A Bit of Rhyming Collocation and Bob's Your Uncle

Cockney rhyming slang might be the most valuable contribution to the English language to ever come out of Britain. I was pleased to discover its existence from the renowned travel writer Jamie Maslin during a shared hiatus in Kazakhstan, but also shocked that a learned scholar such as myself remained ignorant of it for so long.

Rhyming slang phrases are derived from taking an expression which rhymes with a word and then using that expression instead of the word. For example the word "look" rhymes with "butcher's hook". In many cases the rhyming word is omitted - so you won't find too many Londoners having a "bucher's hook" at this site, but you might find a few having a "butcher's".

That's courtesy of cockneyrhymingslang.co.uk. Clearly there is rhyme here, but never any reason. I think that's the beauty of rhyming slang: it's got less sense than an initial glance at that slab of stone pictured a top. That's the Rosetta Stone by the way, they got it at the British Museum. You know, the rock they named the software after? Turns out, it's designed to make sense.

Rhyming slang confused the hell out of me for awhile, but I've started getting it down. I collocate the word in question, and then find a rhyme for the most likely pair, and I usually work it out.

Still don't get it? The Wikipedia page is pretty straight forward.

Sadly, it's just contrived and unnatural when a septic like myself tries to use it. Still it's helpful to understand, just in case rhyming slang gets thrown on the critical language list for the US foreign service. Having a bit of that, along with Korean, would really boost me in the selection process.

Just remember, collocate, rhyme, and Robert's your father's brother.

I'm a Spoiled Prince!

Out of boredom and unfounded vanity, I was looking over the columns I've had published in the Exeter News-Letter when I found this scathing reaction to my article concerning Alan Whicker and exiting from Kazakhstan:

"Congratulations on getting safely out of my country, you spoiled prince. In Kazakhstan, people always treat foreign guests worthy, even border security officers. That's what happened to you. Don't look down on them."

To avoid being too much of a dick, I'll just say claiming that foreign guests are always treated well in ANY country is just as foolish as saying they're always treated poorly. My critical friend here, as a citizen, probably doesn't actually know exactly how foreigners are treated in his country.

Example 1: Two foreign teachers I CouchSurfed with in Shymkent described in great detail how they are routinely stopped in their car, being forced to pay bribes to corrupt cops. This actually happens to everyone in Kazakhstan, not just foreigners, but most foreigners also have to have special plates that identify them. Hmm.

Example 2: Almost immediately after boarding a two day train, I was taken out of my berth and brought to the provodnik's compartment. First they asked me for cigarettes. Then they asked me for dollars. Then they asked me for tenge. Then they said straight up, "Baksheesh". I was smart enough to play dumb and quick enough to grab my passport back and leave. My passport, by the way, being the only foreign one on the train. Hmm. No other passengers had to suffer demands of bribery. Hmm.

Corruption and bribery is rampant in Kazakhstan. I know not so much because of these easily dismissible examples, but because every Kazakh person I met told me so.

In regard to my actual exit from the country: I was missing a vital stamp. Why the stamp is vital is a mystery to anyone, but nonetheless I was in a bind. The border guard would only have been doing his duty if he were to detain me, but thanks to a language barrier and a small confidence trick, I got out with no problems and without paying a bribe like a previous traveler in the same unfortunate position. It wasn't entirely legal, but it worked.

So, my insulted reader friend, thank you for your input. I agree that most Kazakhs are hospitable and genuinely kind people. But don't get all huffed up and insulted when someone brings up a little dirt; it's there whether you like it or not.

Luck and the Ferry

Bad luck is all too obvious when traveling: I miss a train; a consulate is closed for a national holiday; I point at some Chinese characters on a menu and get a grilled cow dick wrapped around a hotdog on a stick; someone in the bunk across from me snores.

Good luck is a bit harder to spot, and thus less appreciated. When things are going well, I just assume that's the way it should be, damn it. I try not to think about how something good could have gone bad because that's far too easy.

Jamie and I were hoping for some good luck for a change on a Wednesday morning in Aktau. I'd been in town a week, and we were due to pick up our visas. The Azeri consulate is the direct opposite of the Kazakh consulate in Urumqi: empty, orderly, civilized, comfortable, pleasant. We had our visas before lunch, a sign of things to come, perhaps.

We were walking around that one-horse port town of Aktau, thinking of how great it would be to get a phone call saying, "Hi, a boat is leaving in three hours. You should have time to pack, buy a bit of food and get to the port. Can you make it?" We were teasing ourselves the way hungry men describe their favorite meals to each other.

Then my phone rang. I was expecting this: a ringing and vibration from my pocket that, once I looked at the ID and saw it was one of our Kazakh friends in town, would smash our instantly risen hopes.

It was our friend Bakyzhan. We were deflated. Then he told us the Avon girls at the travel agency had called him instead of me and there was a boat. We were over-joyed: salvation from somewhere unexpected!

I immediately made phone calls to say goodbye to our local friends, and sent this to one of our taxi drivers: "Hi Saken, our boat to Baku is leaving tonite. It was nice meeting you! Goodbye and good luck with the dog fights!" He picked us up one day then put his bleeding half Caucus Shepherd, half Alibi into the trunk to bring to the vet.

Looked like our luck was changing. We ran to the travel agency, ran to the ATM to get cash, ran back to pay the Avon girls, and ran to Bakyzhan's apartment to pack our stuff. We stocked up on food and souvenirs, and got to the port, making sure to say hi to the truckers that Jamie hitched into town with, and who were all still waiting for their own boat a week later, getting drunk on cheap vodka and watching films in a curtained cab.

All we had to do was wait an extra 40-plus hours in the port waiting room beyond the scheduled departure (thick fog delaying on- and offload of cargo - we called it Gypsy Breath), constantly bothering people because no one could give us straight info in English. Then the easy part of assuming a confident and commanding posture to convince the border official to stamp me out of the country even though I had failed to get some redundant registration stamp earlier in Kazakhstan. Then we just had to spend a night on the boat before we actually set sail - more Gypsy Breath problems.

Fortunately we had our own cabin after Jamie threw a conniption fit about having to share a room with an Azeri guy whom he thought might snore. Our place was complete with woolen Soviet blankets, cold and cold water, an opening porthole window, and orange and plastic wood decor; a interior style that truly said, "Goodbye Kazakhstan, and bon voyage!"

More Photos - Finally!

It's been a long dry spell. I have finally managed to upload photos though.

I've skipped my return trips to Lao and China, because I don't have those photos with me at the moment, so lay off.

Instead, you get to see Kazakhstan; perhaps more interesting?

I blame the long delay on unreliable and sparse Internet access throughout Kazakstan.

Click here, or on the link to the right, as always.

Is The Love Gone?

I noticed a disturbing trend recently. I was in the one-horse port town of Aktau, Kazakhstan, a thoroughly drab and uninteresting place. I realized I had been looking forward to leaving nearly every country I had been in for the last several months.

This is not a good sign for a traveler. Was the love gone?

I'd been waiting for days and days in Aktau for a ferry that runs without a regular service to Azerbaijan. One must rely on some pretty girls that work in the travel agent/Avon beauty shop to call you up on short notice whenever the boat pulls in, which could be today or next week.

The shore of the Caspian is littered with bottles and garbage, everything is expensive beacause it's an oil town, and there is nothing to do. Really nothing. In Aktau, they don't even have street names. Everything is labeled by district, building number, and then apartment. An address reads like a prison number: 22-7-84.

Well I got to thinking. Before I was dying to leave Kazakhstan, I was in China dying to leave for Kazkakhstan, and before that I was in Lao dying to leave for China, and before that I was in Thailand dying to leave for Lao, and before that I was in Lao again, dying to leave for India via Thailand.

It did not seem like a good pattern to me.

But fear not! I simply had grand ideas about how much fun I'd have in the next place. I'm in Azerbaijan now, wishing I could stay longer, but a 5-day transit visa is limiting my choices. Baku is a beautiful city, even in a mildly feverish state.

I look forward not to leaving, but to arriving at my next destinations: Tbilisi, Georgia, where I'll relax for a couple days before moving on to Turkey where I'll be for at least five weeks of studying in Istanbul.

The love is not gone.

Great Success!

Contrary to my general opinion on long-distance buses, I enjoyed the ride from Urumqi to Almaty very much.

The best part was that I was leaving China, which I was fed up with, mostly due to unbearable train rides of inconceivable length, the frustrating pursuit of a baffling girl, Kafka-esque visa processes, a long-ignored desire to move westward, and the overwhelming omnipresence of gray sprawls and humanity.

The bus had only two rows of bunks, making each wider and more comfortable than the three-rowed buses I had previously been on in China. The passengers were Kazakh, making them less prone to spitting, screaming on cell phones, and smoking on the bus.

Leaving Urumqi, I felt wonderful, thinking that I had gotten a lot out of the city, and I had nothing to regret about leaving. Reclining on my bed, I watched as a young boy clomped through snow in shoes far too large for him. Two pairs of beautiful Uighur girls approached each other on the street and kissed the others on their cheeks in perfect unison. I said goodbye to Chinese characters, BYDs, and filthy icicles.

I had plenty to read, the 1200 dense pages of Atlas Shrugged, and a headlamp to light up the pages when the sun fell.

Exiting China through their border, I was once again held up, my passport scrutinized, the supervisor called over to clear me. I expected it at this point. Entering Kazakhstan, a guard pulled me aside, filled out my form for me, and had me skip everyone else in line. “Welcome to Kazakhstan!” another said as he waved me through the exit gate.

It seemed like as soon as we got into Kazakhstan, the sky was blue and there were snowy peaks in the distance. We passed untamed open land beyond lines of trucks waiting to clear customs and get into China.

The weather changed from spring warmth, to gusty winds, to rain, and eventually snow.

The people on the bus were nice to me. I stood out, but not as a freak to be gawked at, but as someone to be interested in. People talked to me instead of wordlessly taking my photo, and one guy bought me a meal at a rest stop because I hadn’t changed any money yet.

When we arrived in Almaty, snow had begun falling. I had the phone number of a CouchSurfer, but no address, and no phone on which to call, and no money with which to buy a SIM card. I wandered around in the darkness for a bit before some of the passengers insisted on putting me into a sort of taxi. They threw some luggage into a massive van, and a kid drove me to an ATM, then let me use his phone to call my host, and dropped me off, no charge.

Not a bad welcome into Kazakhstan.

A Casual Survey of Kazakh Internet Access

Great success?

Firstly, sites such as Blogspot and PicasaWebAlbums seem to be universally blocked here. Both are owned by Google. This makes updating photos and text difficult, like in China. And the program I used to get around the Great Firewall - up yours, Chinese censorship! - only works in China.

However, this doesn't really matter too much as it's nearly impossible to find Internet cafes in Kazakhstan. I'm writing from a cafe with a slow connection at the top of a glitzy mall where I can hear the sounds of air hockey outside the door.

The place recommended to me by my CS host doesn't exist and the place advertised on a sign elsewhere is closed and vacant.