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.”