27 February 2010, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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