They Must Have Added Something To The Vodka!
A couple weeks ago, Bryan and I were out looking for a good place to have a drink on a Saturday night. Walking down the main street, we ran into a friend of mine, Sasha, and a group of his friends having a birthday party outside a cafe. They greeted us warmly, and we started running the gamut of the usual oh-you-are-American questions. After about five minutes of being passed from person to person, Bryan came up to me, pulled my arm, and said in a nervous voice, "Man, it's time to go. Let's go." Some of the guys had, without provocation, started pushing him and saying nasty things. We walked away, but four of them followed. (My friend stayed behind.)
After a half a block they caught up to us, and started harassing us. One angrily demanded an apology for Yugoslavia, WWII (they were upset that Americans claim to have won the war, the credit for which they felt was the USSR's), and, of course, Iraq. Another wanted my hat, and once tried to forcibly take it from me. Another two tried to insist that they all only wanted to talk, so where were we going, and kept standing in front of us to keep us from going forward or trying to pull us to a bench off the main road. Bryan and I were as nice as we could be, and so slowly worked our way to a nearby police station. Two police and another four strange men gathered. The original four men now acted less aggressive, and tried to convince us now just to leave the police station and go the park. Bryan and I said repeatedly and loudly that we were Peace Corps volunteers, that we didn't want to fight, that we just wanted to go home. Finally, the police sent all the men one way and us the other. They looped around the other side of the street, but we gained about a half a block of space, which we used to try to get a taxi. The first taxi driver refused to open his doors for us. At the second one, we didn't ask and just got in, and he drove off.
Last week I finally saw Sasha again at a poetry reading. When I sat down next to him, he embarassedly said, "I thought you would be mad at me." I said I wasn't mad at him personally. After all, he wasn't really there for the worst part, and I don't know what he could have done anyway. But I did tell him that I had never been so scared in Kazakhstan. What was wrong with those guys? "I don't know," he said. "You know, after you left, they even fought among themselves later." Are they usually like that, I asked? "No, it was probably the vodka." I agreed. "No, not the vodka itself. I mean there was probably something added to it. Some kind of special chemical that made them aggressive."
Right. I'll bet the chemical was ethanol, and what they added to the vodka was more vodka.
After a half a block they caught up to us, and started harassing us. One angrily demanded an apology for Yugoslavia, WWII (they were upset that Americans claim to have won the war, the credit for which they felt was the USSR's), and, of course, Iraq. Another wanted my hat, and once tried to forcibly take it from me. Another two tried to insist that they all only wanted to talk, so where were we going, and kept standing in front of us to keep us from going forward or trying to pull us to a bench off the main road. Bryan and I were as nice as we could be, and so slowly worked our way to a nearby police station. Two police and another four strange men gathered. The original four men now acted less aggressive, and tried to convince us now just to leave the police station and go the park. Bryan and I said repeatedly and loudly that we were Peace Corps volunteers, that we didn't want to fight, that we just wanted to go home. Finally, the police sent all the men one way and us the other. They looped around the other side of the street, but we gained about a half a block of space, which we used to try to get a taxi. The first taxi driver refused to open his doors for us. At the second one, we didn't ask and just got in, and he drove off.
Last week I finally saw Sasha again at a poetry reading. When I sat down next to him, he embarassedly said, "I thought you would be mad at me." I said I wasn't mad at him personally. After all, he wasn't really there for the worst part, and I don't know what he could have done anyway. But I did tell him that I had never been so scared in Kazakhstan. What was wrong with those guys? "I don't know," he said. "You know, after you left, they even fought among themselves later." Are they usually like that, I asked? "No, it was probably the vodka." I agreed. "No, not the vodka itself. I mean there was probably something added to it. Some kind of special chemical that made them aggressive."
Right. I'll bet the chemical was ethanol, and what they added to the vodka was more vodka.
1 Comments:
Wow Ryan, I am very impressed, and I am sure KSN Wheeler would be as well. I could feel my own blood-pressure rise as I read your narrative, and realized what a potentially dangerous situation you avoided. I think it was extremely admirable that you came out of a potentially hazardous situation without having to resort to physical confrontation, which I'm sure would have ended badly for everyone. I can almost picture you as you negotiated your way to the 'safe location' of the police station. Congratulations on a job well done! I think your assessment of Vodka added to Vodka was probably the correct one ;).
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