Imagine yourself in the back of a car, pinned to the bulbous seat by your friend’s elbows and an old man’s thighs. It’s 3 am. You can’t sleep, or even doze off; the road is too twisted and pot-holed, the driver’s bladder too full, the obnoxious Kyrgyz and Russian pop music too loud, the old man’s breath too reminiscent of bad tobacco and poo. The moment you think you can, inches behind your head the shrieking resumes — “Ata! Ataaaa! Wraaaagh!” — reminding you that, for some reason, a small, feces-scented toddler is lying unsecured on top of your bags. You’re already pissed off, since you’re five days behind schedule, thanks to, among other surprises, the People’s Republic of China accusing you of forging your passports. You’ve been on the road for five hours, and you still have five to go. All you want in the world is just to close your eyes and get the hell to Osh.
Imagine all of this.
And now imagine this song comes on:
Unlike you, we didn’t have to.