24 March 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

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

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

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

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

"You want taxi?"

"No, thank you."

"Express taxi to Bishkek."

"No, thank you."

"You need taxi. I drive you."

"No, thank you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

13 March 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

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

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

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

17 March 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, they are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

9 March 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4 March 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

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

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

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

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

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

“Utah.”

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

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

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

“Heber.”

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

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

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

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

“She was my grandmother!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

I decided to extend the invitation to church.

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

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

“Lynn Adams. Nice to meet you.”