People of Kyrgyzstan #2: Metal guitarist and bandits in uniforms

The moment we meet Sasha, he has a particularly bad day. His previous boss owes him several months' salary and he doesn't seem willing to pay him anytime soon - or maybe ever. Sasha of course has no contract because that's not the way things work in Kyrgyzstan. Also, he had to give some of his last money to corrupt cops in the previous village. He didn't do anything wrong but there was no way how to argue with someone in a uniform.

We live in a free country

Sasha - or Alex, as he prefers to be called - was the first driver who stopped to give us a ride on our way from Bishkek to the Issyk-kul lake. It's a robust blond guy in a metal hoodie coming from the Kyrgyz countryside. 

We are driving along a picture-postcard country road surrounded by green plains and snowy tops of the giant, majestic mountain wall in the distance. Alex is playing System of a down on his car radio - after a month of Russian hip hop, this is something I actually enjoy listening to. The mild, cheerful weather strongly contrasts with Sasha's mood.

We were quite surprised because he addressed us in fluent English. He tells us he has an English degree from the university of arts. Now he's jobless, though, because it's hard to find work in the region. Recently, he had to quit from his last job in a fancy mountain resort because he wasn't getting paid. But he needs money so bad because he is moving to a new house with his girlfriend. She doesn't have money either because she is 19 and a student. They are getting married next month. (He invites us to the wedding and I feel sorry we will have to already be in China on that day.)

"Is it hard to live in Kyrgyzstan?" I ask him.
Sometimes it is. The unemployment is high and the government is corrupt.
"But I like it here. We live in a free country. Our government sucks but you can say it aloud and you won't end up in jail."

I notice a bass guitar on his back seat.
"I have a metal band, you know. I'm a guitar player."
"What kind of metal do you play?" Vojta asks.
"Just metal. Any kind of metal."
"Do you have concerts?"
"Sometimes. A couple of weeks ago we had one in my village."
"Is there a lot of metal fans here?" I inquire.
"Nope. Not really. People have no taste in music."

Alex shows us some videos and pictures of his band on his phone, and also pictures of his girlfriend and their new flat.

Then we see another police car on the side of the road. They wave at us to stop, and Sasha gets out of the car.

"Fuck," he says when he gets back. "Now I have no money left at all. That was the second fine today, for nothing. They told me I was drunk, so I told them I haven't drank since yesterday. So they told me I was driving too fast - that the speed limit was 30, even though there is no sign and there has never been such limit here."
"Why didn't you stand your ground? They would give up."
"There's no point," Alex shakes his head. "They are cops. They would just ask for more money."
"I'm sorry for you. That's so messed up."
Alex shrugs his shoulders: "Their salary is shitty and they need to feed their families. So they just collect money from people on the road because they can."

Trust me, I'm an engineer

 

"At least I met you and I can chat with you. That's the only positive thing today", Alex concludes bitterly. In the distance, at the bottom of a green mountain, he points us the ski resort he used to work at. Many people from Almaty come here in winter because it's way cheaper than in Kazakhstan. 

"I will take you a bit further, I just need to switch cars first. I must move a bed to my new place, so I will borrow a bigger car from a friend."

We stop in a village that looks like any small village in Czechia. Except that in the ditches along the streets, loads of cannabis plants tall as a person grow instead of nettles. Vojta and I stare at it but locals seem to find it totally normal.

Alex meets his friend, talks with him for a while and then he sinks back on his seat.
"He won't lend me that car."
He leans against the steering wheel and puts his face in his hands. "I don't know what to do."
"You have no other friend with a big car?"
"No. And I really need to move it today."
"Is there anybody else who could lend you a luggage rack that we could put on your car?"
"No."
"How big is the bed?"
"Big."

Alex looks lost. It's clear that we just cannot let him down. We will just have to move it in any way that is physically possible.
"We will help you. We will just tie it on the roof of your car."

There is nothing else Alex can do, so he drives to his village as planned. We meet two other members of his band, parking on an abandoned lot with loud metal music on. They look like the most typical metal fans ever - and they don't seem to be particularly excited about the idea of moving furniture now. 

Sasha's parents live in another typical family house, with a small yard and a little grocery store in front (no cannabis this time). We greet his mother and his sister who also wears a metal T-shirt, and the guys squeeze the huge bed through the tiny door-frame. Then we start dragging it up the yard.

"You can't carry it, you're a woman," Alex tells me after some time. 
"Why does it matter? I'll be happy to help you."
"Oh, really?" Alex looks confused for a while, and then we carry the bed on. 

Eventually, the other band members show up as well and we manage to move the bed up on the street. It's huge, bigger than the car. Alex has no tools to dismantle it and no ropes to tie it to the car either.

First, we put the mattress on the bare roof - it's maybe a meter wider than the car. Then we put the wooden bed on top and Vojta fishes two clotheslines out of his backpacks. We open the car windows and the trunk, and tie the Tower of Babel on top of the car to anything solid we can tie it to. 

Alex looks way happier than I think he should look. "Perfect, that's great!" 

I wouldn't exactly use the word "great" to describe our engineering work.

"Alex, please, go very slowly!" I urge our friend when he, his sister, Vojta and I crawl back to the car through the spiderweb of ropes. 
"It will hold, I trust you," Alex laughs and turns on some metal music again. He starts driving down the mild slope so fast that the load on top our car is swinging there and back. 
"That's not exactly slow."
"Don't worry." 

At the end of the street, Alex swerves right, the pile of stuff swings again and inclines a bit. It is still staying on the roof, though. 

It seems that our piece of engineering is a bit too much even for Kyrgyzstan, so people stare at us everywhere we go. Alex doesn't seem to mind - his good mood is back. He turns the music up and laughs at his sister that she doesn't understand the meaning of the English quote tattooed on her forearm. He even drives us a bit further in our direction even though they have to go some 50 kilometers back with the bed. 

An hour after we say goodbye to each other, Alex sends us a picture: the bed on the rooftop is dangerously tilted but they made it home. Both he and his sister are smiling brightly.