were put into a scanner. I was then encouraged by the bus driver to skip to the head of the immigration line, much to the disagreement of the patient others who were standing in a clumped, clustered line. Uzbek authorities flipped through my passport with furrowed brows, trying to make sense of either its contents, me, or both. I was led outside back to the bus where a woman was having her dog search the bus. Maybe she just wanted to make conversation. The dog ran off again toward the grass and began to roll around in it carelessly. I laughed and so did she. The bus drove a few meters ahead to the next checkpoint on the Kazakh side. I disembarked again and again handed my passport over to another uniformed man in a box. The page flipping began anew. Nailed it. Another guard approached and wanted to make conversation, so the official one ceased. My passport was handed back to me and I went into another building. The place was empty and quiet with large posters in Russian on the walls. I began taking my clothes out of my backpack, scattering them all over the table as if it were my bedroom. That was fast. I was led outside to the final passport-page-flipping station. A man in a blue, furry pill-box hat took my passport and the page-flipping began once more. He looked back down at my passport and said something under his breath in Uzbek to the bus driver standing next to him. My gaze shifted around. I looked at where he had stopped his page-flipping — a blank page. There was nothing there. Why was he pointing to a blank page? Was this a joke? I exhaled. He had stopped on a blank passport page with Mount Rushmore on it and had perhaps wanted to test his American history knowledge. I relaxed. He tilted the passport slightly along with his noggin to get a better look at it. I watched him then decided to say something. His hyper-ventilating German Shepard security dog was running infinite circles around our little lesson, drooling all the while, leaving little drops of thick dog-saliva on the pavement. The wet-tongued dog barked at nothing. The guard looked up then looked back at my passport. He looked at me then back at the passport again. He seemed to stare at it for a minute, as if he wanted to continue on with our brief history lesson. I wondered how many Americans crossed this checkpoint each year. I got back on the bus and we drove to Kazakhstan where the roads were smoother. The driver and his assistant chatted together sporadically in Uzbek as the seemingly ordered and smooth roads stretched out before us. It was quiet. I flipped through my freshly-stamped passport to see the new stamps. I found myself looking at the blank pages, too. Some of them are quite picturesque, depicting natural scenes of the Pacific Northwest with bears, mountains and salmon, Hawaii with swaying palm trees around Diamond Head Beach Park, Texas. Others like Mount Rushmore and the cracked Liberty Bell were also detailed — eye-catching, almost — especially given the glimpses I had seen of drab-looking Kazak passports, though theirs had a bright turquoise-blue cover. I wondered: maybe these border patrol officers were just looking at the pictures in my passport and not the stamps at all. Maybe they were simply interested to see some official images of America; they wanted to take their time flipping through this little blue picture book. We arrived to Shymkent more quickly than I had anticipated. The rolling hills outside the city were a nice welcome to a new place. At the bus station, as I was getting a return ticket back to Tashkent a few days later, I was trying to communicate to the ticket agent behind the counter that I wanted to return on Friday. I was not being very successful as the ticket agent was growing rather irritated with my lack of Russian communication skills. A woman leaning casually on the counter nearby who had been witnessing our interaction spoke up and helped me out. I was hungry and alone in a new city so I asked her if she had had lunch already. Akmaral had been an English teacher for a year and had recently left her job to pursue a dream of cycling across Kazakhstan. She cycled for four months before she ran into health problems that sadly cut her trip short. Staying with a friend, she had been in Shymkent for about a month, so she knew the city a little bit. She had recently been working as a translator for a large oil company in West Kazakhstan; she showed me pictures of the region and it looked stunning. Translating allowed her to be more mobile and spend more time on her bike, which is exactly what she wanted to do. She said Kazakhstan was great for cycling because much of it was so flat. Over soft, savory pancakes, pink steamy borsh and shitty instant coffee, we shared couch-surfing stories together while it began to drizzle outside. After lunch, at the ridiculous Chuck Norris Bar, we watched awful Chuck Norris movies back-to-back while we dubbed improvised dialogue to their predictable scenes, drinking pint after pint of bubbly Kazakh beer over smoked cheese strips. In the morning, snow was gently falling on the puddle-dotted streets while jacketed pedestrians briskly shuffled their way down the cracked sidewalks. I wondered: was it the feeling of patriotism that was of importance or the actual patriotism itself? Could one feel patriotic without actually being patriotic? Thursday morning brought lightly dusted snowy streets and blue skies. It had snowed overnight and the snow had stuck, leaving a slight trace of whiteness on the ground, the sun now reflecting off it from above. In the afternoon, I met T, a twenty-nine-year-old Hungarian traveler, freelance English teacher and aspiring motivational speaker whose dream was to see all the countries of the world by the time he reached the age of thirty-five. I forgot to ask him how many he had left to go. He said he was very interested in conversations around controversial social issues in Kazakhstan, trying to get his students to discuss them and not have a sweep-it-under-the-rug attitude. He told me a bit about his experience in Shyment since arriving in November last year. Do you have groups? I nodded, stirring my Americano. I do my own stuff. I have my own Facebook and Instagram page. Most of the clients are English teachers trying to improve their English. I have the first client from Moscow — they are Kazak. Here in Kazakhstan, online teaching is not popular, not at all. They believe in personal contact — probably because of this bureaucracy, you know, you always have to shake hands. Online would be the future, the next step. Here was a guy who had decided to dedicate his entire life to travel. He wanted to visit every country in the world — quite a goal — but he was entirely serious about it. I admired his dedication to something I was also passionate about. He seemed to view money as just paper that allowed him to keep traveling. He commented on challenges in Kazakhstan as a place for someone like himself to conduct business. This is not a place where you can leave your business. If you want to take Kazakh nationality, you have to drop your nationality. You cannot buy a house as a foreigner, unless you have a residence permit and stuff like that. He mentioned the differences between Almaty and Shymkent in the English teaching markets for foreign teachers. That afternoon, as I thought about my conversation with T, I had lunch at a restaurant that, in its efforts to seem posh and hip, tastelessly blasted crummy instrumental music that belonged more appropriately in The Legend of Zelda than in a restaurant. He stood in the mud, his boots caked on the bottom; a rusty trumpet case lay discarded beside him, resting against the trunk of a snow-filled tree. Downward-looking, sidewalk-staring walkers shuffled by quickly without perhaps even considering the immense beauty that was being projected into their city streets. Were they not grateful? Did they not like the music? She was in town on a business trip, she said, and she was interested in gender differences and disparities in Kazakhstan. She told me about the double standards of personal relationships in Kazakhstan over pizza. In Kazak families, men have more opportunities than women. But men can marry any age, anytime; and some guys who are in religion, they can have two wives, but they can have if only they have money. They can get educated. I think we are not so traditional like Uzbeks and Tajiks. We are not so much in religion, something like this. Always — how to say? Was she nervous about being overheard? They similar. Later, I witnessed a group of Kazakhs break into song and dance in the middle of the park. It was a frigid sunny Friday afternoon and the sounds of what sounded like an accordion wafted peacefully over the park, accompanied by clapping and jolly male voices singing together in unison. A giant blue flag of Kazakhstan received a gust of wind, almost as if coming suddenly from their collected breaths, waving frantically and triumphantly over the Shymkent cityscape in the distance. At the bus station, I had a piroshky and a cup of tea in a cold, bright concrete room with plastic furniture. A group of chatty Kazak girls dressed in dark colors sat at a nearby table; they held their teacups with two hands as they sipped their beverage quietly. I read my book in the sunlight and thought about people in some of the places I had seen that may, perhaps, never change. But it is impossible to prove. Man, what else can I say? You are my people. It helped pass the time and was less mind-numbing than listening to music — more engaging, thought-provoking and reflective. I switched seats from the aisle to the window, letting the bright sun hit my tired body. I tipped my cap back ever so slightly and let the sun hit my face as I looked out the window, watching the birds soar smoothly above the rolling green southern Kazak hills. Samarkand brat. Love you Johnny, your stories are lovely. Thank you for sharing. Be safe my handsome young nephew! This is getting better and better. I wonder, are you traveling to write? Keep going please, and send me a plane ticket to join you some time;. Thanks buddy! Would love to travel again with you sometime. Good evening Mr John, lol, it is too late to be good evning though.. S you are usually seen with a book in your hand everywhere in Tashkent.. Search for:. Share this: Twitter Facebook. Like Loading I want heaps! I hear you are hiking the Colorado Trail this summer. When are you back stateside? Leave a comment Cancel reply. Comment Reblog Subscribe Subscribed. A Seattleite Abroad. Sign me up. Already have a WordPress. Log in now.

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Buy snow online in Shymkent

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