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.