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An exquisite Sunday...
May. 24th, 2004 10:42 amYesterday was about as close to a day off as I can expect to get while on this launch campaign, though there were elements of work embedded throughout the day.
The day started auspiciously enough with breakfast, where I shared a table with an Intelsat data engineer. After breakfast, we twice walked the loop that's described by the paved road that goes around our area, a distance I reevaluated and now estimate at 1-1/3 miles, so it was a pretty good workout. I was able, however, to get myself cleaned up in plenty of time to get on the bus for town.
The only excitement on the trip into Baikonur city was the moment when the bus driver hit the brakes to avoid plowing into a herd of horses that was galloping across the road. (The driver then had to immediately compensate for half a busload of people - those sitting on the side from which the horses had galloped - throwing themselves across the aisle to catch a glimpse of these magnificent creatures as they left the bus behind them.)
The primary destination of the trip was the рынок, or market, which is one of those loud, bustling places to which just about everyone gravitates in the course of everyday life (we met the deputy launch facility manager as he was headed home with some purchases). I have to admit, it was a feast for my eyes, and the place was definitely a "target rich" environment for someone with a camera, as evidenced by this shot of a spice seller:
While one of our party was haggling with the seller about price, I took a closer look at the spices and could identify only a small handful. The large box of orange and yellow colored spice in the left foreground has a sign advertising how well it goes in recipes of плов (plov), which is a traditional Central Asian dish of rice and meat, typically lamb.
My major assignment of the day was to accompany Serge C., the head of the French security contingent, to the meat-seller's and order the lamb (actually, two lambs) to be picked up next Sunday. That was fairly straightforward, and from the description Serge provided of what was going to be prepared from the lamb, I have to say I'm looking forward to the feast.
After nailing the lamb order, everyone pretty much split up and went their own way. I wasn't looking to buy anything in particular, except for an inexpensive rucksack. I'd been using my notebook computer case to hold various necessities (a 1.5-liter bottle of water, extra batteries, etc.), but couldn't help notice the funny looks I got from local passersby (the Kazakh equivalent, I imagine, of "What a nerd!"), not to mention the questions from some of the launch team ("Do you carry a computer with you everywhere?").
Prices at the market vary. At one stall, rucksacks were out of this world in price (500-800 rubles); at another, I found a reasonable item on sale for 200 rubles and bargained my way down to 150 rubles, or about $5.
Finding postcards was harder than I imagined. When I asked sellers for открытки, I was typically offered a handful of sorry-looking greeting cards, virtually all of which were designed for someone's birthday. At the only bookstore in the market, the seller showed me a book of cards, each in its plastic A4-sized sheet protector, which included some cards for occasions other than birthdays. As I was paying for a couple of the cards that I'd selected, I asked about envelopes and was told I could get an envelope at the post office. When I noted that I was not able to come into town during the week, I was told that the post office was, in fact, open as we spoke, and I was given directions to a post office not far from the market.
The post office was open, though most of its business on Sunday appears to be providing folks with long-distance telephone service. Nevertheless, I was able to send a couple of letters home, and I noticed that the stamps affixed to the envelopes by the clerk were Russian, and not Kazakh. I am told the mail does get through, though it takes some time (like two months), but we shall see...
Back at the market, I could not help but be struck the profusion of color that surrounded me, as with this toy seller's merry display:
I looked around for something suitable for Huntur, but could find nothing uniquely Kazakh (or even Russian) that couldn't be found anyplace else. Heck, if you look at most seller's displays (and at most kids) you'll notice that hardly anything on sale promotes homegrown culture (or even the lack of homegrown culture), once we set aside the enormous volume of items - such as stuffed teddy bears - which one can consider to be universal. Tee shirts, on the other hand, are vastly more likely to depict Pokemon or Metallica as opposed, say, championship Kazakh or Russian soccer teams.
Late in the day, relatively speaking, I ran across some of the security folks from the bus who were also doing their shopping. They directed me to a restaurant near the entrance of the market where many campaigners go for a bite to eat. Since I had not eaten since breakfast, the idea sounded good.
The restaurant is one of these smoke-beclouded places where the specialité de la maison is шашлык (shashlyk), which is commonly understood as "shish kebab" in the States. The eatery was located just in back of the flower section of the market, through which I wished I could have dawdled more:
(The picture does not do the flowers justice, BTW. And if I could, I'd have wrapped the whole lot up and had them delivered to Galina, whom I miss terribly.)
I got to the restaurant just as a bunch of campaigners were about to leave. Serge was kind enough to stay behind and keep me company, and we had some of the excellent draft beer served by the establishment. During my meal and afterward, during the stroll we took around the market while waiting for the bus to return from a side excursion to Arbat street, my French took a wondrous swing upward, both in terms of comprehension of the spoken Toulousian language, and my ability to express myself.
I slept for most of the way back on the bus, which is something of an accomplishment because the bumpiness of the road has a tendency to throw everyone inside the bus around like a rag doll. However, we all got back in fine fettle. After dinner, Olga F. and I went over to the Proton Club and played table tennis on the second floor while a group of True Rugby Fans™ watched a critical match in the auditorium on the first floor. (The way we could tell they were there was the way the walls moved when they cheered or booed, but I digress...)
Anyway, I'm "on" for the afternoon/evening shift today, so I still have a little while before I have to report to work. On the other hand, there is a small matter of laundry that is becoming, um, critical, so maybe I don't have as much "free" time as I imagine.
Cheers...
The day started auspiciously enough with breakfast, where I shared a table with an Intelsat data engineer. After breakfast, we twice walked the loop that's described by the paved road that goes around our area, a distance I reevaluated and now estimate at 1-1/3 miles, so it was a pretty good workout. I was able, however, to get myself cleaned up in plenty of time to get on the bus for town.
The only excitement on the trip into Baikonur city was the moment when the bus driver hit the brakes to avoid plowing into a herd of horses that was galloping across the road. (The driver then had to immediately compensate for half a busload of people - those sitting on the side from which the horses had galloped - throwing themselves across the aisle to catch a glimpse of these magnificent creatures as they left the bus behind them.)
The primary destination of the trip was the рынок, or market, which is one of those loud, bustling places to which just about everyone gravitates in the course of everyday life (we met the deputy launch facility manager as he was headed home with some purchases). I have to admit, it was a feast for my eyes, and the place was definitely a "target rich" environment for someone with a camera, as evidenced by this shot of a spice seller:
While one of our party was haggling with the seller about price, I took a closer look at the spices and could identify only a small handful. The large box of orange and yellow colored spice in the left foreground has a sign advertising how well it goes in recipes of плов (plov), which is a traditional Central Asian dish of rice and meat, typically lamb.
My major assignment of the day was to accompany Serge C., the head of the French security contingent, to the meat-seller's and order the lamb (actually, two lambs) to be picked up next Sunday. That was fairly straightforward, and from the description Serge provided of what was going to be prepared from the lamb, I have to say I'm looking forward to the feast.
After nailing the lamb order, everyone pretty much split up and went their own way. I wasn't looking to buy anything in particular, except for an inexpensive rucksack. I'd been using my notebook computer case to hold various necessities (a 1.5-liter bottle of water, extra batteries, etc.), but couldn't help notice the funny looks I got from local passersby (the Kazakh equivalent, I imagine, of "What a nerd!"), not to mention the questions from some of the launch team ("Do you carry a computer with you everywhere?").
Prices at the market vary. At one stall, rucksacks were out of this world in price (500-800 rubles); at another, I found a reasonable item on sale for 200 rubles and bargained my way down to 150 rubles, or about $5.
Finding postcards was harder than I imagined. When I asked sellers for открытки, I was typically offered a handful of sorry-looking greeting cards, virtually all of which were designed for someone's birthday. At the only bookstore in the market, the seller showed me a book of cards, each in its plastic A4-sized sheet protector, which included some cards for occasions other than birthdays. As I was paying for a couple of the cards that I'd selected, I asked about envelopes and was told I could get an envelope at the post office. When I noted that I was not able to come into town during the week, I was told that the post office was, in fact, open as we spoke, and I was given directions to a post office not far from the market.
The post office was open, though most of its business on Sunday appears to be providing folks with long-distance telephone service. Nevertheless, I was able to send a couple of letters home, and I noticed that the stamps affixed to the envelopes by the clerk were Russian, and not Kazakh. I am told the mail does get through, though it takes some time (like two months), but we shall see...
Back at the market, I could not help but be struck the profusion of color that surrounded me, as with this toy seller's merry display:
I looked around for something suitable for Huntur, but could find nothing uniquely Kazakh (or even Russian) that couldn't be found anyplace else. Heck, if you look at most seller's displays (and at most kids) you'll notice that hardly anything on sale promotes homegrown culture (or even the lack of homegrown culture), once we set aside the enormous volume of items - such as stuffed teddy bears - which one can consider to be universal. Tee shirts, on the other hand, are vastly more likely to depict Pokemon or Metallica as opposed, say, championship Kazakh or Russian soccer teams.
Late in the day, relatively speaking, I ran across some of the security folks from the bus who were also doing their shopping. They directed me to a restaurant near the entrance of the market where many campaigners go for a bite to eat. Since I had not eaten since breakfast, the idea sounded good.
The restaurant is one of these smoke-beclouded places where the specialité de la maison is шашлык (shashlyk), which is commonly understood as "shish kebab" in the States. The eatery was located just in back of the flower section of the market, through which I wished I could have dawdled more:
(The picture does not do the flowers justice, BTW. And if I could, I'd have wrapped the whole lot up and had them delivered to Galina, whom I miss terribly.)
I got to the restaurant just as a bunch of campaigners were about to leave. Serge was kind enough to stay behind and keep me company, and we had some of the excellent draft beer served by the establishment. During my meal and afterward, during the stroll we took around the market while waiting for the bus to return from a side excursion to Arbat street, my French took a wondrous swing upward, both in terms of comprehension of the spoken Toulousian language, and my ability to express myself.
I slept for most of the way back on the bus, which is something of an accomplishment because the bumpiness of the road has a tendency to throw everyone inside the bus around like a rag doll. However, we all got back in fine fettle. After dinner, Olga F. and I went over to the Proton Club and played table tennis on the second floor while a group of True Rugby Fans™ watched a critical match in the auditorium on the first floor. (The way we could tell they were there was the way the walls moved when they cheered or booed, but I digress...)
Anyway, I'm "on" for the afternoon/evening shift today, so I still have a little while before I have to report to work. On the other hand, there is a small matter of laundry that is becoming, um, critical, so maybe I don't have as much "free" time as I imagine.
Cheers...
