Posts Tagged life

Weight Weight, Don’t Tell Me (or My Mother)

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on January 18, 2011

Weight; my weight; and the weight of a volunteer. These are topics of consternation for all parties involved, not the least of which being parents (just ask my worried mother).
 
Personally, I am fairly characteristic of the Peace Corps norm: I have lost significant amounts of weight since coming to country. Where I rolled in at a very comfortable 180, my most recent scale setting put me 25 pounds below that, and everyone laughed at how absurdly heavy that seemed. At my lowest, I was in the mid 140’s.
 
Now, for the record, I am not the biggest loser, not by far. We’ve got a guy out here who came in at around 200 and now sports a lean, mean 140. He’s in a village, and laments the countless winter dinners of little more than fried noodles, especially when they represent his only meal of the day (I’m not in such dire straits). Furthermore, I am not even close to being medically evacuated for weight loss. In this scenario, which does indeed happen, volunteers (typically male) are sent to America for a couple of weeks just to fatten up.
 
And I say male volunteers see this happen more often, because, well, it’s the truth. Here in Kyrgyzstan, men lose 15 and women pick it up, or so it generally goes. What’s more, I’m told this is a nearly universal phenomenon in Peace Corps world wide. The reason? “In developing countries, diets are higher in carbohydrates, and men are better at processing those.” Or so goes the rumor. Whatever the truth is, my host family has their own explanation.
 
“Carl was fine until the revolution,” they like to say, “it was only then that he started losing weight.” Regardless of the fact that official Peace Corps health records dispute this claim, they’re not so concerned: when I show my host sisters pictures of me from America, they can’t help themselves but to giggle, “you were fat then,” they always say, “you look much better now.”
 
Still though, my impressive weight loss of last Spring caught the eye of my superiors, who then graced me with a rice cooker, and the effects have been transformative. This pleasant contraption sits at my girlfriend’s apartment, and works to feed feed us when I’m there on the weekends and the occasional weekday (and her any time she wants!). Far from just rice, however, we have also used it for pasta, buckwheat, barley, beans, and even grilled cheese sandwiches! Furthermore, this one little tool has helped us branch out into other cooking experiments. What all can you do with rice? we’ve wondered. Where previously weekend meals meant little more than Ramen noodles, we now make up fried rice and stir fry, just ’cause it’s so easy.
 
And then there’s the beans. When I strolled home from Talas last year with 45 pounds of white beans, little did I know what would happen to them: when there were still tomatoes and bell peppers in the bazaars, chili was the name of the game. Now, I have them for breakfast with rice and eggs whenever the situation suits me. In fact, those little guys end up in just about anything we eat recently, including the greatest of concoctions: the bean burger.
 
That’s right folks, when ground beef is expensive and suspect, or you’re simply in the mood for something quite different, the bean burger is definitely a new favorite. Just last week, for the first time, Anne mashed up beans with garlic, onions, carrots, bread crumbs and eggs, dashed in plenty of salt, pepper, and some very tasty curry powder, to make the most flavorful patties this side of the Himalayas. They were so good, in fact, I joined in for another (much larger) batch two days later.
 
And, from that, folks, I feel somewhat confident saying: some basic knowledge of how to turn simple ingredients into tasty food must be the cheapest way to improve quality of life. If only I had known sooner.

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How Was YOUR Merry Christmas?

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on December 29, 2010

Kyrgy Carl here, writing from my snowy home in Sunny Naryn!
 
In response to many questions I’ve received lately about Kyrgyzstan and Christmas: No, people don’t celebrate it here. Yes, they know what it is, but No, not really. Let me explain.
 
See, one of those weird little quirks in globalization is that every hears about Christmas the way it appears in the media, most often as “Merry Christmas.” So, folks are familiar with this term, in English, but will often not know exactly what it means. This, then, led to one of my favorite encounters this year, when one of my host sisters woke me up one morning after Christmas and asked me so simply, “Sizdin Merry Christmas kandai boldu?” Or, literally, “How was your Merry Christmas?” Needless to say, I let her know that it was very merry.
 
(Other quirks have included one volunteer meeting a local who shook his hand and just said, “Santa Claus!”)
 
So, while for most Kyrgyz people December 25th was just another day, for the volunteer community, it was one of good food and good cheer. This year, we started cooking early, and gathered at one of the volunteer apartments and ate in grand fashion. We had squash and potatoes, veggies and spaetzle, and even two chicken dishes, one generously prepared by my host mom, who only wanted to ensure we had a good time. In fact, the meal was so good, and there were so many leftovers, that on the 26th my friends and I just layed around the house munching, and didn’t even bother to go outside. How’s that for doing it right, American style?
 
In the mean time, folks, Naryn city is gearing up for the real holiday of the realm: New Years. This perfectly secular holiday was a Soviet favorite, and continues to be right up to this day. The bazaars are loaded with beautiful cakes and firecrackers, plus all the fixings we normally associate with Christmas, like little plastic fir trees and sparkly garland.
 
The place is merry and cold, folks, much like much of America. For those of you in the cold weather (especially that snowy northeast) best of luck with the weather, and for anyone down south, keep dreaming of that white Christmas.
 
Now, stay tuned: New Years means high holiday, and I’ll be writing again, with every tantalizing detail.
 
P.S. For those of you wondering about last weeks Speed Bump of Snow: the day of my building it, as it turns out, coincided with a party my host dad threw for his co-workers. That means there was much to do, and little things like speed bumps (or nicely shoveled family compounds, for that matter) flew under the collective radar. I guess that means I escaped this time. Now, the next time the snow falls, who knows if I’ll be so lucky?

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Assertive Tendencies Among the Mounting Snow

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on December 22, 2010

Well, the snow is finally here. The last two times that I have written about snow here in Sunny Naryn, they were one time, freak events. Where last year we had boat loads of snow from October on, this year it has taken its sweet time. But, if the international news is serving me well, it sounds like compared to the Midwest and Europe, we’re still getting off easy.
 
On the one hand, folks, the snow has its upsides: heightened surface albedo makes a flashlight unnecessary at night. On the other hand, though, it brings with it new challenges, and that’s where my story takes us today: to the local politics of snow removal.
 
As I was shoveling the driveway this morning, I had a wonderful idea: why not make a speed bump of snow, I thought. That will slow down cars in this winter wonderland! And so, with my makeshift plywood shovel in hand, I killed two birds with one stone: pretty property, safe neighborhood.
 
Then one of my neighbors emerged. She was all dressed up for the cold, and had two kids in tow. “Hey, quite making a mess,” she said, motioning to my hump of snow. But my reply was curt.
“No,” I said.
“Cars will run into that,” she said.
“I know,” I responded, “kids play here, like yours. The roads are slippery, this will slow down the cars.”
That quieted her, and she just stood there. Then, whether to imply she was going to tell on me, or just as a shift to normal conversation she asked, “is your host dad at work?”
“Yes,” I told her, and then went on my merry way. 
 
Now, a year ago, the young Kyrgy Carl would not have been nearly so bold. It’s not that I wouldn’t have defended myself, but quite the contrary; I never would have done something like that in the first place. By this point, however, I’ve been around the block.
 
First off, I’ve seen more substantial, though still hand-made and ad hoc speed bumps in other places, even on the main roads between villages. Second, I’ve gotten taste for how things like this get done around here: by individual effort, and individual decisions. If I want to slow down traffic, it is up to me to do it. People will have their opinions about what I do one way or the other, but no one is likely to stop me, much less undo what I’ve done.
 
A year ago, I would have let the traffic continue to speed down my snowy street, feeling that it was not my place to impose my values. Today, I’ve got a lay of the land, and a sense of how to attack problems. I’ve done enough work that I can defend my decisions, and furthermore, my actions. I can put responses in context: this woman was about to go for a drive, her expressed desires don’t speak for the community as a whole. Last spring, when I drained a huge puddle, some old ladies lauded my efforts, a very drunk grandpa told me I was desecrating a holy space, and a crew of drunks help me did. The tenderfoot volunteer has a much harder time differentiating between individual voices and the sense of their community.
 
Now, when I get home from work today, I’ll surely find out what my host family thinks of my new blustery confidence, and we’ll see whether I’ve gotten ahead of myself after all.

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Love with a Foreigner from a Far Away Land

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on December 14, 2010

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.

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Hillary Clinton Loves Peace Corps (But We’ve Still Miles to Go)

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on December 9, 2010

Let me get to the meat of it folks, I shook hands with Hillary Clinton. That’s right, I said it. Her hand was soft. None of that, of course, explains the grin captured on my face in this official US Embassy photo, however. I thought I was just smiling sweetly the whole time, but I’ll let you all be the judge of that.

It was a funny little moment, to have such an important visitor come to such a little country. She was fresh from a spell in Kazakhstan, and her time in Bishkek was little more than a layover, as she left not 6 hours after arrival for Tashkent. Between those two countries, however, she was able to meet with the president, shake many of our hands, (“Peace Corps? The rowdy ones!”) and field some interestnig questions at the local university.

“Mrs. Clinton!” Came a shout from the back, “How can we get more Peace Corps volunteers?”

“I love Peace Corps!” She said, “I look into it!” Now we’re all looking in to what that really means.

But as she left Kyrgyzstan’s great capital, so did we, and in Naryn again, it was business as usual. Personally, I found myself in one of the places I love the most, a tiny village, with poor cell phone coverage and hardly two nickles to rub together. I was out monitoring a training, where one local euntrepreneur was teaching village women to make slippers.

“Before I came here,” she told me, “these women couldn’t make more than one variety of slippers, now they can make 12.”

I took pictures and smiled, and even got a pair for myself. And then, I sat back, and appreciated the moment.

The house I was in was covered in traditional art, from rugs to wall hangings. There were only 4 rooms in the place, and only three were heated. The women were working feverishly. The trainer, one of the women who led my natural dyes training, had agreed not only to lead the sessions, but also to comission 100 slippers from her students. Her plan is to sell them at a festival in Germany in January, along with the products of other trainings, and from her own co-op. Fast forward, 6 weeks from now, to the clean and warm and comfortable world these slippers will enter. How will they even remember the tiny corner of our Earth, cold, where so little grows; that place where they came from?

And one of the trainees was as heartfelt as a person can be. “Please,” she said to the trainer, “teach us everything you can. Out here, we have nothing else.”

And from Hillary Clinton, among the most powerful women on Earth, who’s time was so tight that every one of her moves was choreographed by an army of aids, to these women who wanted only to learn how to sew, I had to wonder, really, in the past two days, how far had I come?

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15 Volunteers, Two Pies, and Three Live Turkeys

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on November 30, 2010

Before Thanksgiving dinner, my friends, I was hungry. My home here in Sunny Naryn had been absent responsible, adult supervision for nearly three weeks. Between the eating habits of my 14, 13 and 6 year old host sisters, food was thin and Kyrgy Carl was getting grumpy.

Come ol’ Turkey Day, however, that all changed. In a feat of organizational prowess, 15 of us descended on the village home of just one volunteer. This boy, Travis, with his legendary humor, gained notoriety as being the first volunteer to have to explain to his host family that his need for a toilet had trumped his ability to reach one (if you catch my drift.)

Travis arranged not only for accomodations for this tribe of hungry Americans, but also for an event far more fun than football: he bought three turkeys, and we took turns in the slaughter.

My friends, it is surprising how hard one needs to swing in order to completely sever the neck of a turkey with one swing of an ax. It is amazing how easily those feathers come off in hot water. And it was a real wonder how bad the inside smells, even when you’ve spilled no poop. But, between the girl named Yoder, who grew up on a chicken farm, and some other volunteers well versed in the art of cooking, we turned those birds into real, live, food.

Saturday night turned into a feast like none other. All 15 of us sat around a table, we made toasts, told stories, and ate lots of food. We had stuffing and mashed potatoes with lots of gravy. We had salads and soups, and topped everything off with apple and pumpkin pie. Needless to say, by the end of the weekend, my hunger had abated.

But that wasn’t all. When I got home on Sunday, I found my host-mom. “Carl,” she said, “I’m sorry we’ve been gone for so long. We were in Bishkek. We bought an apartment.” It is a small place, but I can’t help feel like my years of rent helped foot the bill. It is an investment. “the girls will stay there when they go to college,” she said, and I beamed.

Everyone got their dues, it seems, and everyone made it home happy. Wishing a happy Thanksgiving, to all of you, and all of yours.

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Twilight in the Cleansing Snow

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on November 22, 2010

First of all, I’d like to thank everyone for your overwhelming responses to my last email. Who knew I could get such a boost by just admitting to feeling under the weather.
 
The response to my illness by the locals, now, was a bit different. My favorite came from the stoic, Russian teaching woman who makes my laptop sleeves.
 
“I know what the problem is,” she said through her steely eyes. “It is cold, but is hasn’t snowed yet. It is always like that, for us Kyrgyz people. When the snow comes, it makes everything clean.”
 
But consider the world healthy again, folks; we got our first treatment of snow last night, and I’m feeling the healthiest I’ve felt all week.
 
Furthermore, the rapidly shortening days paired with this crisp snowy air are bringing me back to last winter, when I might wake up to a host-sister, ruby cheeked, rubbing her face in snow telling me that, “this is the best way to rise.” With the cold most assuredly set upon us now, we may soon slaughter another cow, and definitely will hearken in the days of warm sheep and noodle soup to end every (single) day. I know more of what to expect this year, and that comes with its pros and its cons.
Indeed, my friends, I am already making plans to be home next Spring. I can already feel my Peace Corps service winding down before me. With around six months remaining, the time for starting new projects has largely come and gone. Now is the time to fulfill the many grandiose plans I have made, to consolidate my connections, and impart as much wisdom as I can muster.
 
One exciting project that is currently barreling down the pipeline is a shyrdak design course underway at the University of Paderborn in Germany. Last year, a budding German entrepreneur approached me and asked if I’d help her execute a course at the textile design program at her local university. After plenty of emails, this course description is what emerged. For you eager beavers, run that little German gemstone through a translator, and you’ll notice a whole bunch of references to local Kyrgyz co-ops preparing the designs that the course produces. That, friends, is yours truly, hard at work. The course itself is underway as I type this. I’ve been told that participants boast old Soviet era ties to this part of the world. The best designs will come to me, and the local ladies will make them into reality.
 
Later this month we will winterize those trees from the spring, and come January next year, I’ll start telling you all about the (vastly increased number of) trees I’d like to plant to 2011. That plus a couple of local trainings seem to be how my service will finish up out here. It’s been a long road thus far, folks. I’m not quite on the final stretch, but I can see the last curve before, and even as I write, twilight is coming down over the city.
 
We’ve been together for 20 months so far my friends. I feel somewhat like Yossarian as Catch-22 winds to a close: of the 60 of us who convened in Philadelphia, only 27 remain; the faces of the new group now seriously outnumber the old. This time is a quiet and reflective time. And as just another chapter, it is exciting all the same.
 
 
P.S. Happy Thanksgiving! And how come nobody told me there’s going to be a new Mayor in Chicago?!

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Headless Goat for the Harvest

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on November 9, 2010

The game, folks, in Kyrgyzstan is called Ulak Tartysh. It is kind of like our polo, but with a significant difference: instead of a ball, the riders fight over a headless goat. That’s right, I said it.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Ulak is not a game unique to Kyrgyzstan. Among other countries, it is also played in Afghanistan (where it is called Buzkashi), where the referees purportedly carry AK-47s, lest things get too rowdy.  In Naryn, though, the horse-riding refs donned kalpaks and other big furry hats. The only rowdiness was extreme inebriation, and that seemed limited to just some of the fans.

With the coattails of Fall well upon us, the fields of At Bashy rayon are hard and bare; the perfect makings for an Ulak match. The game was held last Sunday, as part of Tushum, the festival of the harvest, in a place the locals dub the hippodrome. When we arrived around 11am, we found well over a thousand spectators sitting on a south facing hill. Before them was a large field in the foreground, with the high and powerful At Bashy mountains towering in the distance. The field itself held men on horseback numbering in the hundreds, perhaps 30 of which would participate in the variety of events for the day.

We ourselves showed up with the Kyrgyz spectating essentials: sunflower seeds, bread, fresh fruit, and plenty of vodka.

We heralded in the day’s festivities with a round of shots, and then turned our attention to field. Tiny figures were crouched on a yellow mat, and surrounded by a ring of men on horseback. Five minutes later and out of breath, I had run to the center, and found they were wrestlers. Wrestling is a traditional sport here in Kyrgyzstan, and local villages had sent young men to garner pride and cash prizes.

With the wresting finished, ten men on either side put on their uniforms and rode past each other shaking hands: the Ulak match had begun.

This game folks, is hard to describe. The headless goat looks like little more than a gray lump on the ground. Perhaps 6 players from each tea take them field, and then bunch up around the carcass and fight until someone breaks away. Once this happens, the crowd surges and the rider charges towards one end of the field where a giant mound of dirt stands with a hole in the middle. The team who gets the goat in the hole the most times wins. (To see the game first hand, check out this clip from Rambo III, Mr. Stallone does surprisingly well…)

With the underdog champion at 3 to 2, a horse race began, and so did the drinking, in earnest, though our bottles were just drying up. My friend Scott, who lives in At Bashy, saw the signs before I did. “I’m kind of getting tired of the scene,” he said.

While we had done little more than drink casually, the men around us had gone all out. As the circle of curious drunks around us grew, it became clear we should have left with the women and children, whom Scott astutely noticed, were long gone. But for these savvy volunteers, all was not lost.

Just as demands on us to buy vodka grew to their peak, the taxi we had pre-arranged showed up and whisked us away. “Those guys look pretty wasted,” our driver said, chuckling. The day was rough and tumble, but when the sport involves headless livestock, who could ask for it any other way?

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If You’re Offended, Go to Talas

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on November 2, 2010

For the second time in as many weeks, ol’ Kyrgy Carl has left the mountain paradise of Sunny Naryn for the warmer, more urban bastions of Kyrgyzstan. However, unlike last week’s frantic mission for sewing machines, this journey was a slower, friendlier, more artistic adventure.

The whole event started in the far back seat of an overcrowded passenger van. I had been taken in by a wide eyed and well dressed, ten-year-old village boy who said, so sweetly, “come, ride with us.” With me well in his pocket (and by his mother’s urging) he proceeded to sit on my lap for the duration of the journey.

As every trip in country must roll through Bishkek, this was, by necessity, my first stop. Before even arriving, however, I got a very excited preliminary phone call:

“Carl, we’re gonna have dinner tonight with a writer. He did Peace Corps Uzbekistan, even wrote a book about it. He’s kind of a big deal.”

The man turned out to be Tom Bissell, and was delightful company. He was working on a book where he visits every site said to hold the remains of an Apostle, and was in town researching one alleged grave of Saint Matthew, said to be buried in an old monastery on the shores of Lake Issyk Kul. “In the book,” he said, “basically I will go to the site, talk to some people, and then go into the history.” If the quality of his company is any testament to the quality of this new book, I say, keep an eye out for it.

From Bishkek, then, it was on to Talas, home of the expression, “if you’re offended, then go to Talas,” as well as my friend Corey. My travel companions were David (who some of you may remember as the owner of the SUV and 80’s music from last summer) as well as his caring and wildly intelligent girlfriend.

Talas itself is kind of like Naryn, but different. It is poor and isolated and very Kyrgyz, much like Naryn, but less so in every way: the area has a strong bean market, leading to affluence, it has a direct road to Kazakhstan, making it less isolated, and still has some Russians. The Talas city bazaar is twice the size of Naryn’s, and carries a wider selection of items, like sewing machines, home-made jam, and pork. All this with roughly the same number of residents.

And then, there are beans. Talas is unarguably the bean capital of Kyrgyzstan, and the locals don’t even eat them. “They are regarded as poor person food,” Corey told us, “almost all of them are sold abroad.” Not all, of course, mind you. At least 40lbs have been sold domestically: specifically, of course, to yours truly.

After some overall fun, a short run in with some local hoodlums, and just enough work with Corey’s NGO to make it a business trip, quick as we came, we were gone again. It was two days of much needed catching up. I haven’t seen Corey since this summer’s visit to China, and it seemed much too long.

And then, on our way home, one moment stood out like no other. As we crossed one of the high passes to return to Bishkek, deep in a mist of fog, horses emerged from the mountain side: two cowboys were moving a heard.

“Whoa,” was my line, and “get the camera,” was David’s.

And so there we stopped, 11,000 feet in the sky, the three of us, friends, each artists in our way, to simply absorb the moment. It was, indeed, what life is all about.

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Capacity Building: Kyrgy Carl Style

Posted by KyrgyCarl in Letters on October 22, 2010

This happy day catches yours truly freshly home from a tradition set forth by my father, and his father before him: the business trip. Unlike in the stories of old, however, my trip was neither a sales call nor a networking event in the Bahamas; I left on the mundane errand of buying sewing machines. But things are not always as simple as they seem.

I got a call last Monday night, vaguely frenetic, insisting that we leave the following morning.

“Have you called the store? Have you placed an order?” I asked, not really believing the answers held any relevance.

“Yes, yes,” they assured me.

Then I called Peace Corps. “I need to leave my site, tomorrow morning, for Bishkek. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, or where I’ll be staying.” This was highly unorthodox, but by some grace of God, my manager had faith in me.

“If you need to go,” she said, “then go! We’ll take care of the details tomorrow.”

It is a day’s drive to Bishkek, and by evening time, I found myself in the home of a relative of my coworker. She was a prosperous woman who’d made good in the sock business. Her sister, my true partner, was engaged finding other machines elsewhere, and had roped this woman into her service. She, in turn, had roped her brother into caring for us and it was in his house we were staying. He was a trained economist who now worked with wood.

“Will you write a project for me?” he asked.

“But you already have all the machines you need,” I said. “You know how to use them, and have plenty of wood to work with. What help can I give?”

“Ah,” he sighed, “asking for help is just our way. Our president asks for help. Even our millionaires ask for help.”

The next day started out with promise: we headed out for a sewing machine store, were met by an impeccably dressed fashion designer, and set to picking out the proper machines. I think the pretty Russian girl behind the desk just thought I was quiet, and her jaw hit the ground when she, at last, heard me rant not in Russian, but Kyrgyz. This meeting, however, was not to be.

“If we buy the machines here,” they finally told me, “they will charge us a 12% value added tax. That just will not do.”

What then commenced was a jaunt, a journey, a day on the town. We may have visited every sewing machine dealer Bishkek had to offer. We talked with Uighur peddlers in a sewing supply bazaar, with small Kyrgyz shop owners, with a man who just seemed to have connections, and even a local Turk named Taliban who made polite conversation by informing me on the value that a kidnapped foreigner (like myself) might fetch in Tajikistan.

The sister griped constantly, bemoaning the process, and I just followed, carrying my giant stack of Kyrgyz bills close at all times. In the end, a nice Kyrgyz shop-owner agreed to deliver the machines to the house where we were staying. When we finally made that deal, it was the third time we had set foot into his establishment. Then, that night, after dinner, I finally grew tired.

“Here,” I said to the sister, a woman who now held my total confidence, “here is the money for the machines, just get this done.”

In many ways, however, this is as it should be. I swap money for work, that’s my bag. In their own way, they worked hard, and got the job done. All I had to do, really, was ride in, and write a check. If only it could all be so easy.

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