I have fled the intrigue of Bishkek (an important government official recently received a human ear and finger in a gift wrapped box). And I have hopped a flight to Istanbul for the weekend. I am shoppıng for Peacock Pavilions wıth my best frıend, Anna, who has flown in from Geneva.
Oh, pinch me. Am I allowed to be this happy?
PS This is my 300th post. I am so grateful that you are still reading:-)
Ah, that poor blogging girl. She meant well, you see. So very earnest, with her borrowed black canvas down coat, with her flat, black sheepskin boots, with her practical Isotoner gloves, with her Hayden-Harnett travel bag. Her hair tucked behind her ears, her little notebook and pencil at the ready.
How would she have ever known? How could she have ever known? ....that Bishkek was filled with fashionistas? Striding gracefully through the snow in their high heeled black boots, in their snug wool trousers, in their fitted velvet jackets, with their artfully arranged scarves, with their chic and gleaming bags. Their tasteful makeup perfectly applied, their glossy long locks immaculate under pleated wool cloches.
They gazed at her in sympathy. She could almost hear them thinking: Why, where ever could she be from in that frumpy clothing? Were those sledding boots she was wearing? Was there potential under those layers of fleece? Was she here as the "before" candidate for a fashion makeover show?.....
Oh dear.
Kyrgyzstan Fashion Week. Images by Kyrgyz blogger, Elena Skochilo.
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P.S. Do click over to darling Lalla Lydia's blog for a touching entry on Jews in Morocco and North Africa.
Bewildering.
A girl who lived in the heat of the desert
found herself in a place
where, in the warmth of the mid-day sun,
it was -17°C.
Without the wind chill factor.
*
Brrr....Welcome to Kyrgyzstan.
.
It was 3:15 am. Inside the Bishkek airport, their breath could be seen in big white puffs; outside it was 11 degrees below zero. Their tired, huddled masses were in front of the airport visa office. The line was long. They inched forward.
*
The blogging girl was known to start conversation with virtual strangers. She was interested in people, you see. What had brought them to this place? Why were they there? She turned to the man in front of her, his hair clipped short, his hands in his pockets, his blue eyes missing nothing. He told her that he was in transit at the US military base nearby. In transit where? He looked at her and replied with one word: Afghanistan. Oh, she said. I see, she said. She was quiet then but he kept talking. Since September 11th, he had seen his children -- a 5 year old and a 7 year old -- for a total of 6 months. In the strange intimacy born of conversations with strangers in the middle of the night, she asked if he was scared... of going to Afghanistan. He shrugged, looked down, and shook his head in a way that said, I don't know. And then it was his turn at the counter with the visa man.
*
She smiled brightly at the couple behind her, both blond, both corn-fed, both wearing practical shoes. On holiday? she asked. They told her that they were in Bishkek to pick up their daughter, a process that involved a Christian adoption agency and a tiny Krygyz girl just over 16 months old. The soon-to-be-mother told her that they had not met the little girl before. They had been waiting for a Russian child when this baby had become available - a gift from God. They had bought clothing for her in two sizes because they just weren't sure.... of her size. The blogging girl would have asked more but the visa man was now waiting for her. She grasped the woman's hands suddenly in her own, whispering, Good luck. Then she moved forward and pushed her passport through the little window.
Image by Kristin Elsby of Lake Issyk-Kul in Kyrgyzstan
Her: Do you have a lover?
Me: What?
Her: I said .... Do you have a lover?
Me: Of course not. What makes you ask that?
Her: Because you honestly don't expect me to believe this "I'm flying off to Bishkek" thing. I have never even heard of Bishkek. It sounds imaginary to me. I think you're flying to the South of France to meet a lover.
Me: (Bursts out laughing.)
Her: Where's your suitcase?
Me: Right over there.
Her: Mmhmm, I bet it's stuffed with La Perla lingerie.
Her: (Marches over to suitcase and flips open the top. Stares dolefully at the black sheepskin boots and Isotoner gloves with their tags still on.)
Her: No, I mean, where's your real suitcase? Not this pretend one.
Me: (More laughter)
Her: (Sinks wearily into a chair). Listen, if you are planning on using me as an alibi, you are going to have to give me a few more details about this supposed Bishkek place. I am not known for my vivid imagination -- I can't just be expected to make this stuff up on the spot when your husband calls me.
Beautiful images of Kyrgyzstan by DRawlinson
It was early morning. The blogging girl's trench coat was on, her red lipstick applied, and her notebook at the ready. From a gritty rooftop in Gotham city, err...Bamako, she surveyed her surroundings. Hmm....where to start............? Where were the missing parts? She stroked her chin thoughtfully. And then she had a hunch....a hunch of where to go to get some answers.
She began questioning potential witnesses. Had they seen anything? Heard anything?
Afraid to look up, the one on the left murmured, I'm sorry. I don't want to get involved. Can't you see....they tried to take my arm. They made off with my hand. If I say anything else, they might come back for more... Meanwhile, her twin on the right just looked down demurely and refused to utter a word.
In another location across the city, the line of questioning began again.
Of course we know what you're talking about, said a mannequin in a flower print slip dress. What I can tell you is this.... when all Hell breaks loose, you just try to keep your head. As you can see, I just barely managed: I had to tape mine back on. But those poor girls, well, I'm afraid they didn't fare as well.
With dusk setting on Bamako, the blogging- girl-turned-private- eye chanced down a darkened alley. It was there that she had her most important clue.
With eyes darting nervously back and forth, a mannequin -- who appeared to be in a witness protection program -- whispered in a heavily accented French through her veil, It's too late for those missing parts. But before they were taken away, they left a message on rue de la Liberte in down town Bamako. ....
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...to be continued. Because, you see, capers are not only for Batman but for ordinary mortals and mannequins, too....
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P.S. As some of you know, I am a personal shopper (ie I buy beautiful Moroccan things for individuals and businesses for a fee). The fabulous Holly at Decor8 is a friend and client and posted on her blog about a purchase I made for her -- a lovely vintage Moroccan wedding blanket. You can see here, on the entry entitled, Never in my wildest dreams. I have a stash of these vintage Moroccan wedding quilts -please contact me (maryam at mtds.com) if you would be interested in making one yours.
She was walking the streets of Bamako, minding her own business, when she saw them. What was left of them, that is. Apparently, their captors thought that they would keep just the so-called good parts.
....and so began the most important of the Maryam-in-Mali capers: the quest for the rest of her....and her and her....
She thought she knew what vegetables tasted like. Oh, she thought she knew. In her chilled supermarket aisle, with the produce stacked in tidy pyramids, her sanitized plastic bag in hand. Each tomato perfectly red. Each pepper with its unblemished skin. Each eggplant weighed with rubber gloved hands.
Yes, she thought she knew what there was to know about vegetables. Then…….then she came to Africa.
While she was sleeping in the thick, warm Malian night, he crept over the cool, white sheets….until he found what he wanted. The sight of her made him hungry, very hungry. As for her, she was still, busy dreaming dreams of an olive grove somewhere in Africa. Her stillness made it easy for him, and he took his fill of her. She never startled, she never cried out. She just lay quietly…… obliging. The very best sort of prey.
It was only the next day that she learned of his visit. He had left his mark, you see. Her skin raged in protest, firey, sensitive. As the day wore on, she thought of him. She couldn’t help it, the signs of his plunder increasingly evident. Soon phone calls were made, appointments arranged, and she found herself in a white room, with another set of cool white sheets. The doctor surveyed the intruder’s handiwork. Strange, not often seen in Bamako. Pill after pill prescribed, handfuls to be taken in tandem. His affect on her blood, his poison, would be banished. It was just a matter of time.
Nonetheless, she took preventative measures, drawing the bed clothes tightly around her at night. Just in case he came back to find her…hungry, still hungry.
Image by flash750
Finalist in the category, Best Middle East or Africa Weblog
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