Since my last letter, my life has been defined, not by intimate, grassroots work, but by the other half of the work out here, the Western part.
Down in the sweltering Chui Valley rests the Metropolis of Bishkek, a city of anywhere between 800,000 and 1.2 million, depending on how you ask the question.
I had needed to come down from my mountain home to mail a laptop sleeve sample out to a prospective partner in Germany (hot dog!) and arrange a visa for my impending trip to the deserts of China this summer.
Where we in Naryn are just starting to feel the magical rays of real warmth, Bishkek is basking in it. Even in jeans and a t-shirt, I found myself sweating. Bishkek, folks, is a different world.
First off, there are white people. Lots and lots of white people. I was simply taken aback. As I asked around, the only thing I heard was, “you should have seen 10 years ago!” For whatever reason, it hadn’t struck me during training. But a year later in Sunny Naryn, it was shocking.
This white person prevalence led to another surprise: dramatic insistence that I speak Russian. Here in Naryn, folks just ask if I know Russian, and then go on with conversation. In Bishkek, though, I kept running into, “what do you mean you don’t speak Russian. How is that possible? You must speak Russian.” I even had a drunk man on a public bus simple berate me for lying, until the nearby women came to my defense.
But the real stand-out experience was staying in the heart of the city, with some ex-pat friends. These were information seekers and do-gooders: journalists and NGO directors. They had hot showers, refrigerators, good wine and wireless Internet. At one point, I found myself cruising around in the backseat of an SUV with the subwoofer bumping jams from the 80’s. We went out for Mexican food, where the sangria flowed liberally, and spent another day at a “health resort” that featured outdoor seating, fountains, and a horse riding stable.
“I don’t hear much Kyrgyz,” I told my friend.
“It’s almost looked down on around here, even among the ethnic Kyrgyz.” He said.
There is a real foreigner community here in Bishkek, folks, previously unbeknownst to me. They live at Western standards, though at dramatically reduced prices. But we all got along. We’d talk about the local politics, about development theory, the health of the country, and farming practices. These folks were all tapped into the country, though in a different way than me.
“I feel a bit like a country bumpkin among you guys,” I told my friend, the one who invited me out.
“Don’t worry, man,” he said, “I think these people admire your passion for this place. You are seeing a very intimate Kyrgyzstan, one we don’t really get to see.” It was mutual respect all around.
And then, after these few days of these novelties, the food and the thinking I’m Russian, I got on a public bus for Naryn city. I was the only white face to be found, and people were apologizing for getting in each other’s way. And I knew I was going home.
