The Running Path

The days have lengthened and warmed to the point that I don’t like being cooped up when my meal time rolls around, so I’ve begun walking around the base to take in the sunshine and to burn a few extra calories. Well, the other day I had a great surprise when I passed by a gate in the tall fence that surrounds us. The sign on the gate announced, “Running path. Please sign out for accountability.” What! I’d just found the magic gate that I’d heard so much about for the last five months but hadn’t been able to find, even with good verbal directions from several people. It was in an out-of-the-way spot, but still very accessible. I wrote my name on the list that hung there and pushed the gate open.

The path itself was no more than a pair of tire tracks in the brown dust, but it was soft under my feet and it felt good to walk on. I picked up my pace as three Marines ran past in their distinctive dark olive T-shirts and running shorts. “Afternoon, sir,” one of them spoke effortlessly as they flew by me. I remembered a time when I could have done the same, but not now—not after so many years. They disappeared around a corner in the path, blocked from my view by hundreds of beautiful trees, Poplars and Elms and Russian Olives. I broke into a slow jog to get my heart rate up and enjoy some benefit from the experience and I soaked in the beauty of that little, hidden path through the forest at the edge of the Siberian Steppes. Thousands of tiny grasshoppers jumped out of my way as I meandered along the soft, dusty road and the perfume of Russian Olives was heavy on the warm afternoon breeze that whispered in the leaves and the Foxtail Grass.

I was starting to labor just a little with my breathing so I slowed to a walk again as my heart pounded to rush oxygen to my burning legs. It was then that I noticed, through the veil of leaves, a white brick building—a building constructed 50 or 60 years ago by the Soviets, probably under Nikita Khruschev. The trees thinned as I approached until I discovered an entire complex of farm buildings, all painted white with blue and green trim, behind a concrete wall. There was a tall, brick barn among the storage and work sheds and all of them were in various stages of dilapidated neglect. “I need to get a picture of this,” I thought before I remembered that I can’t get a picture of anything. “Maybe just a quick sketch,” I consoled myself. I’ll be back before too long.

I noticed that my heart rate was dropping so I picked up the pace again. I kept my hands loose as I ran and I let my arms hang at a comfortable angle as they swung back and forth in rhythm with the rest of me. I learned to really run when I was three or four under the tutelage of my Dad. I can still remember his face as he demonstrated holding his forearms horizontal to the ground and pumping them, locomotive-style to the front and then to the back to get more energy and speed until it turned into hyperkinesis. Every square centimeter of his athletic frame was a picture of concentrated focus. I mimicked him, swinging my arms wildly in front of my body, back and forth across my stomach, trying to get that same determined look on my face and he laughed. “That’s it,” he roared. “You’re going to be fast!” Once on the 4^th of July he entered me in a foot race at the park. It was a hundred yard dash and the winners received a quarter or a dime or a nickel, depending on their placement. I got down in my three-point starting stance, just as I’d been taught by my Dad, and watched the starter without blinking for fear that I might miss that instant when the smoke would blast out of the barrel and an instant before the sound would reach my ears. “Runners, take your marks, get set.” There was a long hesitation as the racers settled. A puff of smoke and I was off, almost a full step before I heard the pistol shot. My feet pounded the grass of the baseball diamond as I focused on the tape ahead—a tape held by two of the Magna Volunteer Fire Fighters who were sponsoring the races. I was ahead of the pack for a moment, but my spirit drooped as the entire group pounded past. I finished dead last and I was crushed. I knew that I had let my Dad down. “Don’t worry about it, Jeddy. Did you see the rest of those runners? You were only half their size and you still managed to keep up with them.” I looked at the runners and I knew that he’d just told me the truth. I was in the third grade that year and the rest of them looked like they were already shaving. I’d been on the verge of tears at the end of the race, embarrassed and hurt. My Dad pulled out his wallet and peeled a dollar bill from his cash. “You really won that race. When you’re as old as the rest of those boys, you’re going to beat every one of them.”

The humidity of the forest growth made the breeze even warmer as I plodded along the narrow tire track, quietly enjoying the break in my day and making a connection with home as I imagined the same trees growing in the hills of Utah. There was a sudden buzzing that ended abruptly as I felt a sharp prick just above my elbow. A wasp had managed to fly directly into my rolled-up shirt sleeve as my arm swayed forward. I reached in with my other hand and rolled the insect back out. There was a second sting as the wasp burst into flight and buzzed away into the trees. “Kyrgyz wasps probably have some kind of cobra venom,” I thought. “Just my luck, I’m going to die from a wasp sting.” “Afternoon, sir,” a voice interrupted my thoughts as the three Marines sailed by again. “How long have I been on this track,” I wondered. It was three miles long and I’d just been passed a second time by those same Marines. I looked at my watch. “Twenty five minutes? That could be right,” I calculated. I used to do that when I was in the Marines, too. Instead of continuing, I turned around and headed back through the trees toward the gate, picking up my pace one more time.

My wasp stings swelled briefly but they were quickly gone. My legs burned for the rest of the afternoon but it felt wonderful. I’d been carried back home for a few minutes that day and now I’m planning to go back to my running path much more often.

Lending a Hand

It had been a long, long day. I’d been through a safety inspection, a full equipment inventory and a surprise cash count. I’d just finished 12 hours sweeping and picking up old water bottles that had been half filled with tobacco spit. I’d picked up trash, pushed in chairs and helped soldiers connect with their families. I’d checked out computers and started movies all day long. I hadn’t been able to sit down for more than a few minutes and my feet were hurting.

I climbed down from the shuttle van and said goodnight to Oleg. “Have a good night,” I said, varying my sentence slightly from the last time so that he could notice the difference. He smiled. “Havagoo night,” he answered with a Russian accent. My laptop bag was heavy and I was hobbling up the alley toward my building. All I wanted to do was take my shower and crawl into bed. I struggled past a small flower garden surrounded by a wrought iron fence. A woman worked there, tenderly plucking the tiny weeds from around the beautiful purple and white flowers. On the concrete wall behind her she had painted a sign that said, “Nye ervaht tsvi-TEE,” “Don’t pick the flowers.” Where the fence ended I glanced toward an old woman who sat peacefully on a concrete block next to the garden. She smiled toothlessly at me as I glanced over and I smiled back. A tiny playground was huddled next to the back door of one of the shops that faces Sovietskaya Street and two young girls played on the steel bars. Across from them was a concrete block storage building that had been painted with graffiti by some local gang, and in English, next to a hand-painted image of 3 street hoods, were the words “3 Angles.” I smiled at the misspelled word and limped on. As I neared the apartment building I noticed a young mother pushing a stroller. At her side was a little girl, maybe three years old, pushing a miniature stroller and mimicking her mother. They both turned and pulled the strollers up the steps to the green steel door of my building and went inside.

I pulled the steel door open and climbed the last few steps to the “lift,” or elevator. There the mother and daughter stood, both looking sad. I reached over and pressed the button to the lift, but the customary hum didn’t start and I looked at the mother and asked, “Lift nye rabotayet?” “Doesn’t the lift work?” She just shook her head. “Ya pah-mah-GOO.” “I’ll help,” I offered. The little girl smiled, probably at my accent or my strange white hair. “Which floor do you live on,” she asked. “I’m on the sixth. I’ll help.” She seemed a bit relieved. She took the baby from the stroller and carried the blanketed bundle in her arms. The little girl picked up her own stroller and carried it up the stairs, bouncing ahead of her mother as she found more energy than the rest of us combined. I picked up the big stroller, a heavy one with four large wheels, more like a buggy than a stroller, and hefted my computer a bit higher on my shoulder as I began to climb the stairs behind the small group. “Which floor do you live on,” I asked. “The fifth.” I was relieved. I thought that she would certainly say “the sixth.”

We climbed stairs and I huffed and puffed as we moved from one floor to the next. Finally, on the fourth floor I called out, “Ot-dee-XHAY!” “Rest!” The young mother paused, smiling, and resettled her baby. The little girl was already on the fifth floor waiting for the rest of us. I gasped for air for a couple of minutes before I finally said, “Ya ga-TOF,” “I’m ready” and we started again. That last floor was the hardest. I set the big stroller down and the mother reached under the seat and removed a large bag of groceries! That’s why I thought it was more like carrying a box of dumbells than a pram! “Spa-SEE-buh,” she thanked me. “NYE-zuh-shtuh,” “It’s nothing,” I puffed back as I limped up the stairs to my final destination of the evening.

“As we have therefore opportunity, let us do good unto all…” (Galatians 6:10)

The Vice-Grip Effect

As I’m contemplating the mere act of relating this story I can just imagine my grandkids rolling with laughter as their parents read to them, parents horrified that I would expose their precious little ones to the dankest corner of the lowest cellar of story telling. But, since the story is true, and since it typifies life on a military installation, I’ll go ahead with it. And parents, don’t worry too much if your children are briefly exposed to a fourth grade tale that will soon be spread among all of their friends everywhere because no matter how much you may want to walk around with brown paper bags over your heads after reading this to the kiddies, neighborhood opinions and comments are, after all, not a true reflection of your personal parenting skills.

Now to begin with, we normally get our drinking water in 12 oz bottles that are regularly delivered by the pallet load and when I open a bottle of water, I usually finish it quickly, partly because I can drink a lot of water and partly because I don’t want to walk around with a half-empty bottle in my hand for hours on end. I drink it up and throw it out. Well, because we have a new delivery man on the base, three days ago the water all arrived in 1.5 liter bottles, and for you who don’t know what that means, it’s about a quart and a half. It’s a big bottle—Super Big Gulp sized.

You might note, too, that our cleaning crew consists of local Kyrgyz people and they walk around the base in their bright white uniforms and they keep the place pretty clean, at least as far as the Kyrgyz standard of clean goes. One of the hardest things to get used to is the fact that in the bathrooms the stall doors are simple plastic shower curtains that stretch between two plywood walls. All have large gaps at the sides making it easy to see whether or not the booth is occupied. The showers are in the same building, making the atmosphere steamy when there’s hot water and icy when the water is cold, so it’s mostly icy. It’s a bad feeling to be sitting (you know) in the frigid bathroom when the cleaning crew begins to come in for one of their twice-daily cleanings. For some inexplicable reason the women always come in first, half smiling, glancing sideways into the stalls as they saunter past, and they always seem to reach the showers just before their molasses-slow security escort shuffles in and calls out, “Cleaning crew, women in the facility!” The notice is always too little, too late and there’s usually a flurry of plastic shower curtains and flying towels whenever the cleaning crew shows up.

Anyway, in the afternoon it was warm outside and we had kept the doors open to our building to allow a light breeze to whisper through and clear the air of the heavy aroma that accumulates with all of the tired, dirty troops who have either just finished their exercises or just landed after a year in Afghanistan. For either reason, the air gets a bit more than stale in Liberando’s and it needs to be cleared out from time to time. While the doors were open and the warm air was blowing through, I picked up one of the large bottles of water and sipped at it for a while, but soon tired of carrying that heavy container around and decided to finish it off. It wasn’t more than ten minutes before I felt the sudden repercussion of my last few gulps. I was struck by a sudden urge that was not going to be ignored. At the time, though, I had a large crowd at the front counter that needed to be taken care of, so I gripped a little tighter and postponed my walk to the building next door.

When the crowd in Liberando’s had finally thinned out enough for me to break away I walked out squinting into the bright sunshine and made that desperate right turn toward porcelain salvation. I should have expected it. It’s happened a hundred times before. There was the bathroom door, propped open using the fire extinguisher as a door stop, which, by the way, is a pet peeve of mine, and the big steel sign had been slid into place in the door’s opening that declared, “Closed for cleaning.”

“Jeeze!” I thought, “Can’t these guys ever clean the bathrooms when I’m not desperate!” Now, it’s fortunate that the building actually has two bathroom/shower facilities in it, one on each end, and so I walked, connected at the knees, another hundred feet to the other end of the building where I found a very long line of desperate Marines waiting for their opportunity to visit one of the five stalls. “The line’s too long! I won’t make it!” I moaned to myself as I bounced up and down and sprinted through my options. Just a hundred yards down the road, near the dining tent, there was a Porta-John and although I’d never visited it personally, I had noticed it on several occasions, making a mental note that could save me from embarrassment at some future time. I left the shower facility and danced around the corner just like Michael Jackson, gripping my crotch as my feet magically covered the ground without ever moving my legs at all. In the distance I scanned the Porta-John and couldn’t see a single person waiting for it. “What timing!” I thought as I broke into a quick, skipping jog toward the booth that meant final relief from the ever increasing discomfort. I kept scanning the area around the booth because I knew that camouflaged uniforms could make it hard to see anyone standing in front of the backdrop of huge Poplar trees. “Nobody’s there! I’m going to make it!” I could feel my muscles tense into a solid clench as the thought of relief suddenly started the involuntary relaxation of my bladder reflex. I hurried my steps, bouncing my bladder and making the reflex more pronounced. I clenched harder, forcing my muscles into what I call the “Vise-Grip” effect, when you squeeze tight enough to lock the grip into position.

I was almost there! I could smell (literally) the success at hand as I continued to break dance toward the green booth. The side facing me didn’t have a door, so I veered slightly to the right. No door on that side, either. I continued around the booth and found that the door wasn’t on the back side, either. When I finally found the door (if I’d just gone to the left in the first place I could have saved valuable, painful time) the “Vise-Grip” effect had fuzzed my mind so that it had to tick around for just a minute before it dawned on me that a heavy combination padlock and a chain locked the door! My mind paused momentarily to contemplate the sick person who would lock a Porta-John as I desperately looked back at the building behind me and noticed that the line of Marines had only grown longer. I looked up the street and down the street to see if another Porta-John was in sight, but the view was vacant and my forehead started to bead with sweat in spite of what would have been considered a pleasant spring breeze at any other time.

I crossed the street and headed toward the main fire station knowing that there would certainly be a Porta-John somewhere along the main road! There just had to be! I was dancing as fast as I could, but the sweat was dripping from my forehead and I wasn’t walking like my normal self and I suspect that the troops I passed along the way all imagined that I was crippled with the palsy. I passed the fire department and looked down the street. There, just a block away were two Porta-Johns! I turned and began to gallop toward them as the “Vise-Grip” effect increased. I tried the first door as soon as I arrived. It was occupied and locked. I pulled the second one and it opened, but the door didn’t have a lock on it and there was a gaping hole where the lock should have been. It didn’t matter at that point and I pulled it wide and stepped in, briefly glancing back at the road as I disappeared behind the door. Again, with my mind still fuzzy, it took just a moment to realize that a platoon-sized crowd of desperate-looking Marines was following me down the street. My shaking hands fumbled with the brass zipper that was the last obstacle blocking my relief as I could hear the approaching desperate mob.

Relief was painful, kind of like spraying a fire hose up your nose. Outside I could hear the approaching crowd crunching across the gravel and I realized that they were headed toward the Porta-Johns! My door was about to fly open exposing me to the elements and probably embarrassing some poor 20-year-old Marine, so I carefully reached back with my right hand and slipped my fingers through the hole where the lock should have been—an impromptu banner to let everyone know that the booth was being utilized. I imagined a frustrated, angry Marine pounding my fingers from outside with the butt of his M-4 and it was at that precise moment when I came to understand the meaning of the phrase “the agony and the ecstasy”—the agony of knowing that at any moment I would have my fingers crushed and the ecstasy of that sudden depressurizing gush of relief. So there I stood, partly dizzy due to the sudden drop in blood pressure, my back to the door and my right arm stretched backward to hold the door shut against the desperate mob.

And then the miracle happened. The rifle butt smash to the phalanges never came. The flying door and the sudden swirling wind didn’t happen. Instead, the grinding, crunching gravel that had grown in volume soon began to soften and fade as the platoon passed by and continued on in their shortcut to the tents where they were camped. At last the tension all evaporated and the sweat subsided from my face as I finally found critical relief from the dreaded “Vise-Grip” effect.

The Day of Victory

For weeks the excitement has been building in the community as preparations continued for the huge celebration. Every television station broadcast the same movies over and over and over again. One in particular kept my attention, “Poslyednye Bronopoezd,” “The last armored train.” It played again and again on every station until I could almost recite the dialog. Yesterday the celebration finally took place with horn honking and yelling and loud music, and the television stations dropped a lot of their usual “reklamy,” or commercials in order to broadcast the celebration live from Moscow. Vladimir Putin and Dmitry Medvyedev sat in prominent positions in the front of the sea of uniforms and white hair. It was the 65^th anniversary of “the Great Victory.”

The wide Moscow street was lined with countless numbers of spectators and the special bleachers were reserved for the veterans, those white-haired men who continue to deck themselves out with their blue uniforms. Their medals swayed in the breeze, flashing gold as they caught the sunlight. On the street companies of soldiers marched by in perfect cadence, their heads held up and turned to the right as they smiled at the crowd. Their arms swung back and then forward, breaking at the elbow for the final part of their trip as each forearm came to a horizontal position across each soldier’s body before beginning the arc again. The Russians don’t “goose step” the way the Germans did, but they definitely have a high-stepping spring as they march that makes each head bounce up and down as it strains to face the sun.

The old veterans whispered to each other and grinned at the newest generation of Russian warriors.

Then the street was filled with tanks, rolling in perfect precision down that wide street. And then came the missile launchers and then the armored personnel carriers and Russian might was evident. It was an endless display of military power. Vladimir Putin addressed the crowd after the parade had passed by saying, “We are grateful for our great heroes who have given our people such great freedom.” His speech ended to the rising music of the “Gimn Rossy,” or Russian Hymn just as the chorus was brought to prominence. “Slavcya otyechestva,” “Praised be the fatherland.” That was the phrase that said it all. “Praised be the fatherland.” There was no praise for God. It was all about the greatness of the government and the “management of the creature” as the Book of Mormon calls it, and I was handed a vivid reminder of the miraculous difference between the United States and every communist and dictator-ruled country on earth.

Last night I lay in bed and contemplated the bright visual display of power that I had just witnessed when I was rocked by one loud explosion after another. “Mortars!” was the first thought that shouted in my head. The building shook with each explosion and I jumped out of bed to look for shelter. Then I saw the green, then red light that brightened up the building across the street—fireworks! I opened my window and looked south toward the spectacular Ala Too mountains. Boom! A red star spread itself across the sky. Boom! A green star spread from the center of the explosion. Again and again they spread themselves across the deepening black sky and shook the building.

This morning there were drooping, dying flowers that had been laid at the bases of all the heroic statues in the parks, including one golden statue of two obviously Kyrgyz soldiers that we pass each day that catches my attention because of its inscription, “мы шли в бои за коммунизм,” “We went to fight for communism.” Oleg, our driver, laughed out loud as we passed it today. “Now communism in Kyrgyzstan is dead,” he chuckled.

Medal of Honor

“I have a headache this big!” I said as I indicated the length of a Giant Grouper with my arms extended out as far as they could reach. The Marine laughed. “I don’t know how you can stand this,” he added. “We’re staying in the same tent with them and there are 35 Marines who are ready to pound them. They keep us up at night with their noise and they don’t care that we’re even there.”

The last three days have been frustrating and crazy at the same time as troops from one of our Eastern European coalition countries have been lined up four deep to get their hands on our laptop computers. It’s been an endless barrage of Russian as I’ve stood and listened to the same questions over and over again.

“How long for laptop, five minutes?” I’m not able to paint an optimistic picture, I’m afraid. They stand staring at the pile of laptops that are waiting for a charge and occasionally one of them taps his watch with his finger to let me know that they’re still waiting.

“How long?”

“About six hours,” I tell them again, and I’m not kidding.

“Sir I leaving for Afghanistan in 30 minutes. Can I get laptop,” one of them asks with a sad, pleading expression.

“I’m sorry. Everyone is leaving for Afghanistan in 30 minutes. You’ll have to wait your turn.” Of course, not one of them left in 30 minutes, but it was a nice ploy. American troops walked in, scanned the crowded, stinky room as they tried to comprehend the situation, and then walked back out the door just as frustrated as the rest of us had become. The huge crowd of men didn’t just write their names on the list and then sit down to wait, either. They wrote their names down and then stood waiting at the counter, anxiously watching the list as if it would grow shorter just because they were staring.

“Sir, I think I need to throw up.” Elmira was tired of the endless questions, shouts and odors too. “I never thought I would say this, but I miss the Americans.” I just nodded with an understanding, worn-out smile.

At 10:30 I picked up the short Kyrgyz straw broom to sweep the cement around the building for the second time because I was expecting some visitors. I was still sweeping the pads when the van pulled up, half an hour early, and the group began to pour out onto the gravel. “Alfred Rascon, Medal of Honor recipient,” was all he said as he shook my hand. “I’m Jed Clark. It’s my honor, sir.” Mr. Rascon was a large man, rounded and soft with age and wearing a dark blue golf shirt. The Congressional Medal of Honor peeked over the top of his collar at the base of his neck. His still-dark hair was brushed back, exposing the graying edges. His eyes were soft, keeping the secret of his Vietnam nightmare, and the fact that he had served the United States for years after his experience there and retired from the Army as a Lieutenant Colonel. “You hang this thing around your neck and it becomes a burden for the rest of your life,” he told me as we watched the coalition troops playing pool. “I wish I could go back to the Boys’ Club in Jersey and play pool with the boys again. I could probably kick these guys’ butts!”

“Hi, Jed. Don Jenkins.” His greeting was a lot more casual, delivered with a thick Kentucky accent. He was tall and thin, except for the little belly that pushed his army green shirt forward, hiding his belt buckle. He was bald on top and he kept the sides shaved. Loose skin swung down below his chin to expose his age, but his eyes were piercing and his expression focused. The two of them had come to tell their stories to the troops, stories that they don’t share in polite circles, but this is a safe place with an understanding audience of men who have experienced the same horrors of combat first hand.

I was just a Junior in High School when Alfred Rascon faced his life’s worst hell. For the first half of that school year I’d been attending Kearns High School early in the morning as construction crews worked feverishly to get Magna’s Cyprus High School remodeled and ready for students. Around Christmas time the “new” old school opened its doors and we were back at home in our alma mater. I was spending my first year as a school photographer, working for the first time with a 35mm Pentax camera that had interchangeable lenses. That was the year that one of my Magna friends and fellow Boy Scouts, Kenny Maddy, was killed in Vietnam. I think it was my first recognition of just how real combat is. Unfortunately it wouldn’t be my last that year.

The date was March 16, 1966. Rascon, who had been born in Chihuahua, Mexico in 1945, was assigned as a medic to a reconnaissance platoon with the Headquarters Company of the 1^st Battalion or the 503^rd infantry, 173^rd Airborne Brigade. As their platoon moved to reinforce a sister battalion that was under enemy attack the reconnaissance platoon came under heavy enemy fire. They were outnumbered and the bullets and grenades were tearing up the trees and ground around them as several members of the point squad were immediately wounded in the fusillade. Ignoring his sergeant’s instructions to stay behind shelter, Rascon pushed his way through the blaze of hot lead to his fallen brothers, but was driven back several times by withering fire as he tried to reach them on the trail again and again. Finally, without regard to his personal safety, he jumped to his feet and raced through the enemy fire to reach the wounded. He dived next to one fallen soldier and put himself in the way of the enemy’s fire. There he took several hits from grenade shrapnel and was wounded, receiving a very serious wound to his hip. Ignoring his wounds, he dragged the larger soldier from the fire-raked trail.

His story didn’t end there, though. As he dragged the soldier to safety, he heard a yell from a machine gunner crying that he was almost out of ammunition. Rascon ran through the fire again, retrieved a bandolier of ammo from a wounded machine gunner and passed it to the second gunner who was able then to continue his suppressive fire. Later, though, fearing that the abandoned first machine gun along with its ammo and spare barrel would fall into enemy hands, he crawled back to retrieve them, receiving more wounds to his face and torso. He retrieved the gun and ammo and it kept the battle alive, giving another soldier an opportunity to add to the suppressing fire from his pinned down squad.

Rascon continued to search for the wounded and found the point grenadier wounded by enemy fire. Again, without personal regard, he covered the grenadier with his own body and absorbed the full force of exploding grenades, saving the young soldier’s life. He was again critically wounded by shrapnel, but he remained on the battlefield, inspiring his fellow soldiers to continue the battle.

After the enemy finally broke off their contact, he continued to care for the wounded and disregarded his own wounds until everyone was safely on the evacuation helicopter. It was only then that he allowed himself to be cared for.

On January 5^th, 1969 I was working as a missionary in Barquisimeto, Venezuela. Elder Randall Pope was my senior companion and I was just getting the hang of the Spanish language. Vietnam seemed like another planet at the time, but even the people of Venezuela were getting fed up with the continual bad news from that part of Southeast Asia, and my former girlfriend, Becky Blair, had just lost her brand new Marine husband to small arms fire, raising the war high in my mind. I was still nearly a year away from that first draft lottery that would send me into the service upon my return to the United States.

On that particular morning Don Jenkins was standing in front of his First Lieutenant because the night before he’d accepted a bottle of rice wine from a Vietnamese acquaintance and had taken a drink. He didn’t know at the time that a member of the Viet Cong had laced the wine with C-4, a powerful military explosive, and the poisoned drink immediately made Don deathly ill. He told with chagrin how his lieutenant had taken his Staff Sergeant’s stripes and turned him into an “E-zero.” He had walked back to his bunker and was taking a nap when all hell broke loose outside. Some N.V.A. (North Vietnamese Army) soldiers had crawled through the wire and were on the attack within the camp, shooting and throwing grenades everywhere. Don came out of the bunker, bleary-eyed and found an N.V.A. drawing aim on his 1^st Lt. He said the thought flashed through his mind to just let the N.V.A. have a couple of seconds to finish the lieutenant, but he decided to “take care of” the enemy soldier instead. The lieutenant turned around to see who had just saved his life and Don, with a devilish grin on his face said, “I just gave him the bird.”

On January 6^th Don was acting as a machine gunner on a reconnaissance mission when they came under enemy machine gun crossfire from a complex of bunkered positions. Without hesitating, Don moved forward to where he was perilously exposed and began placing fire on one of the enemy positions. When his machine gun jammed, he grabbed a rifle and continued to place accurate suppressive fire on the position until his assistant could get the machine gun operating again. He repeatedly both ran and crawled across open ground to resupply the machine gun and continue his attack on the position. He picked up two antitank weapons and, by himself, maneuvered to within 20 yards of an enemy bunker and destroyed their position. He moved back to his team and picked up a grenade launcher and returned once more to an open position where he continued to place accurate fire on the enemy until all of his ammunition was exhausted. During that time he was seriously wounded by shrapnel, but he continued to move forward another 100 yards to help another squad that was pinned down by fire within only a few yards of the enemy. Three times, hindered by the pain of his wounds, the intense enemy fire and by darkness, he returned to the unit and pulled wounded men to safety.

That afternoon he was visited at the hospital by his lieutenant. “What are you going to take now,” he snarled at the officer. “You’ve already got my rank and my paycheck. What are you going to take now?” The lieutenant simply told him, “I’m giving you back all of your stripes and I’m putting you in for the Medal of Honor.” Jenkins finished his tour in Vietnam and flew home to America where he worked to forget about the war. One day, though, two FBI agents pulled up in front of his house and Don shouted, “What the hell are you guys doing here?” The agent in charge called back, “You need to call the White House. The President wants to talk to you.” Don then invited the agents into his house. “I’ll call him when I’m ready,” he told them as he turned to finish his bowl of chili. Of course, the call was to receive the Medal of Honor for his selfless valor in combat and he laughed as he related, “I think I’m the only person to ever get an Article 15 on one day and the Congressional Medal of Honor the next!”

Rascon came back to the microphone and said, “There are only 91 living recipients of the Medal of Honor. Your chances of being struck by lightning are better than meeting one of us. Today you’ve met two. We thank you warriors from the bottom of our hearts for your service to our great country.” The Wing Commander strengthened Rascon’s perspective when he added, “Rarely have men this brave lived to tell their stories. We’re honored to have them here with us today.”

Uprising in Kyrgyzstan - 7 April 2010

Jed actually has an apartment in Bishkek, but is staying on the airbase until things settle down... who knows when that might be. Please keep him and al the service boys there in your prayers.

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Heavy shooting breaks out in Kyrgyz Capitol - Yahoo News

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap20100408/ap_on_re_as/as_kyrgyzstan_protest


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Easter Morning

It’s a cold, rainy Easter morning in Bishkek. If not for the clouds it probably would have been light when I left my apartment this morning, but it was still dark.

I’m a little wary when I leave the apartment these days. A few nights ago I was trying to fall asleep when I heard a loud argument out in the entry, next to the elevator. The argument was accompanied by loud banging and thuds so I cautiously opened the peep hole in the door and looked out to see what could be going on. A man in black underwear was standing in the entry next to his girlfriend and both of them were arguing with another man who was just outside the steel fence that separates the apartments from the stairways and elevator. The man in the underwear was swinging a large stick and banging on the fence as he screamed at the man outside. The woman kept screaming “Oo-xha-DEE! Oo-xha-DEE!” “Go away! Go away!” I unlocked my door and opened it wide enough to get my head out and I growled in English, “Hey! Knock it off! I’m trying to get some sleep in here!” All three of them seemed shocked that I had yelled at them in English and I closed and locked my door again. The argument stopped. I watched through my peep hole as the man outside went down the stairs and the couple returned to their apartment.

This morning I pushed the elevator button and waited while the car travelled the six floors to my level. I kicked a box of matches out of the corner of the elevator into the entry way as the door was closing. On the main floor I looked at the wall to see the words “Don’t litter” written in Cyrillic letters, my confirmation that this was, indeed, the main floor. Someone had thrown a beer bottle into the corner of the hall, breaking the green glass and sending it all over the floor. The odor of urine was stronger than normal. Some of the local drunks use the hall as a bathroom at night because some of the building residents leave the heavy steel door cracked for convenience. I pushed the large, green, steel door open without pulling the latch back and stepped out onto the porch. I listened to the sound of rain on the tin roof for a moment as I looked down the long, black alley toward the road.

Slava was already waiting on the street as I walked down the steps. “Unusual,” I thought. “Slava’s never early. Am I running late today?” I walked down the dark alley toward the glowing tail lights and I unzipped the pocket of my jacket and took out my flashlight. I wanted to check my watch to see if I’d left later than normal and I needed the small light to see my watch in the early morning darkness. I turned on the flashlight and then began to pull my sleeve up over my watch, but it was a struggle since I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, a sweat shirt, a fleece jacket and my parka shell. It was just too many layers to move easily and so I struggled with it, the flashlight shining on my wrist and glaring in the dark.

I didn’t see it. I knew it was there, but I didn’t see it. A 500 pound block of concrete to keep cars out of the alley blocks the entrance. I was paying too much attention to my struggle and the glare of the flashlight. My left foot stopped. My body continued to move forward. My right foot was just planted too hard to move. My body continued on its way, only now it was going down toward the dark muddy alley path. I caught my fall on the knuckles of my right hand, jolting my elbow hard. The palm of my left hand was next, catching the ground in an effort to keep my head from smacking hard into the heavy mud. My left leg had rolled onto the top of the heavy concrete block and there I was, looking like I’d just finished a pushup in the dark drizzle. A man walked past just at that moment and he laughed as I recovered and stood up. I limped to the shuttle and opened the door. “DO-bray OO-truh,” Slava said with a half smile. “Good morning, Slava.” I sat on a double seat and stretched my left leg out and nursed the pain in my right elbow.

When the shuttle arrived at the gate I got out and looked down at myself in the light of the morning to see what the damage was. My trousers were covered with dark mud. The palm of my left hand was caked with mud and the knuckles of my right hand were bleeding through the mud that was caked over the scrapes.

I paused to pick up a few cigarette butts and a large pile of candy wrappers in the parking lot outside of Liberando’s before I pulled the heavy door open and walked in. “Man, what happened to you! You look like you fell down!” Ruben was just stating the obvious as he pulled on his jacket. “Nothing big happened last night,” he added as he hurried out the door. I looked around the room and whimpered to myself as my elbow throbbed.

4 April 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

On March 30^th we rode from Bishkek and headed down the road to our gate at the base. Each morning we pass villages and towns along the way, places like Pregorodnoye, Lesnoye, Ak-Zhol, Uchkun, Manas and Kamyshanovka. Each town has its own flavor, its own personality, and I can almost feel the oil paint dripping from my brush as my mouth literally waters at all of the sights. That morning I watched a full moon set over Ak-Zhol just as the sun rose behind us. It evoked emotions reminiscent of Ansel Adams’ famous photograph called “Moonrise, Hernandez” and I ached for a camera and a few minutes to capture that instant forever. But the photographer’s first rule was the one I broke, “f8 and be there.”

The farmers are burning their old stubble during the day and it fills the air with layers of bluish smoke that settle through the night. The layers of smoke weave themselves in among the homes with corrugated steel roofs, some painted in peeling, fading red or blue hues mixed with the rusty red that creeps down each valley in the corrugations. Each roof is steep to help the snow slide off in the severe Kyrgyz winters.

Each evening I watch countless people walking along the well-worn path at the side of the road. Some carry burlap bags, half-filled with vegetables for their evening meals while others walk alongside their cows or their sheep. A few of the fortunate ride their stocky, round-nosed horses or drive small, horse-drawn wooden carts. Once I watched two horses playing at the side of the road, jumping up at each other and butting heads in a way that you might expect to see two young dogs playing. Two evenings ago I watched a man leading his cow across the freeway. As they reached the opposite side they faced a raised concrete channel for irrigation water and an obvious difficulty for the cow. The man slapped her on the hind quarter and she jumped the channel. It surprised me to see a cow jump that high, but the channel turned out to be no more than a bump in the road to her and it was much more of an obstacle to the man who followed.

Everyone wears black in this country, long black wool overcoats or short black wool jackets. Men wear black leather hats or dark baseball caps. A few men wear tall, white, traditional Kyrgyz hats with white embroidered designs. The women wear thick black leather boots that make me think of Eskimo muck-lucks, and the women always amaze me with their bright, colorful silk scarves, carefully wrapped around the front of their hair and tied carefully in the back. Their scarves provide most of the color in the rural environment and they save the rest of the countryside population from a total monotone form of depression.

Kyrgyzstan is filled with the extremes created by their near-sighted system and by the corruption that comes with power. Choices are limited in everything. At the same time that I gaze at the endless masses on the side of the road, a few fast BMW’s and Mercedes Benz cars glide easily past us in the inside lane. The police here are powerless to enforce speed limits because they don’t ride in patrol cars, but stand helplessly at the side of the road with flashing red signal lights in their hands and whistles to attract attention. I watched one policeman hold out his signal light and blow his whistle at a speeding BMW, but the car kept speeding down the road as the policeman waved the impotent flashing light angrily above his head and continued to blast away on the tiny tin whistle. His frustration was painfully evident.

There’s a hot water system that runs through the city of Bishkek. The water is heated in a plant on the outskirts of the city and then piped underground to every city block. At the beginning of the month of May each year the system is shut down for cleaning and repairs. For that entire month residents are subjected to cold showers and cold water washes of their clothing and dishes. The temperature inside apartment buildings is also controlled by government edict. On April first all steam heat is turned off and left off until the first of October. Residents continue to pay their monthly utility bills, though, just as if the services were still available.

24 March 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

It's the anniversary today. Everyone here is talking about it and some remember with horror as they tell the story. Rysbek told me about his own experience this morning. "It started at about four o'clock in the afternoon and went until midnight. There were gangs of people everywhere. I watched maybe a thousand people walking up the street in a big crowd and they were throwing fire bombs into the businesses as they walked. It was a very bad time." It was only six years ago when the government in Kyrgyzstan was rocked by violent upheavals in the streets. Police and military pulled out their big guns and fired into the crazed and rampant crowds, but the people were only angered more by the reaction and the president finally stepped down in disgrace and turned the country over to his "popular" successor.

Today the people are even more angered by their successor and his blatant disregard for their will. President Bakiev isn't very popular any more. He's drained the country's coffers and taken over all of the businesses in the country that make any profit at all. Roads have fallen into disrepair and criminal elements have moved into the downtown area of the capital city. Water and electricity rates have jumped 500% since his takeover and now he's looking to put a tax on cell phone minutes that will cause rates to grow my more than 1000% in one blow. Bakiev has filled the regulatory offices with family members and friends and corruption careens uncontrolled throughout the government.

Yesterday afternoon all of the civilian employees on the base were called into a meeting and told that the Base Commander has decided to keep us safe from what appears to be impending violence in the streets by locking us down inside the Transit Center until the atmosphere changes on the outside.

Knowing the trial that we'd be facing under a lock-down condition, we were told to go to our apartments and gather a few things to get us through for a few days. We were also sternly warned to be back on the base by sundown. The meeting was short, but we didn't have much time. Bert, one of my friends here and a neighbor in the city, asked me if I would like to go with him to gather our things. I asked him, "Do you mean that we can share a taxi into town?" He laughed. "No. We're not going to ride a taxi. It's too expensive. We'll take the bus from the airport!" We went through the security steps to get through the airport gate and put our military identification out of sight into our pockets. As we walked across the big parking lot toward the terminal a man came toward us. He was dressed in a dark suit, neatly pressed and wildly iridescent in the sunshine.

"You want taxi?"

"No, thank you."

"Express taxi to Bishkek."

"No, thank you."

"You need taxi. I drive you."

"No, thank you."

"Very nice taxi. I show you. Here." He pointed to a black BMW with dark tinted windows and nothing to indicate that it was a taxi.

"No, thank you." He finally faded behind us as we kept walking.

"I don't like these guys who have faux taxis and want to collect 450 Som for a ride into the city," Bert explained. "You never know if you'll end up where you really want to go." A van came into the parking lot with a large number in the windshield. "380. That's our bus," Bert added. He opened the door and stepped up, handing the driver 60 Som. "Dvyeh," he said. "Two." I thanked him as we sat down. We rode down the long street next to the airport, a road lined with tall, white-trunked Birch trees. The leaves were starting to bud and they had the distinctive yellow-green color of Spring. We stopped at the village of Manas to pick up a woman and her two beautiful children. All three were dressed as if they were going to spend the evening at the ballet, but it was just a short ride for them to the crowded Bishkek Bazaar. Along the way we passed a Kyrgyz man on his horse, riding alongside his small herd of brown, hairy A'la Too cattle. A shepherd stood in the middle of his little flock as they grazed in the center of the entrance of the freeway to Almaty and Tashkent. Two white goats hugged his legs and nibbled the grass at his feet. We stopped in Pregorodnoye and picked up a woman who had just finished her shopping. She carried a small plastic bag with four fat, dirty carrots in it that looked like they'd just been pulled up from the soil.

The bus took us through a whirling, colorful marketplace in the busy daytime city. People were crowded around the small wooden stands and improvised roadside displays of everything from tomatoes to cell phones. The tiny shops each had a few soft drinks--Fanta, Coca Cola, Sprite and Pepsi to sell. The bus filled up until the aisle was crowded with standing passengers and I stood to give my seat to a woman who carried a baby in her arms. I smiled as she sat down and said, "ah-NAH krah-SOHT-ka." "She's a beauty." The woman smiled back and when the baby saw me, so did she.

"This is our stop," Bert told me and we pushed through the crowd to the door. "So, how did you like your bus ride?" he asked me.

"That was fun! A whole new adventure! I saw things on that ride that I'll never forget!" And the bill? 66 Som apiece. Eighty two American cents! The slick taxi driver would have charged us ten dollars each.

I walked up the stairs to my apartment building in the light. Three young boys sat in a small patch of dirt near the stoop, pushing their toy cars along tiny dirt roads, just the way I did so many years ago. It was strange to see things in the light of day for a change. When I arrived at the green steel door an old woman came out, hobbling with a cane and carrying a plastic shopping bag. She spoke to me in Russian and I missed the entire sentence. She held the bag out toward me and I took it. Then she smiled and started to struggle slowly down the stairs. I took her arm to help as she struggled with each step until we reached the bottom. She smiled as she took her bag back and spoke again. All I caught was the thank you from this lovely little "babushka." "Pa-ZHAH-lu-stah." "You're welcome." I live in a nine-story building and I hardly ever meet my neighbors. This was only the second, but it gave me pleasure to know that someone else in this huge city is no longer a stranger.

13 March 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

I stood on the street this morning, waiting for my ride to work, when a man across the street emerged from a dark alley next to a gambling club and called to me in Russian. “Did you see another man go this way?” “Nyet. Ya ee-VOH nye VEE-dill.” “No. I didn’t see him.” He was dressed in a black overcoat and he started walking toward me, crossing Muscovskaya Street in the dark quiet of the morning. In the distance the Mu’azzin began the early morning call to prayers from the city’s central mosque. “Allah, hoo-AKH-bar!” “God, he is greatest.” This slowly approaching stranger was suspicious and he changed his language. “Do you speak English?” I was immediately wary of the unusually large man and I prayed, “Please, God, let Oleg come around the corner. I think I need him now.” And then I answered the man. “Yes, of course I speak English.” He spoke as he walked, “What you wait for here?” I watched his eyes as they checked me over. “My ride.” I wasn’t going to give him any more information. “Where you going?” He was a little too close for comfort. “Work.” It was my last word to him. I knew that there would be no more conversation. Just then the white van came around the corner and the man stepped back. I boarded the van with, “DOH-bree OO-truh.” “Good morning,” and shut the door behind me. “Thank you, God.”

We sat waiting for Jeff again this morning and I spent the time observing the hard lives of the Kyrgyz people. Two of the “dvorniks” (street sweepers) worked their way toward our van and I watched them for a few moments. The brooms that they use are about as long as a broom that we use in America, but the straws are about the same length as the handle is. They carry the brooms at their waist, turning the entire upper body to sweep the bristles from side to side along the road. This morning, after one woman had accumulated a large pile of dirt and papers, she set the broom down and bent to scoop the dirt pile up with her bare hands. She worked for about a minute with her hands, scooping the debris and pouring it carefully into a small plastic trash bag. Then she picked up the broom and began sweeping the road again. It was cold out. It snowed yesterday, and though the clouds had cleared away, the wind was icy and biting.

Another man came around the corner where we sat. He shuffled, bent over, obviously in pain. He was thin. He was much thinner than he should have been and he made me think of Sanjeev Kumar in Iraq. He wore what looked like plastic boots on his oddly twisted feet and his thin jacket didn’t look like it was keeping the bitter cold away from his frail looking, tiny body. He clutched at his jacket at the neck, trying to keep the wind out and shuffled away down Toktogula Street. Rita commented at his appearance, “That looks like a hard life.” I thought the same thing.

17 March 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

On Thursday, March 11th, we at Liberando’s Lair hosted a visit by General David Petraeus, Commander of the Middle East Theater of Operations. I can honestly say that by the time he actually arrived at our little building I was completely worn out. For the twenty four hour period leading up to his visit here, I had Colonels, Lt. Colonels, Majors, Chief Master Sergeants, Master Sergeants and Tech Sergeants looking, probing and searching for anything that might be out of place during the visit. By Thursday morning I was expecting someone to ask me to drop my drawers for an internal exam, but, thankfully, it never came.

When the hour drew near for his arrival, Chief Liles walked in and announced the visit to the troops who were enjoying the peace and quiet, watching TV or playing a game of Pool. After the Chief’s announcement, though, the atmosphere was changed. It was no longer a peaceful place, but one filled with tension. A few of the soldiers slipped out the back door when the Chief wasn’t watching.

Suddenly, the Chief tensed and called out to everyone in the building, “Troops! Get ready!” That was followed by a gruff, “Atten-HUH!” The troops who were left in the room all snapped to attention as the General strode in. “As you were!” he called out. He shook my hand and turned immediately to the Sergeant Major who stood by the door. They greeted each other like old friends and the General glanced around the room and then disappeared into the empty room that’s about to be converted into a barber shop. A hand-selected group of soldiers and Marines had been taken into the room earlier to meet with General Petraeus. The door closed behind him and the room was silent. It was still tense.
Forty minutes later the door flew opened and the General strode out, looked around again briefly and then left the building.

On Sunday afternoon Staff Sergeant Greer walked in and announced that he was about to do a surprise cash count. I was just getting ready to leave for church, but that was pre-empted by the Finance Department. The count was off by $2.00, so we had to search the inventory until we found out that someone had rung up an extra Red Bull without giving it to anyone. I missed church because of a Red Bull.

My landlady called Salamat the other day to ask him to deliver a message to me. “Sir, when you paid your rent you gave the landlady 300 American dollars. She said that they were wrinkled and would like you, the next time you pay rent, to give her newer money.” I just rolled my eyes at the request. “You’ll have to tell the landlady for me that I don’t have the luxury of choosing new money or wrinkled money. I just take the dollars that they give me. If she wants me to pay her in “Som” then I will pay her each month in Som. But I’m not going to worry about whether or not the money has a few wrinkles in it. Tell her that I can always find another apartment.” Salamat smiled as he said, “I think your landlady is a little crazy. I know my people and she’s a little bit crazy.”

On Monday night I turned on the light in my apartment living room and it popped with a bright blue flash. The room stayed dark. I used my flashlight and a kitchen chair to get to the bulb and when I unscrewed it from the fixture I learned that it had a small, non-standard base. I put my jacket on and went out into the night to find a light bulb, but without any luck. Lots of places had “LAM-poch-kee” but they all had the large bases. I asked one man where I could find a smaller bulb and he told me to go around the corner to a “construction” store called “Comfort.” “But you must go before three in the afternoon,” he added. Great! I don’t get home before eight, and sometimes it’s even later. My apartment remains dark, illuminated only by the small television set that plays one of three Russian channels.

On Tuesday night I tried going in a different direction to find a store where I might find a lampochka, but still I had no luck. As I started back to the apartment I was met by a man who crossed the sidewalk to shake my hand. “Miseur Mamadu Kande from Senegal,” he announced.

I shook his hand and answered “Zdrastye,” in my best Russian accent.

He suddenly looked disappointed, but continued in Russian, “I thought you were an American. I was going to speak to you in English for practice. I’m sorry. I’m Mister Mamadu Kande from Senegal.”

This time I answered in English, “Jed Clark from Houston, Texas.” His face brightened again and he spoke to me again in English. “I am a professor of the French language at the University here. French is my native tongue. I am from Senegal. I have been here for more than twelve years, teaching French language and computer science at the University. I understand that the United States Air Force is in Bishkek.” I could tell where this was headed.

“Yes, they are.”

“Do you have contact with them?” he asked me.

“Yes, I do.” I’d just closed my side of whatever conversation he wanted to have.

“I would like to work for the United States as a translator. I speak several languages well and could do a good job. I would like to help Obama out.” He really didn’t understand how much he had just closed the conversation with me.

“Do you have an email address,” I asked him. “I can give your name to someone I know and have them email you.”

His eyes brightened again. “Yes! Yes! That would be wonderful!”

I took Mr. Kande’s email address and he shook my hand again. I’ll give his name to someone, but the rest is going to be up to the U.S. military. The whole encounter was so symbolic of how the rest of the world feels about the United States. They all want to be a part of our country. They all want to be Americans, or at least be associated with the Americans. They all want something from us. But, of course, mostly they all want a better life for themselves.

9 March 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

Tuesday morning, the day after International Women’s Day. It was a big holiday in Bishkek, with businesses closed and people walking up and down the streets all night long. They were still out as I left for work in the morning. There was a soft rain falling in the early darkness on Muscovskaya Street and I dropped the Styrofoam container from last night’s dinner into the MOO-sar-ka, the garbage bin. The white van came around the corner just as I arrived at the street and I took my usual seat, second one back on the right side, closed my eyes and propped my head against the window to get just another half hour’s sleep.

My eyes shot open a few minutes later at a commotion in the shuttle and I searched outside as we approached a car that was stopped in the road ahead of us. Orange flames leapt ten feet into the air from the engine box and we pulled up just as an old fire truck raced in from the other direction. Police and firemen scrambled to discover the depth of the situation. One fireman pulled the hose from the rear of the truck and began spraying down the flames, causing white billows of smoke where the flames had just been. Another fireman snatched a long pike from the truck and began jabbing the door on the driver’s side, trying to get it open. It was then that I noticed the shadow through the rear window. There was someone inside! He was moving from side to side, bumping up against the door, desperately trying to get out. “I wish I had a camera!” Sharon exclaimed at the sights. “Me too,” I thought.

The van didn’t linger very long, but was soon making a U-turn across Toktogula Street to take an alternative route to our last two passengers of the morning. Slava was our driver and I’ve never been impressed with his driving skills. He gets us to the gate ten minutes late just because he likes to take the back streets through the city. Oleg takes the main roads and we move through the city much more quickly. The back roads are bumpy and dark, but we’re able to get a view of Bishkek that we don’t get on the other days. The old homes look like photos that I’ve seen of towns in the U.S. that were taken during the early part of the 20th century. The homes are built from rough brown bricks, not crafted at all. Each home has a corrugated metal roof and the window coverings look like simple panels of cloth that are printed with colorful patterns from the 1950’s. The doors are mostly hand made from rough planks, likely collected from construction projects.

Our last two passengers are always picked up at the same corner on Toktogula. John is the manager of the dining facility on the flight line, recently married to a local Muslim woman who walks him to the corner every morning. They never kiss goodbye because public displays of affection are frowned on in the local culture, but they always have a “look” for each other as they separate for the day.

Jeff is the other passenger. He doesn’t tell anyone when he plans to ride the van or when he’s going to take a cab to work, so we spend a lot of time waiting at the corner. Finally, if he doesn’t show up by 6:28 a.m. the van leaves without him. It was like that this morning.

Jeff is an unusual guy. He’s in his thirties and is manager of all of the MWR facilities on the base. MWR stands for Morale, Welfare and Recreation. Anyway, Jeff has to fill in when people go on R&R or when they decide to quit altogether. He had a rough week last week. The daytime manager of Pete’s Place left to go on R&R, the night time manager decided to take an emergency leave and probably isn’t coming back, the night time manager at Shooter’s has decided to leave, the daytime manager of the DFAC has taken a better-paying job and will be leaving in another week and the Deputy Site Manager just turned into an Administrative Assistant.

Jeff poked his head into the chapel on Sunday, possibly looking for some solace in the midst of the storm, and found me standing up front preparing the sacrament for our little church meeting. I don’t think he noticed the other men in the chapel because they blend with everything in their camouflage, but my blue shirt stood out.

“What’s going on?” he asked with a slight tone of rudeness in his voice.

“Come on in, Jeff. We’re just in the middle of our LDS service.”

He suddenly realized that there were other men in the room, one a full-bird Air Force Colonel, and they were all looking back at him. He quickly backed outside and closed the door.

Yesterday, after learning of the latest company demotion, Jeff walked into Liberando’s and came over to where I was sitting at my desk. He just stood and looked around, almost as if he were lost. I asked him what was going on and he had a hard time talking.

“We’re losing people everywhere and the Deputy Site Manager was just demoted. I’m just wondering when my turn is going to be?” I could tell that his heart was sinking in a sea of despair.

“You know, Jeff, it will get better. That’s the thing about life. It gets really bad sometimes and then it gets better. Everything is going to be fine.” He didn’t respond but he turned and walked out again.

Last night as we boarded the van to go home Jeff climbed on behind me. For the first time since I’ve been here he tapped me on the shoulder as he walked up the narrow aisle and said a simple, “Hey, Jed.”

4 March 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

“I think you’re sitting just a little too far away,” he said as he strained to hear what I was trying to tell him.

Both of the Kyrgyz employees had managed to ignore him, too caught up in Facebook on one of the laptop computers, so I chimed in from my desk to help out. I probably was too far away, but the fact that my mouth was full of the lunch that I was trying to wolf down wasn’t helpful, either. I apologized as I stood and walked to the counter. I started again.

“You can use a calling card to get on the telephones or you can use our directory to connect to a local base and they, in turn, will connect you to your number.

The Warrant Officer shook his head and quietly said, “I think every base is long distance from my phone.”

I pulled the directory over to me on its clip board. “Where are you calling?” I was caught off guard a little bit.

“Utah.”

I smiled and asked, “Hill Air Force Base? Tooele Army Depot? Dugway Proving Grounds?”

He smiled back. “I’m afraid that they’re all long distance. I’m about 100 miles from any of them.”

I imagined someplace like Cedar City or Fillmore. “Where are you from?” I was expecting something in my mind, but not this.

“Heber.”

“Heber City, Utah! My mother was born there!”

His eyes widened as I blurted it out. “What was her name?”

I couldn’t believe that more than half way around the world I was talking to someone from Heber City! “Murdock. Maybe you know some of the Murdocks in Heber—Pete or Vernon or Lee.”

He didn’t take long to start making the connections. “I know Vernon really well! I grew up in the Third Ward! Millie!” That name had just popped into his head as he spoke.

“She was my grandmother!”

“It is a small world! I delivered papers to Millie. I know Lee and his wife, Barbara.”

The world continued to shrink as we spoke. “Are there any mountains around here? We can’t really see much from here.”

I pointed to the south and began to explain, “Just south of us is a tall range called the A’la Too Range. Kyrgyzstan has the nickname ‘Switzerland of Central Asia.’” He asked if the range joins with the Hindu Kush. “It joins with the Hindu Kush at the Pamir Knot.”

He broke in and told me that he’s spent the last few months flying circles over the Hindu Kush Mountains. “They said that we could see K2 from where we were, but I could never distinguish it from all of the other tall peaks. It’s just endless mountain ranges there.”

“Are you on your way home, then?” I already felt like I knew the answer.

“Yes.”

I decided to extend the invitation to church.

“I’m hoping to be out of here on Saturday, but if I get stuck here for a couple of days I’ll come. We had about 40 people at church each Sunday in Baghram. There are lots of good people here. We’re doing a lot of good.”

I reached out and shook his hand. “If there’s anything I can do for you while you’re here, let me know. My name’s Jed Clark.”

“Lynn Adams. Nice to meet you.”

27 February 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

Dragging the suitcase across the gravel was the hardest part of the move. It was about 30 yards so I carried it most of the way, but my poor elbow just wouldn’t last and I had to put it down.

I sat down on the shuttle to the main gate and pulled the suitcase onto my lap to make room for the other riders, all tired and anxious to get home for the evening. “Do-bree VAY-cher,” I greeted the driver. “Kahk oo vahs di-LAH?” “Good evening. How are you?” He didn’t respond, but sat listening to the radio station. The Russian music was soft. “Be-re-GEE, Be-re-GEE ma-yo CER-dtsa.” “Cherish, cherish my heart.” Songs are alike wherever I go. “Be-re-GEE, Be-re-GEE my-yoo DU-shu.” “Cherish, cherish my soul.”

I pulled the suitcase through the security hut where they checked my I.D. and my permission to leave the base. “You’re good to go, sir.” The guard unlocked the tall, wire gate and opened it. My ride to the city sat waiting across the road while the driver, Oleg, stood in front of his little white van smoking a Marlboro cigarette. I was the first person on and I again pulled the suitcase up onto my lap as, one by one, the other riders came through the gate and climbed into the converted Mercedes delivery truck. The walls were plain painted metal and the after-market windows were covered by thin, patterned curtains and the radio played again, but this time it was Russian rap. I closed my ears and closed my eyes.

Oleg climbed into his seat. He turned to me and asked, “Sir, where you going?”

I had to think for just a minute before I answered. “Muscovskaya y Sovietskaya.” I guess my accent told him something.

“Ah! Vwee gah-vah-ryat pah ROO-skee?” “You speak Russian?”

Our conversation was off and running. He listened patiently to my funny, child-like attempt to speak his language and I listened as he worked at his English. Between us we began to understand each other.

“Language is a gift from God,” I said in Russian as we struggled. Suddenly, he began telling me the story of a great tower that was built a long time ago, and how everyone before that time spoke the language of Adam. Then, one morning God looked and said, “This is not good.” Suddenly, brothers could no longer speak to each other as the language was changed.

I listened intently, because I knew the story. “Pa-nee-MAHL!” I called. “I understood!” I asked him if he was a Muslim. “Nyet,” he replied. “I am Christian. You Catholic?” I couldn’t even believe that we were talking about religion in this formerly communist, Godless place. “No. I am Mormon.” He looked puzzled. “Ah!” he finally said. In France and England and Germany the kings had this church, yes?”

“No. This church was organized in America.” “Amerikahnskee tseerkov?” “An American Church?” I had to take a breath to get my heart settled. I could feel a testimony coming on.

“Do you know what a prophet is?” My Russian was not very good. I couldn’t remember the word for prophet and he got a puzzled look on his face again. “Like Moise and Avragam.” I was struggling. His eyes lit up. “Ah! Prah-ROG!” That was the word!

“Yes! Prah-ROG! We have a prophet in our church today.” Now he was confused. “Moise your prah-ROG today?”

I laughed. “Nyet. His name is Thomas Monson.” I reached into my computer bag and pulled out the latest Ensign that Candace had sent me and turned to the first article. “Etta Thomas Monson.” “This is Thomas Monson.” “Ee ohn GLAV-no-ye? Big boss?” I knew the word glavnoye. It means “most important.”

“Nyet. Yee-SOOS glav-no-ye. Ohn prosta prah-ROG.” “No. Jesus is the most important. He’s just the prophet.” I could see the wheels turning so I turned to page 50 and showed him a full-page photo. “I photographed this.” He seemed shocked. He looked at me with some disbelief, but I pointed to my name next to the photo. He looked at my name and then at my I.D. badge and then at me. “Vwee who-DOZH-nik!” “You’re an artist!”

One of the other passengers on the little bus asked to look at the photo, and then another, until it had been passed around the entire van. And then I had to explain what I’d just said to the driver to the rest of them. I was giddy with excitement as I told them about the church and about being a photographer. As we talked I watched the trees and buildings as I glance out the window from time to time. “Muscovskaya y Sovietskaya,” Oleg said. I was home. The ride had passed by so quickly. I couldn’t believe that I was about to move into my apartment and spend my first night there. “Dah svee-dahn-ya.” “Good-bye,” I almost whispered as I climbed out of the van and pulled my suitcase out onto the sidewalk.

The van pulled away and I stood for just a moment to look around at my new lodgings. It was dark. Hardly any vehicles were on the street and people dressed in black walked up and down the sidewalks in the relative quiet. An old woman came up the street, sweeping the road with a hand-made broom. A few straws fell from the broom and she paused, pulled the bundle of straw from the handle, bent down and carefully picked up the straws from the pavement, pushed them back into the bunch and then tapped the bundle back onto the rough stick that served as a handle. She resumed her sweeping in the cold darkness, pausing occasionally to reach down and pick up a large piece of paper or a cigarette wrapper and put it into her apron pocket.

I turned and looked down the misty alley that led to the apartment, then walked to the steel door of the building. I pushed the combination of buttons simultaneously and heard the latch click open. I looked into the dimly lit hall. On the wall someone had written with a marker, “Nye sah-REET.” “Don’t litter.” The door to the “lift” opened and a man and woman stepped off. I smiled at them as they left. I pushed the button that said “6” and waited for the door to close.

23 February 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

Small things can give the greatest satisfaction. This morning a Marine Lance Corporal came in and asked about using the phones. “My calling card has expired, so I can’t use it to call home. Can you help me?”

I took a few minutes to explain how he could contact a local military base and have them connect him to the number that he’s trying to reach. “My home isn’t that close to a military base,” he told me. “I don’t think they’ll connect me.”

“It never hurts to give it a try,” I answered. We looked up two military bases that were closest to his home and I wrote the numbers down for him. “Just tell them that you’re making a call from Kyrgyzstan and ask if they can connect you with your home.” He wasn’t confident, but he said that he’d call the numbers.

A half hour later he came back to the desk. “Sir, I got through! They even connected me to another number that wasn’t as close to the base! Thank you!” The look on the young Lance Corporal’s face told the whole story.

“Hang on to that number,” I said. You’ll be able to use it again.

“This place is awesome!” I knew that he meant it.

I hear it every day. Guys come into Liberando’s with a dazed look in their eyes, many not even knowing what day it is or what country they just landed in, and they’re all looking for a phone or a computer to get a word back to their homes. They’ve just stood outside in the weather to pick up their baggage, they’ve gone through a long line at the Lodging office to pick up some sheets and a blanket and their body clocks are completely confused.

My job is to give them a last taste of America before they find themselves in a war zone, and to give them a first taste of America as they begin the long journey home. On either end of their deployment Liberando’s is a welcoming oasis, a chance to take a breath and relax and to feel a bit of home. As they walk in they’re greeted by two big-screen televisions, one showing the news and the other showing sports. They usually stop and look around as they pause near the large commercial refrigerator. “Free Sandwiches,” the sign calls out. On the back counter is a pot of fresh coffee and some hot water for those who would rather make a cup of tea or hot cocoa. Donated items from organizations all over America cover the back counter, too, including cookies, chips, candy, Chapstick and hand sanitizer. A free copy of the Stars and Stripes gives them a chance to read the news and the funnies, but a room full of phones and computers calls loudest to most as they’re anxious to log into Facebook or MySpace or just to read their e-mail.

Sometimes I hear an exclamation as they discover that we have a movie schedule. “Hey! Guys! They’ve got movies here! Sir, how much does it cost to watch a movie?” I love telling them the price of admission. “It’s free, just like nearly everything else on the base. We’re here for you.” Another of my favorite questions is, “What time does this place close?” And another of my favorite answers is, “Never. We’re here for you 24-7. Welcome to Kyrgyzstan!” I love these guys!

18 February 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

Cold. So danged cold. “Minus what?” It’s been more than two weeks now since the temperature climbed above the freezing mark. Yesterday the weatherman predicted a low of minus two, but it dropped to minus seven. The afternoon high was supposed to reach 16 degrees, but it only made it to 11. I left the office a couple of times to walk to the DFAC for food and on both occasions my nose and cheeks hurt in the cold. I was so very grateful for a warm coat and an army fleece cap. Outside in the wind I pulled my hands up into my sleeves to keep them warm, and to keep my neck warm I pulled my shoulders up to raise my collar a little higher. After just a few minutes of holding my shoulders up they ached and my neck hurt and made the cold feel even worse. That was yesterday morning. Today the air feels warm. The low was only 11 degrees, up 13 degrees from yesterday, and the high is expected to reach 32.

Today is the Base Mayor’s official walk-through again. He walks through by himself more often, but on Thursday he brings his entire staff with him, including Master Sergeants, Chief Master Sergeants and Captains. This morning he was also followed by Andy, our civilian company Quality Assurance Manager as well as John, our Site Manager, the chief liaisons between our contractors and the military.

Master Sergeant Bengry came in first. “Good morning, Jed. How are you today?” I returned the greeting as she was followed by several other high-ranking enlisted people.

“Wow! This is a full entourage this morning,” I exclaimed at the sight. MSgt Bengry smiled. “It’s the Mayor’s walk-through today."

"Today is Thursday, isn’t it,” I moaned in mock surprise.

John and Andy walked in just before the Mayor and they smiled at me. When Lt. Colonel VdW came in he greeted me, too.

“Good morning, Mr. Clark. It’s always a pleasure to see you.” He strolled over to me and shook my hand as John and Andy stepped aside to make a path for him.

“How’s Liberando’s? Is there anything that you need?”

“We’re actually doing pretty well here right now. We don’t have any major issues that haven’t already been addressed.”

He scanned the room and looked at the two large flat screen televisions that are mounted on the walls. “You don’t need any new big-screen televisions, do you?”

I paused and thought for a moment. “As long as you’re asking, we could use a small television monitor next to the VCR/DVD player so that we can monitor the movies in the theater. It’s not critical, but it would be convenient.”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see a look of panic wash across John and Andy in a simultaneous realization that I was talking seriously with the Mayor. He looked at the small computer monitor on the counter that relays flight information to the visiting troops.

“I really like this. I just don’t think it’s big enough for the people to look at. I think we need two large-screen monitors mounted on the walls so that they can be seen.” The Chief Master Sergeant jumped in. “It’s already in the plan, sir. We’re just using this as a temporary monitor to test whether it’s going to function well.” The Mayor gave him the nod. “I think it functions just fine. Let’s get it done.” That was the word. The Chief Master Sergeant made a hurried note on his clip board and stepped back.

“Mr. Clark, I can get you anything you need here. Just jot it down as you think of it, shoot me an email and consider it done.” I thanked him and then I added, “If you need anything from me, sir, you can also consider it done.” He flashed a knowing grin and nod as he quietly scanned the room and continued his walk.

A few hours later three Senior Airmen walked through the back door of Liberando’s carrying large, very heavy boxes. “The Mayor told us to deliver these to you. He told us that you need some microwaves at Liberando’s.” I was stunned. They had delivered three brand new microwaves, all with Russian text on the face! “Thank you! Yes! We can certainly use them here!”

An hour later two Master Sergeants came in the front door. “Do you have any storage area inside Liberando’s?” I had a few cabinets for small items, but nothing large. “What kind of storage are you talking about,” I asked.

“I’ve got a truckload of donated cookies and food items and the Mayor said that you could probably use them here.” My mind, as usual, was overflowing. “You can set the boxes by the back counter and we’ll take care of putting them away.”

I helped them carry in box after box of carefully packed, individually donated, commercially baked cookies, nuts, beef jerky, potato chips, Chapstick, hand sanitizer, tooth brushes, razors and a few other miscellaneous hygiene items.

The soldiers in the room stood up as we began unloading the contents onto the counter. “Sir, can we take some of this stuff?” That was the question that I wanted to hear!

“Yes! Tell your buddies, too. This is all here for you from Americans who love you and appreciate your service!” Big smiles rolled across faces the all around the room as the word rippled among the soldiers and Marines.

I’m certain that everyone in my company must be wondering by now about my obvious connections to the base chain of command, and my management must be wondering if I’ve been planted here as a spy to check up on them. Everyone in my company seems afraid to ask me about it, too. I’m just going to let them wonder.

Thank you all for supporting our troops! I love you all! Jed

11 February 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

The temperature was just bottoming out at minus four degrees, Fahrenheit. Just a minute or two in the wind and my hands had numbed as I walked to the shuttle bus that waited for me just beyond the wire. I showed my identification and my pass to the guard who stood shaking in the wind. “Have a nice day, sir,” he greeted me. “I hope so,” I chattered back as I continued through the gate.

I looked up and down the road at more than a week’s worth of snow and ice that had accumulated. The long road was lined with Poplars and Pines and people in long, black coats and heavy, fur hats walked by in the frosty early morning, appearing like ghosts from the lightly falling flakes.

The airport is next to the village of Manas, named after the national hero of Kyrgyzstan, a great Mongol warrior who conquered the country and released its forty tribes from the Khaitans and became a benevolent leader to the people. The flag of Kyrgyzstan has a golden sun as its central symbol and the forty rays of the sun represent the original forty tribes. In the center of the sun is a circle with six crossing lines that represent the main support circle in the roof construction of a yurt, the local tribal home. There’s also a heroic poem called The Epic of Manas that’s repeated every year by village narrators at local festivals. The poem is about 500 thousand lines, but there are versions that go over a million lines. It is, desputedly, the longest poem in recorded history and any Kyrgyz narrator who can memorize all three sections of the long poem is known as “Great Manaschi.”

I climbed into the shuttle, a small Mercedes van with nine seats, and greeted the driver. “ZDRAST-yeh.” Oleg looked up in surprise, “Oh, you speak Russian! ZDRAST-yeh!” Several others joined us on our trip, all employees who were finishing their night shifts and who were on the way home to their apartments in the city. That was what had brought me to the shuttle. I’d been ordered to go into town and look for an apartment. Brent, the new night shift employee at Pete’s Place was there with me and we were going to meet a realtor for a look at the available flats. “Whatever you do,” I was cautioned, “Don’t take anything that you find on the first day. Just take a look so you can see what’s available. You’ll make a better choice later on.” It was good advice.

As we started the 22 mile trip into the city I was startled several times by trucks that flew by us on the icy road, keeping only two tires on the nearly dry pavement as they passed. “These guys are crazy!” I didn’t realize that I’d vocalized my thoughts, but Oleg answered me. “Nyet, Etta nahr-MAHL-nuh.” “No, this is normal.” We slowed a bit for a large dump truck that was moving at a reduced pace. Three men, dressed in parkas and knitted hats, stood in the bed of the moving truck with large shovels, throwing sand over the sides onto the thick ice that grew deeper at the edges of the road. I remembered how cold I’d been just walking through the gate. “Minus four,” I thought. “Man! That’s a cold job that I wouldn’t want to be doing!” Oleg pulled two wheels onto the ice and pushed down on the gas. We passed the dump truck and resumed our speed.

In the city we stopped every two or three blocks to drop employees off at their apartments. When the shuttle carried only the two of us Oleg said, “I will take you to the Beta Stores to meet your man,” and he carried us a few more blocks to a corner where we found a huge department store. On the corner stood Salamaat! “I will take you to look at apartments today,” he told us. “Do you do this on your days off,” I asked. “Yes. I also sell mobile telephones, so let me know if you need one.” He’s a true capitalist in this former Soviet republic.

We joined him in his car, a Toyota Wyndham. The steering wheel was on the right side, which I only discovered as I opened the door to climb in and found a surprise. Salamaat laughed. “I’ve never heard of a Toyota Wyndham. We don’t have them in the U. S,” I commented. He had to ask the next question. “Is this a good car?” It was about the same size as a Camry, but the interior wasn’t quite as nice. “It looks like a very nice car,” I told him. “This car cost me $4,500. Is that a good price in the U. S.?” “That would be a great price in the States!” I gasped. It was a very nice car.

“Here is our first flat,” Salamaat pointed the building out. “Ziss location is good. Zee flat is on zee sixth floor but zee lift is working.” The morning changed from an inky indigo as the city lights seemed to dim in the first light of the day. After walking down a dark, shaded alley and around the rear corner and through the steel door, we boarded the “lift,” an elevator barely large enough to hold the three of us. The doors parted again six floors up and we stared into a black corridor. I pulled my small flashlight from my pocket and shined it into the darkness.

Salamaat said, “That’s the door, directly in front of you.” It was at the apex of an alcove ahead. Two other doors, illuminated by my tiny flashlight, faced the hall and, as we approached, our door opened, splaying light from a single incandescent bulb into the passage. “ZDRAST-yeh,” the lady greeted. Salamaat returned her greeting and we removed our shoes as we entered. There was a terrible pounding coming from the bedroom, as if someone were beating on a huge wooden drum. The lady said something to Salamaat. “Don’t worry about that noise. Her son is playing in the bedroom.” She opened the bedroom door and called a phrase that I understood, “Sasha! Don’t be a hooligan!” The banging continued. Sasha had shut himself inside the tall wooden cupboard that they use instead of a closet and was banging hard against the walls. “Sasha! Basta!” “Enough!” she cried out again.

The walls of the apartment were plain, made of concrete and showing their 50 year age despite several coats of bright paint. I understood enough of her Russian to know that she wasn’t happy to see me. “I know American men are dirty. They ruin apartments.” I spoke in my elementary Russian, “I’m a clean man. This apartment is lovely.” Her expression changed as she listened. “O. K. He is good.” The room was more than adequate. Much better than any place where I’d lived as a missionary in Venezuela. It had a kitchen with a small, basic gas stove and a stainless steel sink. The cabinets were basic plywood, painted white, and a door led to a long, enclosed balcony that looked out onto Sovietskaya Street, also called Abdrahmanov Street, one of the main roads in Bishkek.

There was a sudden screech as if a banshee were flying through the house. “Sasha!” she yelled again as the boy, no more than five, flew through the kitchen and onto the balcony. The woman, Tatiyana, demonstrated the gas stove and the water to show that they both worked before opening the window of the balcony to show that we could get fresh air. Sasha had climbed onto the ironing board and was screaming as he bounced up and down on his makeshift steed. Tatyana lifted him to the floor. The bathroom had a white, cast iron tub that stood on four feet and a shower pipe that ran up the wall to a calcified head. The bedroom was also the living room where Sasha had taken center stage and had begun jumping up and down on the small bed as he screeched.

I spied a small bag that was filled with plastic insects and cars and army men. I picked the bag up and said, “SCHTO etta?” What is this? Sasha stopped screaming, took the bag from my hand and sat down on the floor. He began taking the insects from the bag, laying them out on the small rug in a circle and naming them for me. Next he took the cars out and did the same, followed by each tiny army man. He pulled a large figure out of the bag. “Etta General” This is the general. I added to the game by using some of my Russian again, “Ohn kahmahnDEER bahtahLYON.” He’s the battalion commander. “Da,” he answered, “Ohn kahmahnDEER.” I looked up at Salamaat who was conversing with Tatiyana. “Is the boy included,” I asked with a smile. Salamaat relayed the message and Tatiyana burst into laughter. She looked down at the two of us sitting on the rug and laughed, “Da! Da!”

We spent the next twelve hours driving from place to place and we learned that every apartment looked just like every other apartment, except for the color of the paint or the coverings on the floors. They were all built under the Soviet Union’s architectural plan, one building being the same as the next to cut down on design and building costs. At one apartment there were exposed wires protruding from the wall, 220 raw volts that hung there without any protection! At another, the light fixture in the bathroom hung down on bare wires, an electrocution hazard just waiting for a victim. There were no junction boxes behind the fixtures and there were no wire nuts, just wires poking through holes in the walls, twisted and taped together.

At one of the many apartments, the landlady asked if I would help her to install a new, Chinese, energy-saving fluorescent bulb in a light fixture. I reached up and screwed the bulb in. She turned on the switch and there was a loud buzz above me followed by an explosion. I was showered by hot molten metal and broken glass as the bulb burst into tiny fragments. “I’ll call the electricians,” she apologized. I continued to learn a few new Russian words as I associated the language with the actions, words like “danger,” “roof,” “broken,” “renter” and “landlord.” One lady showed me her gas bill for the month of January. 67 Som! That’s about a dollar and a half! Electricity is more, though—about $10 a month! We looked at apartments that ranged from $300 a month to $800 a month, the biggest difference being an additional bedroom or nicer appointments.

At one of the apartments we walked in and the family was watching a small television set. On the screen was a slowly panning image that was familiar. Rock formations rolled on the screen, formed by wind into unusual shapes. And then the Russian voice said the words that confirmed my amazement. “Blah, blah, blah, blah, Bryce Canyon, blah, blah, blah, Utah!”

I pointed at the screen excitedly and exclaimed, “Etta moy dome!” “This is my home!” It was the only phrase that I could think of at the moment that would convey my surprise. The family looked at me as I pointed at the screen. They all looked back at the screen and then back at me, and then they all applauded! The scenes continued for another 20 minutes on the equivalent of our Public Broadcasting System. It was an educational program about Bryce Canyon and the unusual formations there. I recognized the words for “pyramids,” “sculptures,” “pinnacles” and “wind.”

It was one of the highlights of my day in Bishkek. I felt, somehow, just a little closer to my family back at home for a few minutes despite the difficult Russian language that pounded in my ears all day long