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