A seed; a bud; just a small kernel of a moment blossomed into a mighty flower this week. Its zenith found poetry, and came in the form of a text message:
“Love is sharper than a knife, deeper than the lakes, and effects all people. Carl, I have fallen in love with you. Please, give me an answer. Venus”
This saga began in a small village last week, the last village, in fact, before China. It was the second of 5 villages to receive the training series that I mentioned in my last letter. In this village, I had been standing outside when I noticed a group of second grade girls staring at me from afar.
“Don’t be shy,” I said, “come over here and talk with me.” And so they did. They asked where I came from, and if I was married. I asked them the same thing, and we all laughed. Before they left, they showed me some pictures that had drawn, and then asked if I’d sign their sketch books. For each one, I wrote that the world was theirs, and that they should remember to study hard. After perhaps ten signatures, the senior class girls started to pass by. They asked me the same questions about my origins and my marital status, and also for my autograph, and just as with the little ones, I happily obliged.
But they also insisted on getting my phone number.
I know what you’re all thinking: warning sign. But this, my friends, is Kyrgyzstan. Let me explain phone number culture here with a little vignette:
When I was in Bishkek last week, I was in the car with a friend, a successful owner of an investment company. At a red light he started staring at the man in the car next to us. “He doesn’t remember me,” he said, “but he hit me with his car when I was 15. Now he is an important guy.” At that point the man rolled down his window and they greeted each other. “You don’t remember me, but you hit me with your car 20 years ago,” said my friend.
The old man was less than ruffled, “oh, how are you?” he said.
“Fine, fine,” said my friend, and then after some more pleasantries, my friend asked for his phone number, and the man shouted it out as we parted ways, without even a hint of hesitation. Personally, I probably give out my phone number to strangers once a day here in Sunny Narym. It is an easy thing to do, because simply put, they never call. But with these girls, it was different.
I knew something was up at first when they started talking to each other about how they were going to need to get an unlimited calling plan, for just between our two phone numbers. And it wasn’t half an hour after I left them (while having our car tire repaired with some string), that I got the first phone call.
“Hi, Carl,” she said, “this is Mahabat. Please save my number.”
“Sure,” I said, and we hung up. Over the next day, I got a similar call from Cholpon, and then a round of text messages, all pleasantly benign. But then, two days later, I got the poetry laden message from the girl who’s name translates to Venus, that she had fallen in love with me. And was not shy about it at all.
But folks, it is not all as grave as it seems. My girlfriend, who works with girls of this age, laughed heartily. “Do you love her back?” she asked, chuckling in spite of herself. She brought me over to her coworker, a university teacher, for advice on what to do.
“Oh, just ignore it,” she said, “these girls have so much time on their hands. This is how they have fun,” and then she grinned, showing off her full grill of golden teeth, “unless, of course, you love her back. Then you should tell her.” Needless to say, I’m maintaining radio silence.
Here’s to love, in whatever form it comes.
