As I walked past the main theater in town one morning, I saw large crowds, and dark suited men with springy white ear pieces. So naturally, I went in for a look. Elderly women were arriving in droves, decked out in full regalia. Old men were coming as well, in traditional, long velvet coats, with curly, symmetrical symbols embroidered, each donning tall Kalpaks and any and all WWII medals they might own. I saw one man taking pictures, so I thought I’d follow suit.

It was then I was approached by a man. He spoke what sounded like Cantonese with a long nasally draw on the end of his words. I told him I couldn’t understand him, in Kyrgyz, and he brightened a little, but not much. “Who are yooouuuuu?” he switched to Kyrgyz, “Where do you liiiivvveee? Why are you taking picturrrrrrressss? Will you send them back to Americaaaaaa?”

“I live here,” I told him frankly, “I’m taking pictures of these interesting people, I might send them to America. Who knows!” The fact that we were in a public place, and if I took the same pictures tomorrow there’d be no different, phased him little. Finally, he succumbed to my easy laughter though, and just asked politely if I’d buzz off. So I chuckled, and pursued another route.

Upon going to work at the UNDP, myself, the head lady, and a specialist in from Bishkek headed back to the theater. When I got out of the UN vehicle, I winked at the drawling man, but he didn’t wink back. Then we walked to the door (lacking the necessary tickets), found someone we knew, one thing led to another, and we were being escorted into the gala.

As it turned out (if you haven’t already guessed) the security was for the president, come to give a short speech for the 70^th Anniversary of Naryn Oblast. We talked development among ourselves (and some friends who also happened to be in attendance) while waiting for the big man himself. He strolled in, half hour late, as any man of importance should. He gave a speech, we listened, I understood little but applauded with everyone else.

As wonderful as it was, we were there for the artwork, not the politics. We left the ceremony early to peruse at our leisure. I have never seen better handicrafts in all my life. The specialist brought out his recorder, and interviewed the peddlers on their supply chains. I have a project teeming in my head, to find a market in  the West for the beautiful felt and leather artwork from this, the Great Knot of the World: Kirgizia, (as our business-minded specialist wants to rename our quaint little country.)

In seriousness, though, its true. Perhaps, one day, in my post Peace Corps existence, you’ll stumble on my little Central Asian gift shop, tucked in a quiet Chicago neighborhood. Swirling in colors, you’ll wonder, from what Xanadu did these things descend? Then, harried, withered and old, I’ll squint softly in reply, “from a Xanadu I once called home.”

Originally Written October 29th, 2009