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.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
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
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
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
Thursday, February 18, 2010
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 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.
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
“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
Thursday, February 11, 2010
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
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
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
9 February 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan
Martel came to my table at the DFAC and commented, “You have some uniforms at Lodging. Come by and you can pick them up.”
“Uniforms,” I thought. I wondered if they were really going to arrive or if I’d be wearing and laundering my three lightweight shirts that I’d brought, expecting to drive a truck in Kuwait, for the rest of my contract.
“When did you get them in,” I queried.
“We’ve had them for a couple of days. I just forgot to let you know.” Martel’s a good guy. At least he told me the truth about why I hadn’t gotten them earlier. That was yesterday morning, one day after General Hoffman’s visit to Liberando’s and I wished that Martel hadn’t forgotten me on that day because I’d felt a little bit out of place wearing my “Dubai World Cup” golf shirt during the General’s visit.
When I retrieved the box from Martel’s office it was heavier than I’d expected. When I opened it in my room I was excited to find a warm winter parka, a wind breaker, three sweatshirts, six blue dress shirts, six tan golf shirts and six pair of tan trousers! I pulled the new parka on and felt the warmth wrap around me. Ahhhh, yes! I’d been getting by with my leather jacket and my watch cap for more than two weeks while the temperature had only warmed above the freezing point once.
“Hill Air Force Base won’t connect me.” I stood across the counter this morning as a group of soldiers pressed against the other side, all intent on checking out a phone of a computer booth to send a quick message home. The young man’s words caught my attention as he told Elmira that he hadn’t had any luck with the phone. Elmira didn’t know what to tell him so I jumped in.
“Did you try the Tooele Army Depot?” The young man looked at me to see if he’d just heard me right.
“Sir, I tried the Tooele Army Depot, but they wouldn’t pick up the phone,” he told me.
“Did you call the after-hours number?” At that moment the young man had a hint of realization in his eyes.
“No sir, I didn’t know that they had an after-hours number.”
I pulled a sheet of paper from my ID holder and unfolded it in front of him. “Here’s your number,” I said, pointing to the line on the page. “Call this number and tell them that you’re calling from Kyrgyzstan and ask if they can connect you to your Salt Lake number.”
And then I followed up with, “What part of Salt Lake City are you from? I’m from a place called Sandy. Do you know it?” You can’t imagine the surprise in his eyes when I told him that we’d lived in Sandy just a few years ago.
“Sir, I graduated from Brighton High in 2001,” the young soldier told me with bright eyes, and then he asked, “Are you L.D.S?”
“Yes, I am.” He smiled as he turned to find his phone.
Andy walked in at nine o’clock and looked around the room. “Are these two young ladies your snow removal crew,” he asked me as he looked at Elmira and Asel behind the counter.
“I guess they are today. Andrei and Rysbek have the day off.” Andy seemed a bit disappointed as he said, “Snow removal is a big deal to this base commander. Is there any way that you can take care of the walks over by the showers?” I told him that I’d sprinkle some ice melt chemical on the walks to soften the ice and then I’d shovel them off.
“Thanks,” he muttered as he watched the television screen in the big room. “Oh, yeah,” he added, “tomorrow morning you’re going to ride the shuttle into the city and meet with a realtor to look for an apartment.” I was shocked. “I don’t have any money for an apartment right now,” I complained. “It’s O.K. Just look at what’s available and you’ll have a better idea of what you can expect.” He went back to watching the program on the Armed Forces Network until he realized that I was putting on my parka and hat to take care of the walks, so he turned to leave.
“Andy, we’re running low on the ice melt chemical. Who do I need to call to get more?” He briefly turned his attention back to me. “Call Civil Engineering.” The door closed behind him, cutting off any further questions.
I stopped putting on my parka and called Civil Engineering and asked them if I could get some ice melt chemical. “Sir, we’ve already delivered a bucket of the chemical to your location.” “Yes,” I answered, “I have the bucket, but it’s empty. I need to get some more.”
After a moment my response registered on the other end of the line and he apologized, “I’m sorry, sir. Across the street from the Fitness Center is an open shed. Take your bucket there and you can fill it with the chemical.” I thanked him and hung up the phone. I finished pulling my parka on and picked up the empty bucket.
The snow was still falling for the fifth straight day and the air was frigid. My boots squeaked on the crystalline layer of new snow until I arrived at the open shed where I searched for the chemical but couldn’t see it anywhere. “Maybe I’m in the wrong shed,” I thought to myself, but there was no other shed. I looked harder until I spotted a pile of sandbags on some pallets. As I came near I noticed that there was ice melt chemical on the ground around the bags. I hefted one of the heavy bags and realized that the chemical inside was fused together in a single giant lump that must have weighed 75 pounds. I dropped the bag on the concrete to see if I could break it up so that I could take only a partial bag back to Liberando’s but it was futile. The chemical had compacted into a solid rock and I only succeeded in tearing the bag to shreds under the weight of the sharp, granular lump inside. I tried another bag and managed to break the contents into pieces which I loaded into my bucket. I lifted the bucket and felt like my elbow would tear apart under the weight, but I kept walking and swaying until I reached Liberando’s.
As I struggled back, swaying from side to side from the bucket’s counter-weight, I was watching the sidewalk ahead of me to keep from stepping on a patch of ice, occasionally looking down at the heavy swinging bucket that irritatingly rubbed against my legs. A pair of boots approached that were attached to the trousers of an Air Force camouflage uniform. I glanced up as the man passed just in time to spot a black oak leaf on his shirt placket. I looked up higher and thought that it was my friend, the Base COmmander, but I wasn’t certain in the rapid passing. These “green boys” all look the same from the chest down, but I wondered why he hadn’t said hello to me until I realized that my head was covered by a black watch cap and my face was completely covered, except for my eyes, by my tan Head Gator. I just looked like any other civilian contractor bandit to him.
“Mister, we have another shipment of water,” Elmira exclaimed as I was just about to go into Liberando’s. I turned around and looked behind me at the fork lift that began lowering a pallet of bottled water on the ground. “Mister, we need to get this water into the storage box or into the building or it will be frozen,” she said excitedly.
I’d been planning to leave for lunch, but she was right. The water had to come first since the high temperature of the day was only 11 degrees Fahrenheit. We stacked the bottles into the storage box to keep the water from freezing, but in the process I nearly froze my exposed hands right off! After we’d stacked the water and had removed it from the street outside I walked to the laundry facility next door to wash my hands and warm them up but there were no paper towels in the room, so I shook my hands off and walked back to Liberando’s.
As I took hold of the handle to open the door, my hand, still moist, instantly froze to the steel handle, leaving me feeling like Flick, the kid in “A Christmas Story” who stuck his tongue to the frozen flag pole. I pulled my hand to see if it would come loose, but it was frozen tight. I put my mouth next to the handle and began breathing on it in an effort to loosen the skin and praying that no one would throw the door open and hit me in the head. I blocked the door with my foot. My skin separated gradually from the steel handle until I was free and it was a lesson learned.
So here are the rules: “Don’t touch your tongue to the flagpole,” and “Don’t grab the steel door handle with wet hands in the middle of a Kyrgyz winter!”
“Mister, why do you smile all the time?”
I hadn’t thought about it. “I don’t know. I guess it just makes me feel good.” There was a cultural lesson brewing and Elmira wasn’t afraid to give it to me straight.
“Mister, if you smile at people in Kyrgyzstan they will think you are flirting with them and they will think you are being disrespectful.”
What? I couldn’t believe it. I had to ask for a confirmation. “Do you mean that if I smile at people on the street they will think I’m flirting with them?”
“Oh, yes. You must keep a serious face all the time or you will have trouble. You look at the Kyrgyz people and you will see that they are very serious when they are walking.”
I wiped the smile off of my face, but it only lasted for a minute. I couldn’t do it. It was asking too much at that moment. “Mister, you will be in trouble. I am serious!”
This culture lesson will be hard for me.
“Uniforms,” I thought. I wondered if they were really going to arrive or if I’d be wearing and laundering my three lightweight shirts that I’d brought, expecting to drive a truck in Kuwait, for the rest of my contract.
“When did you get them in,” I queried.
“We’ve had them for a couple of days. I just forgot to let you know.” Martel’s a good guy. At least he told me the truth about why I hadn’t gotten them earlier. That was yesterday morning, one day after General Hoffman’s visit to Liberando’s and I wished that Martel hadn’t forgotten me on that day because I’d felt a little bit out of place wearing my “Dubai World Cup” golf shirt during the General’s visit.
When I retrieved the box from Martel’s office it was heavier than I’d expected. When I opened it in my room I was excited to find a warm winter parka, a wind breaker, three sweatshirts, six blue dress shirts, six tan golf shirts and six pair of tan trousers! I pulled the new parka on and felt the warmth wrap around me. Ahhhh, yes! I’d been getting by with my leather jacket and my watch cap for more than two weeks while the temperature had only warmed above the freezing point once.
“Hill Air Force Base won’t connect me.” I stood across the counter this morning as a group of soldiers pressed against the other side, all intent on checking out a phone of a computer booth to send a quick message home. The young man’s words caught my attention as he told Elmira that he hadn’t had any luck with the phone. Elmira didn’t know what to tell him so I jumped in.
“Did you try the Tooele Army Depot?” The young man looked at me to see if he’d just heard me right.
“Sir, I tried the Tooele Army Depot, but they wouldn’t pick up the phone,” he told me.
“Did you call the after-hours number?” At that moment the young man had a hint of realization in his eyes.
“No sir, I didn’t know that they had an after-hours number.”
I pulled a sheet of paper from my ID holder and unfolded it in front of him. “Here’s your number,” I said, pointing to the line on the page. “Call this number and tell them that you’re calling from Kyrgyzstan and ask if they can connect you to your Salt Lake number.”
And then I followed up with, “What part of Salt Lake City are you from? I’m from a place called Sandy. Do you know it?” You can’t imagine the surprise in his eyes when I told him that we’d lived in Sandy just a few years ago.
“Sir, I graduated from Brighton High in 2001,” the young soldier told me with bright eyes, and then he asked, “Are you L.D.S?”
“Yes, I am.” He smiled as he turned to find his phone.
Andy walked in at nine o’clock and looked around the room. “Are these two young ladies your snow removal crew,” he asked me as he looked at Elmira and Asel behind the counter.
“I guess they are today. Andrei and Rysbek have the day off.” Andy seemed a bit disappointed as he said, “Snow removal is a big deal to this base commander. Is there any way that you can take care of the walks over by the showers?” I told him that I’d sprinkle some ice melt chemical on the walks to soften the ice and then I’d shovel them off.
“Thanks,” he muttered as he watched the television screen in the big room. “Oh, yeah,” he added, “tomorrow morning you’re going to ride the shuttle into the city and meet with a realtor to look for an apartment.” I was shocked. “I don’t have any money for an apartment right now,” I complained. “It’s O.K. Just look at what’s available and you’ll have a better idea of what you can expect.” He went back to watching the program on the Armed Forces Network until he realized that I was putting on my parka and hat to take care of the walks, so he turned to leave.
“Andy, we’re running low on the ice melt chemical. Who do I need to call to get more?” He briefly turned his attention back to me. “Call Civil Engineering.” The door closed behind him, cutting off any further questions.
I stopped putting on my parka and called Civil Engineering and asked them if I could get some ice melt chemical. “Sir, we’ve already delivered a bucket of the chemical to your location.” “Yes,” I answered, “I have the bucket, but it’s empty. I need to get some more.”
After a moment my response registered on the other end of the line and he apologized, “I’m sorry, sir. Across the street from the Fitness Center is an open shed. Take your bucket there and you can fill it with the chemical.” I thanked him and hung up the phone. I finished pulling my parka on and picked up the empty bucket.
The snow was still falling for the fifth straight day and the air was frigid. My boots squeaked on the crystalline layer of new snow until I arrived at the open shed where I searched for the chemical but couldn’t see it anywhere. “Maybe I’m in the wrong shed,” I thought to myself, but there was no other shed. I looked harder until I spotted a pile of sandbags on some pallets. As I came near I noticed that there was ice melt chemical on the ground around the bags. I hefted one of the heavy bags and realized that the chemical inside was fused together in a single giant lump that must have weighed 75 pounds. I dropped the bag on the concrete to see if I could break it up so that I could take only a partial bag back to Liberando’s but it was futile. The chemical had compacted into a solid rock and I only succeeded in tearing the bag to shreds under the weight of the sharp, granular lump inside. I tried another bag and managed to break the contents into pieces which I loaded into my bucket. I lifted the bucket and felt like my elbow would tear apart under the weight, but I kept walking and swaying until I reached Liberando’s.
As I struggled back, swaying from side to side from the bucket’s counter-weight, I was watching the sidewalk ahead of me to keep from stepping on a patch of ice, occasionally looking down at the heavy swinging bucket that irritatingly rubbed against my legs. A pair of boots approached that were attached to the trousers of an Air Force camouflage uniform. I glanced up as the man passed just in time to spot a black oak leaf on his shirt placket. I looked up higher and thought that it was my friend, the Base COmmander, but I wasn’t certain in the rapid passing. These “green boys” all look the same from the chest down, but I wondered why he hadn’t said hello to me until I realized that my head was covered by a black watch cap and my face was completely covered, except for my eyes, by my tan Head Gator. I just looked like any other civilian contractor bandit to him.
“Mister, we have another shipment of water,” Elmira exclaimed as I was just about to go into Liberando’s. I turned around and looked behind me at the fork lift that began lowering a pallet of bottled water on the ground. “Mister, we need to get this water into the storage box or into the building or it will be frozen,” she said excitedly.
I’d been planning to leave for lunch, but she was right. The water had to come first since the high temperature of the day was only 11 degrees Fahrenheit. We stacked the bottles into the storage box to keep the water from freezing, but in the process I nearly froze my exposed hands right off! After we’d stacked the water and had removed it from the street outside I walked to the laundry facility next door to wash my hands and warm them up but there were no paper towels in the room, so I shook my hands off and walked back to Liberando’s.
As I took hold of the handle to open the door, my hand, still moist, instantly froze to the steel handle, leaving me feeling like Flick, the kid in “A Christmas Story” who stuck his tongue to the frozen flag pole. I pulled my hand to see if it would come loose, but it was frozen tight. I put my mouth next to the handle and began breathing on it in an effort to loosen the skin and praying that no one would throw the door open and hit me in the head. I blocked the door with my foot. My skin separated gradually from the steel handle until I was free and it was a lesson learned.
So here are the rules: “Don’t touch your tongue to the flagpole,” and “Don’t grab the steel door handle with wet hands in the middle of a Kyrgyz winter!”
“Mister, why do you smile all the time?”
I hadn’t thought about it. “I don’t know. I guess it just makes me feel good.” There was a cultural lesson brewing and Elmira wasn’t afraid to give it to me straight.
“Mister, if you smile at people in Kyrgyzstan they will think you are flirting with them and they will think you are being disrespectful.”
What? I couldn’t believe it. I had to ask for a confirmation. “Do you mean that if I smile at people on the street they will think I’m flirting with them?”
“Oh, yes. You must keep a serious face all the time or you will have trouble. You look at the Kyrgyz people and you will see that they are very serious when they are walking.”
I wiped the smile off of my face, but it only lasted for a minute. I couldn’t do it. It was asking too much at that moment. “Mister, you will be in trouble. I am serious!”
This culture lesson will be hard for me.
Monday, February 8, 2010
7 February 2010
The Chief Master Sergeant walked in and immediately began scanning the room. Another Master Sergeant followed closely, then another. They huddled in the corner and spoke quietly as they discussed their findings. The cleaning crew was just finishing up with the final mop-down of the floor and Andrei was shoveling the last bit of snow from the back steps and sprinkling them with the ice melting chemical. We were expecting what the Air Force refers to as a “D.V.” or distinguished visitor and the place was alive with activity. I’d already been through the building several times, pushing in the chairs and picking up the trash from the booths—crumpled notes, empty water bottles, hats and gloves—the things that soldiers tend to leave behind. The rooms were filled with members of the Bulgarian Army who were passing through the base in addition to our American military. The television screen displayed the latest “Ultimate Fight Championship” from the Mandalay Bay Hotel in Las Vegas and the soldiers crowded around the screen to watch the action.
Our distinguished visitor, General Donald J. Hoffman, a four-star general was still an hour away from his visit with us, but the Chief Master Sergeant kept looking down at his watch and then looking up at the clock on the wall, as if to confirm that the universe was still moving in its ordered manner. He glanced up one more time at the clock. “I’m going to call Lt. Colonel Janaros and let him know that we’re ready to go here.” The two Master Sergeants were silent. It was as if the Chief just needed to hear the words aloud to give himself enough confidence to make the call. A few minutes later Lt. Colonel Janaros walked in and began scanning the room with a smile. “This looks outstanding. Good job, Chief. I just spoke to the NCOIC at the Pax Terminal and it looks like the General is running ahead of schedule.”
It wasn’t more than five minutes later that Jeff, my boss, walked in. It was only the fourth time that I’d seen him in two weeks but he was ready for this visit. He was wearing his newest, crispest company uniform, complete with sweatshirt. He looked down at his arm to make sure that his I.D. holder was straight. His hair was freshly trimmed. He came to where I stood at the front counter and shook my hand. “Did you make a full sweep of the exterior of the building? Have you cleaned off all of the snow? Are all of the transformers on ceramic plates?”
His questions were answered by a nod of my head, but he could have made the short walk himself if he had really been curious. He stood next to the Chief and waited, almost at attention. I looked back up at the television and watched the big fight in progress.
“Get ready in the room!” The Chief Master Sergeant barked out the orders. “Room! Atten-Huh!” The distinguished visitor had arrived and was making his way into the building, but ahead of him strutted a parade of two-star Major Generals. The first one in the door came directly to me at the front counter and shook my hand.
“Jed Clark, Ma’am,” I introduced myself.
She looked me in the eye and returned, “Kathleen Close.” Then she moved to Rysbek and shook his hand. The other four two-star generals milled around a bit before they moved into the theater room for a briefing while Major General Close continued to shake hands and introduce herself to the troops.
Jeff stood waiting for General Hoffman to come in, ready to brief the General on the operation of Liberando’s, and I watched him as he silently mouth his recitation over and over again as he stood silently by the theater door.
Major General Close paused at the opposite end of the room where there were a few donated items. She picked up a small bag of oatmeal raisin cookies and said, “How much fiber is there in these things?” Then she answered herself as she read from the ingredient panel, “Less than 1 gram.” She set the bag down and walked back to the theater.
Finally, the General entered and walked straight into the theater. The door was shut behind him and everyone still crowded in our room continued to watch 46 year-old Randy Couture dance around the octagon, jabbing and ducking as he dominated his much younger opponent in the world heavyweight championship for Mixed Martial Arts.
Wearing a total of fourteen stars, four eagles and six oak leaves, the General’s party of officers abruptly poured through the theater door, stampeding into the room where all of the computers and phones are located. The herd huddled near the door and talked among themselves as Jeff hugged the Chief Master Sergeant’s backside just in case they needed him to recite his statistics. But, just as abruptly as they had come in, they strode out, leaving a startled and speechless Jeff behind.
One of the original Master Sergeants who had preceded the General on his visit came to me at the front counter and quietly commented, “This place really looks outstanding, but I came over the other day and it looked good then, too. Good job, sir.” She shook my hand and left.
A disappointed Jeff, who hadn’t been able to give his brief to the General (and who hadn’t received a coveted General’s coin for his excellent work), shook my hand, too.
“Good job. The place looks good.” He was subdued as he walked quietly out into the snow just as an aging Randy Couture clamped a choke hold around the neck of his young opponent, Mark Coleman, and won the UFC main event by submission, raising a loud whoop from the soldiers who had packed themselves like Vienna Sausages around the television screen.
Our distinguished visitor, General Donald J. Hoffman, a four-star general was still an hour away from his visit with us, but the Chief Master Sergeant kept looking down at his watch and then looking up at the clock on the wall, as if to confirm that the universe was still moving in its ordered manner. He glanced up one more time at the clock. “I’m going to call Lt. Colonel Janaros and let him know that we’re ready to go here.” The two Master Sergeants were silent. It was as if the Chief just needed to hear the words aloud to give himself enough confidence to make the call. A few minutes later Lt. Colonel Janaros walked in and began scanning the room with a smile. “This looks outstanding. Good job, Chief. I just spoke to the NCOIC at the Pax Terminal and it looks like the General is running ahead of schedule.”
It wasn’t more than five minutes later that Jeff, my boss, walked in. It was only the fourth time that I’d seen him in two weeks but he was ready for this visit. He was wearing his newest, crispest company uniform, complete with sweatshirt. He looked down at his arm to make sure that his I.D. holder was straight. His hair was freshly trimmed. He came to where I stood at the front counter and shook my hand. “Did you make a full sweep of the exterior of the building? Have you cleaned off all of the snow? Are all of the transformers on ceramic plates?”
His questions were answered by a nod of my head, but he could have made the short walk himself if he had really been curious. He stood next to the Chief and waited, almost at attention. I looked back up at the television and watched the big fight in progress.
“Get ready in the room!” The Chief Master Sergeant barked out the orders. “Room! Atten-Huh!” The distinguished visitor had arrived and was making his way into the building, but ahead of him strutted a parade of two-star Major Generals. The first one in the door came directly to me at the front counter and shook my hand.
“Jed Clark, Ma’am,” I introduced myself.
She looked me in the eye and returned, “Kathleen Close.” Then she moved to Rysbek and shook his hand. The other four two-star generals milled around a bit before they moved into the theater room for a briefing while Major General Close continued to shake hands and introduce herself to the troops.
Jeff stood waiting for General Hoffman to come in, ready to brief the General on the operation of Liberando’s, and I watched him as he silently mouth his recitation over and over again as he stood silently by the theater door.
Major General Close paused at the opposite end of the room where there were a few donated items. She picked up a small bag of oatmeal raisin cookies and said, “How much fiber is there in these things?” Then she answered herself as she read from the ingredient panel, “Less than 1 gram.” She set the bag down and walked back to the theater.
Finally, the General entered and walked straight into the theater. The door was shut behind him and everyone still crowded in our room continued to watch 46 year-old Randy Couture dance around the octagon, jabbing and ducking as he dominated his much younger opponent in the world heavyweight championship for Mixed Martial Arts.
Wearing a total of fourteen stars, four eagles and six oak leaves, the General’s party of officers abruptly poured through the theater door, stampeding into the room where all of the computers and phones are located. The herd huddled near the door and talked among themselves as Jeff hugged the Chief Master Sergeant’s backside just in case they needed him to recite his statistics. But, just as abruptly as they had come in, they strode out, leaving a startled and speechless Jeff behind.
One of the original Master Sergeants who had preceded the General on his visit came to me at the front counter and quietly commented, “This place really looks outstanding, but I came over the other day and it looked good then, too. Good job, sir.” She shook my hand and left.
A disappointed Jeff, who hadn’t been able to give his brief to the General (and who hadn’t received a coveted General’s coin for his excellent work), shook my hand, too.
“Good job. The place looks good.” He was subdued as he walked quietly out into the snow just as an aging Randy Couture clamped a choke hold around the neck of his young opponent, Mark Coleman, and won the UFC main event by submission, raising a loud whoop from the soldiers who had packed themselves like Vienna Sausages around the television screen.
Friday, February 5, 2010
First week of February 2010 - Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan
2 February 2010
“What a jerk!” went through my mind as I continued to walk to the office.
Jeff, the manager of all the base MWR facilities (and my boss) had met me as he came out of the DFAC. I joined with him as we walked down the sidewalk toward the Deputy Site Manager’s office.
“How are you doing at Shooter’s,” he asked me. “I’m doing fine. I learn a little each day.”
“Do you think you’re ready to handle your own shop,” he continued. “I think so. It doesn’t seem to be terribly difficult.”
There was a pause in the conversation as we walked along. I glanced over at him and noticed it was obvious that he’s been living a hard life. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days and he wore a dark shadow that was the beginning of a good beard. His eyes were red, bloodshot and tired, hefting deep, sagging bags below.
“So how long have you been here,” I inquired.
I hadn’t had much of an opportunity to get to know Jeff because he makes himself invisible during the daytime. “I’ve been here a little over a year now.”
He’d just been here for a little more than a year and yet he was the MWR manager for the base. He’s a fast mover. I wanted to know a little more about him. “But this isn’t your first contract job, right,” I pressed. My question was met with silence and I turned to see if my voice had just faded in the breeze but, to my amazement, he’d quietly peeled off and was walking away. He hadn’t said, “See you later” or “excuse me.” He’d just walked away toward a smoking pit.
“What a jerk!” I thought. "He's not a pleasant person at all."
I walked back to Shooter’s after my expense report was “finally” submitted—again. It was a sunny, pleasant walk even though it was still cold and I was glad to be wearing my watch cap and leather jacket. I thought, “I’ll bet this is a nice place to spend the warm part of the year.”
Rita met me at the front counter as I entered. “Andy wants you to go over to Liberando’s and…” her voice dropped in volume as she continued, “…probably spend the rest of the day there.” I narrowed my focus and could feel the center of my brow pulling together. “That sounds ominous,” I frowned.
She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. I waved at Salamaat and called, “oo-VEED-eem-suh.” “See you later.” He looked up at me with a question in his eyes and called back, “Sir, are you leaving?” I told him that we’d have to see. I turned around and stumped back out the door and across the camp to the other side.
I walked into Liberando’s and found Andy sitting behind the computer screen on his desk. “Thank you for coming. I’m going to have you sit here for a couple of hours and hold this place down while I go to a Commander’s call at three o’clock.” Something in the quality of his voice told me that it was a lie.
He walked me through the building, pointing out the fact that there are no games and no movies. It’s just a place where people can hook up to a wireless network and send an email home. The building was quiet as the servicemen sat in deep concentration as they stared at their laptop screens.
The two Kyrgyz employees, Andrei and Rysbek, introduced themselves to me as Andy disappeared. I knew about his “Commander’s Call” at three o’clock because I’d received the e-mail, too. It was a monthly awards ceremony to be held by the Wing Commander at Pete’s Place, named after Pete Ganci, the fire chief who was killed on 9/11 in New York.
Andy never returned and I sat in the quiet of that new place for the next five hours, wondering if a back room decision had been made and if sitting at Liberando’s would really be my job for the next few months.
3 February, 2010
Beginning next week (Sunday) I'll be working nights at Liberando's. I'm not excited about the place because it's almost too quiet. I'm sure that I'll be fighting the urge to sleep. On the upside, though, they think enough of me to let me loose at night without someone riding herd over me.
I had a long day today, fighting sleep from lunchtime on. It was even more difficult because I spent my day at Liberando’s again. I checked in at Shooter’s and went through the daily inspection checklist. Rita came out and quietly told me, “It looks like you’ll be leaving here. Jeff wants you to go to Liberando’s to spend the day there.” I shook my head at the news.
She added, “I got the schedule for next week and it looks like you’ll be working the night shift at Liberando’s for now on.” I frowned. “I’m sorry,” she finished. I put my jacket and hat on, picked up my laptop bag and walked out the door and across the camp to Liberando’s.
“Good morning, sir,” Andrei greeted. “Kahk oo-VAHS dee-LAH?” “How are you? I smiled and remembered why I really came here. “Yah xhah-rah-SHOW.” “I’m fine.” I walked through the building as I went through the daily checklist. It was quiet. There were only two soldiers working at their computers. “What’s on the list for today,” I asked Rysbek. “We have to make a BX run to restock the sale items.” Twice a week each facility picks up supplies from the BX to sell to the servicemen who want to buy a soda or a Monster energy drink. “We also need to restock our water supply.” Those were the big projects for the day.
Some new movies had arrived from Germany to be shown in the base theaters, so the soldiers were excited for some new entertainment. At Liberando’s we showed “Whiteout” and the newest of the Harry Potter series. By noon the building was packed with soldiers and Marines. The Air Force brought in a box of fresh sandwiches from the DFAC for the guys to enjoy and I sat behind my desk in the corner and fought the heavy drowsiness.
4 February 2010
The next day when I tramped into the office Jeff was waiting for me. “The network’s been down. They’re trying to fix it this morning. I’ll be back in a little while.” He disappeared. I greeted the night shift employees and waited for the network to come back up, waiting for a possible chat with Candace at home. The network came up long after our agreed chat time, so I was feeling sad that I’d missed her, but as I checked my e-mail her green light came on! “Hey! You’re there!” We chatted back and forth and it was good to get caught up a little bit before we had to say good-bye.
Jeff came back to the office at around nine. “Do you know about the mayor’s walk-through every morning?” I did. I’d seen the mayor every morning at Shooter’s and I was aware of his trips to see each facility. In fact, while we talked, the mayor and his entourage walked in.
“Mr. Clark!” It was the captain who was accompanying the new camp mayor. I arrived on the base just a few days earlier than the captain did and we became friends immediately.
“What are you doing over here? he asked."
I explained that Liberando’s is my new home, at the same time that his companion (and a member of the church), Lt. Col. VdW, reached out his hand for mine.
“Good morning, brother.” I shook the new mayor's hand.
“Good morning, sir.”
Jeff stood behind me and watched the exchange and I wondered what must have been ticking around in his brain just then. The second most important military person on the base, a very high-ranking officer, obviously knew who I was and was treating me like a long-lost buddy.
The small group walked through the building and made note of a couple of things that I pointed out to them that needed repair.
When they left Jeff shook my hand and said, “It looks like you have things under control here. By the way, I’ve made a change to the schedule. Instead of having you work the night shift, I’m going to leave you on the day shift.”
I asked him how the other man felt about going to nights. “I just talked to Ruben and he’s all right with it. Anyway, if you need me, just call.”
After his usual puff of smoke he was gone.
“What a jerk!” went through my mind as I continued to walk to the office.
Jeff, the manager of all the base MWR facilities (and my boss) had met me as he came out of the DFAC. I joined with him as we walked down the sidewalk toward the Deputy Site Manager’s office.
“How are you doing at Shooter’s,” he asked me. “I’m doing fine. I learn a little each day.”
“Do you think you’re ready to handle your own shop,” he continued. “I think so. It doesn’t seem to be terribly difficult.”
There was a pause in the conversation as we walked along. I glanced over at him and noticed it was obvious that he’s been living a hard life. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days and he wore a dark shadow that was the beginning of a good beard. His eyes were red, bloodshot and tired, hefting deep, sagging bags below.
“So how long have you been here,” I inquired.
I hadn’t had much of an opportunity to get to know Jeff because he makes himself invisible during the daytime. “I’ve been here a little over a year now.”
He’d just been here for a little more than a year and yet he was the MWR manager for the base. He’s a fast mover. I wanted to know a little more about him. “But this isn’t your first contract job, right,” I pressed. My question was met with silence and I turned to see if my voice had just faded in the breeze but, to my amazement, he’d quietly peeled off and was walking away. He hadn’t said, “See you later” or “excuse me.” He’d just walked away toward a smoking pit.
“What a jerk!” I thought. "He's not a pleasant person at all."
I walked back to Shooter’s after my expense report was “finally” submitted—again. It was a sunny, pleasant walk even though it was still cold and I was glad to be wearing my watch cap and leather jacket. I thought, “I’ll bet this is a nice place to spend the warm part of the year.”
Rita met me at the front counter as I entered. “Andy wants you to go over to Liberando’s and…” her voice dropped in volume as she continued, “…probably spend the rest of the day there.” I narrowed my focus and could feel the center of my brow pulling together. “That sounds ominous,” I frowned.
She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. I waved at Salamaat and called, “oo-VEED-eem-suh.” “See you later.” He looked up at me with a question in his eyes and called back, “Sir, are you leaving?” I told him that we’d have to see. I turned around and stumped back out the door and across the camp to the other side.
I walked into Liberando’s and found Andy sitting behind the computer screen on his desk. “Thank you for coming. I’m going to have you sit here for a couple of hours and hold this place down while I go to a Commander’s call at three o’clock.” Something in the quality of his voice told me that it was a lie.
He walked me through the building, pointing out the fact that there are no games and no movies. It’s just a place where people can hook up to a wireless network and send an email home. The building was quiet as the servicemen sat in deep concentration as they stared at their laptop screens.
The two Kyrgyz employees, Andrei and Rysbek, introduced themselves to me as Andy disappeared. I knew about his “Commander’s Call” at three o’clock because I’d received the e-mail, too. It was a monthly awards ceremony to be held by the Wing Commander at Pete’s Place, named after Pete Ganci, the fire chief who was killed on 9/11 in New York.
Andy never returned and I sat in the quiet of that new place for the next five hours, wondering if a back room decision had been made and if sitting at Liberando’s would really be my job for the next few months.
3 February, 2010
Beginning next week (Sunday) I'll be working nights at Liberando's. I'm not excited about the place because it's almost too quiet. I'm sure that I'll be fighting the urge to sleep. On the upside, though, they think enough of me to let me loose at night without someone riding herd over me.
I had a long day today, fighting sleep from lunchtime on. It was even more difficult because I spent my day at Liberando’s again. I checked in at Shooter’s and went through the daily inspection checklist. Rita came out and quietly told me, “It looks like you’ll be leaving here. Jeff wants you to go to Liberando’s to spend the day there.” I shook my head at the news.
She added, “I got the schedule for next week and it looks like you’ll be working the night shift at Liberando’s for now on.” I frowned. “I’m sorry,” she finished. I put my jacket and hat on, picked up my laptop bag and walked out the door and across the camp to Liberando’s.
“Good morning, sir,” Andrei greeted. “Kahk oo-VAHS dee-LAH?” “How are you? I smiled and remembered why I really came here. “Yah xhah-rah-SHOW.” “I’m fine.” I walked through the building as I went through the daily checklist. It was quiet. There were only two soldiers working at their computers. “What’s on the list for today,” I asked Rysbek. “We have to make a BX run to restock the sale items.” Twice a week each facility picks up supplies from the BX to sell to the servicemen who want to buy a soda or a Monster energy drink. “We also need to restock our water supply.” Those were the big projects for the day.
Some new movies had arrived from Germany to be shown in the base theaters, so the soldiers were excited for some new entertainment. At Liberando’s we showed “Whiteout” and the newest of the Harry Potter series. By noon the building was packed with soldiers and Marines. The Air Force brought in a box of fresh sandwiches from the DFAC for the guys to enjoy and I sat behind my desk in the corner and fought the heavy drowsiness.
4 February 2010
The next day when I tramped into the office Jeff was waiting for me. “The network’s been down. They’re trying to fix it this morning. I’ll be back in a little while.” He disappeared. I greeted the night shift employees and waited for the network to come back up, waiting for a possible chat with Candace at home. The network came up long after our agreed chat time, so I was feeling sad that I’d missed her, but as I checked my e-mail her green light came on! “Hey! You’re there!” We chatted back and forth and it was good to get caught up a little bit before we had to say good-bye.
Jeff came back to the office at around nine. “Do you know about the mayor’s walk-through every morning?” I did. I’d seen the mayor every morning at Shooter’s and I was aware of his trips to see each facility. In fact, while we talked, the mayor and his entourage walked in.
“Mr. Clark!” It was the captain who was accompanying the new camp mayor. I arrived on the base just a few days earlier than the captain did and we became friends immediately.
“What are you doing over here? he asked."
I explained that Liberando’s is my new home, at the same time that his companion (and a member of the church), Lt. Col. VdW, reached out his hand for mine.
“Good morning, brother.” I shook the new mayor's hand.
“Good morning, sir.”
Jeff stood behind me and watched the exchange and I wondered what must have been ticking around in his brain just then. The second most important military person on the base, a very high-ranking officer, obviously knew who I was and was treating me like a long-lost buddy.
The small group walked through the building and made note of a couple of things that I pointed out to them that needed repair.
When they left Jeff shook my hand and said, “It looks like you have things under control here. By the way, I’ve made a change to the schedule. Instead of having you work the night shift, I’m going to leave you on the day shift.”
I asked him how the other man felt about going to nights. “I just talked to Ruben and he’s all right with it. Anyway, if you need me, just call.”
After his usual puff of smoke he was gone.
Monday, February 1, 2010
31 January 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan
The bitter cold days and nights of the last week have finally pushed aside by a sudden wave of warmth and sunshine. I get up at 5:30 each morning and, after my teeth are brushed and my whiskers taken down to skin level, I walk to the A’la’too Dining Facility for a bowl of cereal and some fruit. This morning when I stepped out of my second story hallway onto the steel grate landing I looked up and saw the stars above me for the first time since arriving here. The air was frozen and I was glad to have my Head Gator to cover my neck and my knit watch cap to pull down over my ears. My breath was thick, white steam in the icy breeze as I climbed down the rusting steps to the gravel yard below. The street in front of me was lined with buses, empty but idling, ready to carry American soldiers and Marines to the flight line.
I arrive at the office at 6:50 each morning and I do my first walk-through of the day. I look for trash left behind by the servicemen during the night shift, I slide the chairs neatly under the tables and I check the AED, or Automated Emergency Defibrilator, to make certain that the battery is charged in case of some unforeseen heart event in our building. I greeted Akylbek and Jibek in Russian, “DOE-bray OO-truh,” Good morning. Akylbek asked how I was and I answered in Russian. Then I added my take on the weather, “See-VODE-nah-yah puh-GO-duh YAHS-nuh ee TYO-plah-yah,” Today’s weather is clear and warm. Akylbek looked with surprise and he told me, “Your Russian is pretty enough to speak.” I had to chuckle inside because I think what he wanted to say was, “Your Russian is good enough that you should speak it more.”
At eight o’clock I learned just how accurate my forecast had been. I walked with Jibek to the finance office to make the morning cash deposit. The sun was just breaking the horizon and in front of me I witnessed a spectacular sunrise on the tall Kyrgyz Alatou Mountain Range to the south. The jagged ridgeline was covered with snow and bathed in pink sunlight against a clear blue sky while a line of white-trunked, leafless Poplar trees pushed heavenward with branches laden with thousands of Hooded Crows. The Kyrgyz Alatou Range rises abruptly from the northern plain and forms the foothills of Kyrgyzstan’s Tien Shan Range that joins with the Karakoram, Kunlun, Hindu Kush and Himalaya Ranges to the south and east in what’s known as the “Pamir Knot,” Pamir meaning the “Roof of the World.” Alatou is a Kyrgyz word that simply means “mountains.”
My time goes by fast because I get to talk to the servicemen all day long. My job here is to make them feel at home, to give them a last taste of America before they move into combat and a first taste of America as they come back home. It's turning out to be a great job.
I've spent a lot of time reading through the Work Statement that outlines what my job is supposed to be and I know now how to set prices on merchandise like T-shirts and sodas. I know what to expect during a military audit of the facilities. I know how to close out the cash register and how to check out the movies and games. I've learned a lot in a week. I’ve learned that this is nothing like working in Iraq. The Air Force is good to its people and the PX and DFAC have items that are not found in a combat zone, things like soda and candy. One of the Airmen who works with us told me that the Air Force is all about the comfort and happiness of its people.
The end of my day comes at 7:00 PM when I usually sit down and look at my email and work on the blog before I leave. Shooter's is one of a handful of places where I can find WiFi access on the base. I leave the office and walk to my temporary housing about 1/4 mile away, take a hot shower and do my laundry, when necessary. I'm in bed by 9:00 or 9:30 each evening.
Salamaat and Midin, two of the other employees at Shooter’s are both teaching me Russian because they were both impressed that I could speak as well as I can. The signs are all in Russian, I hear Russian spoken all the time here, I've signed up for the military Russian language course on line (a benefit of working in a deployed area) and I expect to be able to start that in a couple of weeks. My immersion in the language isn’t quite the same as being a missionary, but it's close. I get a lot of exposure to Russian here and I’m sure that it will increase even more when I finally move into the city and off of the base.
The American contractors came face to face with danger this morning as they walked from outside the fence to inside the fence. A man who’d had too much vodka was yelling at them and throwing rocks at them as they walked the 100 yards to the safety of the fence. A Kyrgyz security guard finally talked the man out of his angry display and sent him peddling on his way back to the city.
I attended church this afternoon and found four other servicemen there. Three are pilots and are bound by their combat missions, making it impossible to attend on a regular basis. The fourth is the brand new base “mayor” who arrived last week. I’d seen the mayor, a Lt. Colonel in the Air Force, on several occasions and kept thinking that he could be LDS. There’s just something in his demeanor that telegraphs the fact that he’s a member of the church. It was good to meet with our little group and have an opportunity to participate and take the sacrament. I love you all! Jed
I arrive at the office at 6:50 each morning and I do my first walk-through of the day. I look for trash left behind by the servicemen during the night shift, I slide the chairs neatly under the tables and I check the AED, or Automated Emergency Defibrilator, to make certain that the battery is charged in case of some unforeseen heart event in our building. I greeted Akylbek and Jibek in Russian, “DOE-bray OO-truh,” Good morning. Akylbek asked how I was and I answered in Russian. Then I added my take on the weather, “See-VODE-nah-yah puh-GO-duh YAHS-nuh ee TYO-plah-yah,” Today’s weather is clear and warm. Akylbek looked with surprise and he told me, “Your Russian is pretty enough to speak.” I had to chuckle inside because I think what he wanted to say was, “Your Russian is good enough that you should speak it more.”
At eight o’clock I learned just how accurate my forecast had been. I walked with Jibek to the finance office to make the morning cash deposit. The sun was just breaking the horizon and in front of me I witnessed a spectacular sunrise on the tall Kyrgyz Alatou Mountain Range to the south. The jagged ridgeline was covered with snow and bathed in pink sunlight against a clear blue sky while a line of white-trunked, leafless Poplar trees pushed heavenward with branches laden with thousands of Hooded Crows. The Kyrgyz Alatou Range rises abruptly from the northern plain and forms the foothills of Kyrgyzstan’s Tien Shan Range that joins with the Karakoram, Kunlun, Hindu Kush and Himalaya Ranges to the south and east in what’s known as the “Pamir Knot,” Pamir meaning the “Roof of the World.” Alatou is a Kyrgyz word that simply means “mountains.”
My time goes by fast because I get to talk to the servicemen all day long. My job here is to make them feel at home, to give them a last taste of America before they move into combat and a first taste of America as they come back home. It's turning out to be a great job.
I've spent a lot of time reading through the Work Statement that outlines what my job is supposed to be and I know now how to set prices on merchandise like T-shirts and sodas. I know what to expect during a military audit of the facilities. I know how to close out the cash register and how to check out the movies and games. I've learned a lot in a week. I’ve learned that this is nothing like working in Iraq. The Air Force is good to its people and the PX and DFAC have items that are not found in a combat zone, things like soda and candy. One of the Airmen who works with us told me that the Air Force is all about the comfort and happiness of its people.
The end of my day comes at 7:00 PM when I usually sit down and look at my email and work on the blog before I leave. Shooter's is one of a handful of places where I can find WiFi access on the base. I leave the office and walk to my temporary housing about 1/4 mile away, take a hot shower and do my laundry, when necessary. I'm in bed by 9:00 or 9:30 each evening.
Salamaat and Midin, two of the other employees at Shooter’s are both teaching me Russian because they were both impressed that I could speak as well as I can. The signs are all in Russian, I hear Russian spoken all the time here, I've signed up for the military Russian language course on line (a benefit of working in a deployed area) and I expect to be able to start that in a couple of weeks. My immersion in the language isn’t quite the same as being a missionary, but it's close. I get a lot of exposure to Russian here and I’m sure that it will increase even more when I finally move into the city and off of the base.
The American contractors came face to face with danger this morning as they walked from outside the fence to inside the fence. A man who’d had too much vodka was yelling at them and throwing rocks at them as they walked the 100 yards to the safety of the fence. A Kyrgyz security guard finally talked the man out of his angry display and sent him peddling on his way back to the city.
I attended church this afternoon and found four other servicemen there. Three are pilots and are bound by their combat missions, making it impossible to attend on a regular basis. The fourth is the brand new base “mayor” who arrived last week. I’d seen the mayor, a Lt. Colonel in the Air Force, on several occasions and kept thinking that he could be LDS. There’s just something in his demeanor that telegraphs the fact that he’s a member of the church. It was good to meet with our little group and have an opportunity to participate and take the sacrament. I love you all! Jed
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