Where wild flowers grow
Most of the times I enjoy variety and diversity of people, surrounding me. But then there are times when I crave to be around of my own kind. The wild souls. The outsiders, the wanderers and the roaming spirits. So this summer I took off to go hang out at the nearest eco-fest in Almaty to look for some. Yes, some times , you ought to travel not for places, but for people.
Her name is Gigi. At least that is what she calls herself now. But its actually Gulbairam, which stands for “Flower Fest” in Uzbek, her native tongue. Living in the US for the last 20 years, she almost has forgotten it, but somehow still perfectly sings in it. When words put into melody, she feels them untangling and coming into visions, as beautiful as patterns of carpets stored in her Uzbek grandmother’s old house.
She always wears thick eyeliner and her hair colour is different each week, unlike her standard medical uniform. This week her hair has purple straps; her uniform is crisp white, highlighting her black Persian eyes and full lips. There is something about her that draws your eyes to her all the time. This trip she is wearing all purple dress. Short up to her thighs and Greek sandals are laced up to the bottom of it. She walks as if she knows no gravitation.
Lola is half Tatar and half Russian Kazakh. She plays guitar and sings Indian mantras in a small band on the fest. She is 25. She has just given a birth to her daughter and this festival is the first time she has been away from her baby. It feels strange, she says. She became estranged to be able to belong only to herself. She has also missed it. Although on a festival is difficult for her to be really by herself. She attracts people, her warm beauty and air of newly gained maternity make her magnetic to men and women. Any time she picks up her guitar, her tent gets surrounded by more people than others’.
Sabine is Kazakh and is an IT specialist, her obsession with virtual realities started as she was watching Japanese anime as a teenager. Since then she dyes her hair black and makes sure no sunray touches her skin. Everything she wears is black. That in contrast to her pearl skin and fragile figure always creates the air of mystery around her and serves as a shield. This attire is her way of warning that she is not as fragile as she looks. She laughs that her black German shepherd, named Hans, can sniff it, but not the people around her.
We are all tent neighbors at eco-fest north to Almaty, we don’t talk to each other much, but enjoy each other’s company and of course, we know one other right away. The wild women tribe 😉 Each of us, so distinctly different, but all of us possessive of the roaming spirit, the ability to take off on whim and to live on the edge, sharp shoulder blades and piercing eyes. The blooming wild force impossible to tame.
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