After discovering a devastating family secret and enduring a difficult border crossing into Kyrgyzstan, a traveler finds herself bed-bound with despair, until the kindness of a local grandmother offers a path back to strength. This story was selected as a finalist in our “A Human Moment” travel writing competition sponsored by Travel Lemming.
It’s been three days since I last ate. Three days without leaving my room. Three days since I arrived in Kyrgyzstan.
The world feels silent, heavy, oppressive from my hostel bedroom. The lights are off. The windows closed. The blinds shut. But still the fresh mountain air seeps through the window, sickeningly crisp, coaxing me sweetly. Still, the rays of golden sunlight dance through the thin blinds, taunting me with their merriment.
I can’t get out of bed! My brain screams itself hoarse at the world beckoning me beyond my door. I want to, but I can’t. I’m sorry. Please, god, just leave me alone.
I turn over onto my stomach and bury my head under the pillow, hoping to return to my nightmarish slumber.
One more week, I think. Just one more week, then I can go home. Maybe then everything will be okay.
A jarring sound slices through my monologue.
Someone’s knocking at my door.
***
I’d arrived in Almaty three days ago, 100 pounds of useless luggage strapped to my back. I’d booked this week-and-a-half-long layover in Kyrgyzstan to break up my return trip to Cambodia after visiting my family in the US. I’d prepped gleefully for the trip, excited to spend my days horseback riding across grassy steppes and trekking through unspoiled Kyrgyz mountains. But my visit back home had ended on a rough note. The day before my flight, my grandmother passed on a devastating confession to me, a weight that had sunk me catastrophically deep into despair by the time I landed in Almaty.
I’d flown into Kazakhstan because it was cheaper than flying into Kyrgyzstan, and a travel blog had confidently assured me that crossing the Kazakh-Kyrgyz border would be simple. Grab a bus, cross the border, grab another bus. Seemed easy enough.
But things started to go wrong the moment I made it through airport security. After exchanging just enough money to secure a cab ride to the bus station and a bus ride to the border, I attempted to order a cab off Yandex Go, Central Asia’s ride-hailing app. But the request didn’t go through. I spent an hour attempting to troubleshoot every problem I could think of, but nothing worked.
Okay, I thought, resolving to keep my composure. I would just hail an airport taxi in person, risking the extra money it would cost.
But things only continued to devolve. After making it to the bus station, I approached a clerk to attempt to buy a ticket to the Kyrgyz border.
The clerk looked impressively bored with me as I tried to explain what I needed. Her eyes barely glazed over the translation displayed across my phone screen. She just shook her head and turned away. Conversation over.
I stumbled away confused, willing the tears not to spill pathetically down my cheeks as I searched for another solution.
Even though I knew it was going to be much more expensive, I eventually decided to ask one of the cab drivers out front for a ride to the border. I recited the name of the border town to the first driver who approached me, and he immediately nodded and motioned me to hop in. He gave me a price, and a quick count of my money told me I had just enough to make it. Horribly exhausted but relieved to have found a solution, I curled up in the backseat as we commenced the five-hour drive to Kyrgyzstan.
After several restless hours of sleep, I awoke with silent tears descending down my cheeks. I kept my eyes clenched shut and attempted to maintain control over my ragged breathing so as not to arouse any questions for my driver.
I just have to make it over the border.
The words were ricocheting around my head when suddenly my driver tapped me violently, excited Kazakh words informing me we’d arrived.
Before entering border security, I made a pit stop inside one of the exchange booths to convert the rest of my cash. I approached the teller smiling, hoping for a smooth interaction this time. I told her I wanted to exchange my dollars for Kyrgyz som and slid my wad of cash over to her.
The teller weeded out a single $50 bill from my stack before shoving the rest back towards me. I looked at her in confusion. She pointed to the stack I’d given her, then wagged her finger no. I spluttered out something that would’ve been incomprehensible even if she had spoken any English. I pointed back towards the rest of my cash desperately. She looked at me with glaring eyes and again shook her head no.
I watched her count out the money to exchange for my 50. She slid it back to me wordlessly. My thanks came out in a whisper, tears clouding my vision as I walked shamefully out of the booth.
After a painfully slow hour of drudging through immigration, I finally emerged into Kyrgyzstan. I stopped for a moment to take it all in. Golden steppes cascaded endlessly outwards, gasoline fumigated the pleasantly warm air, and jostling vendors elbowed their way through the crowds, each trying to be the first one to sell you something. Luckily for them, my tolerance for tactfully navigating their pleas was nonexistent, and I accepted a ride from the first man who approached me. I asked him how much the ride to my hostel would cost, and he gave me a number I knew was far too high. I didn’t care. I just wanted this to be over.
Two hours later, I handed over almost all my converted cash to the driver, thanked him, and wriggled my luggage out of the trunk. I’d finally arrived.
My hostel was a modest two-story house, clean and modern, nestled in the back of a dead-silent neighborhood street in Bishkek’s suburbs. The 2 pm sunlight shone soft and warm on my face, a welcoming embrace after a long, depleting day of travel. I rested in the momentary silence before ringing the bell.
I was greeted by a young German girl, lanky and bubbly with an oversized Nirvana t-shirt and hair dyed green. She told me we’d be the only two people in the hostel for a few days, and that she was watching over everything until the hosts returned in three days’ time. I didn’t question it.
At least no one will bother me, I thought.
She showed me to my room, and I breathed a sigh of relief, remembering I’d managed to secure a private room for only $6 a night. The girl couldn’t find clean pillow covers, so she gave me an extra bed sheet to wrap around my pillow instead. Good enough. After she left, I shut the door and collapsed onto the bed. I didn’t get up for the next three days.
***
I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of the knock. Panic crushes me, and for a moment, I consider pretending not to be there. But no, I quickly talk myself out of it and hustle towards the door.
Outside my door, a small, elderly Kyrgyz woman beams radiantly, a front tooth missing from her warm and inviting smile.
Upon seeing me, the woman bursts excitedly into song, her monologue a melody my English-speaking brain strives and fails to comprehend. My lack of comprehension doesn’t seem to deter her, and when her string of words eventually trails off, she eagerly hands me a bowl of tea. A strong, earthy scent wafts up from its steam. I accept the bowl with deep gratitude, and for a moment she gazes upon me, her smile soft and wondering. Before I understand what is happening, she envelops me in a hug. It is long, warm, and overwhelming. I let myself melt into it. And I begin to cry.
***
The next day, she visits me again. Her knock sounds as I’m staring absently at the ceiling, thinking despairingly of my grandmother, wanting to message her but not knowing what to say.
I will my lifeless body up and drag myself towards the door. She greets me with her familiar, gap-toothed grin, and holds out a bowl of tea and a doughy pastry towards me. I accept them and thank her graciously.
She points to the pastry. “Boorsok.” She looks at me to see if I understand. I nod and repeat the word clumsily, inciting her laugh. She points to her chest. “Galina,” she sounds her name out slowly, then points to me, her eyebrows raised playfully and expectantly. I can’t help but smile as I point to my own chest. “Bethany.” She beams and hugs me.
After she walks away, I click my door shut and sit down on the bed, slowly sipping my tea. I try a bite of the boorsok, its exterior crumbling into flakes before its fluffy, sweetened innards begin melting lazily onto my tongue. It’s the first food I’ve had in four days. I eat it slowly, trying to savor its taste as I stare contemplatively into the light fading behind the window. I google the name Galina.
Galina (Slavic): calm, healer.
***
Our meetings become a daily ritual. She offers me warm tea alongside a small snack—bread, sweets, nuts. She always seems excited to talk to me, despite me not understanding anything she says. Our one-sided conversations always end with a hug, still and comforting. Her frail arms somehow imbue me with an inexplicable strength, an indescribable sense of healing, a commitment to keep going. When our hugs break, she looks at me with a quiet wisdom. I know she knows I haven’t left my room since I arrived. I agonize over being a bad guest, over locking myself in my room and doing nothing to enjoy the beautiful country and culture hosting me. It just feels impossible; impossible to lift myself out of bed save to reverently accept her daily offerings. But when she looks at me, her eyes offer nothing but forgiveness and understanding, her cheery monologues a life raft to lift me onto. She knows I’m in pain. She tells me it’s okay.
***
A week later, I’m in the Kazakh airport, finally concluding the trip I’d done nothing but wish away. As I sit awaiting my flight, I think of Galina. I fish out my phone and stare at it for a long moment. Then I call my grandmother, prepared to offer her all the strength and light that Galina had so selflessly given me.
