As Kyrgyzstan is retreating from international headlines, so too are international headlines retreating from Naryn. While Roza Otunbayeva and her team fastidiously work to build a new government, the traffic cops here are once again writing speeding tickets. Life here, having returned to normal not two days after the revolution (dare I call it that), now seems as though nothing ever happened.

Spring is here, officially. While people have been wearing t-shirts and skirts in other parts of the country for weeks, I  wear a cardigan to work, but it feels like a dream. The bazaar these days is fully of seeds for all manner of vegetables, and our tap water is turning brown with muddy snowmelt. Spring time is also animals sheering time, and here in Naryn, this is big business.

Signs abound, and cars cruise the villages looking for cashmere, the soft winter undercoat of goats. They’ll buy it by the kilo (that’s 2.2 pounds) for around $25, then sell it to China.

“In China they’ll clean it,” one merchant told me, “and then make it into yarn and send it to England. In England, they’ll make it into coats and sweaters.”

“Do Kyrgyz people buy those?” I asked.

“No! They are so expensive!” he said.

“How come no one in Kyrgyzstan makes it into yarn?” I asked.

“Some do,” he said, “but not many. We just don’t have many machines. You should do it! It would be a very good business!” Similarly, sheep pelts, sold for leather and wool, go for around a dollar apiece.

Here’s a Kyrgyz proverb: Everyday in the Spring lasts for a year.

As I’ve said before, folks, the seasons here are very, very real.

Along with the copious amounts of farm work (to which, I imagine the proverb refers) there is also the Soviet tradition of subotnik. This is essentially forced volunteerism for students, somewhat akin to our community service required for high school graduation. Here, though, it appears to be organized through the schools. Classes all go out together and clean.

They clean all kinds of stuff. They sweep public parking lots, clearing dead grass from the parks, and gather it all for big, smoky bonfires. It lends the air around town a campfire smell. I imagine this is what fall is like in small American towns where folks still burn their leaves.

The spirit of subotnik has been so wonderful, it has started in me an urge to do some good manual labor. First off, I wanted to build a compost bin in my backyard. My host father looked at me funny, though. So, I figured, I needed to prove myself.

“What about that tree stump,” I asked, “can I dig it out?”

“Why?” was his response.

“It’s dead, right? It should come out.” I said simply, “we can make the yard bigger.”

I figured with this easy notch on my belt, he’d see that I was capable, and let me make the composter. What I had failed to understand was that the stump would be nine feet tall, including the root, and the pit we’d dig to excavate it would grow to 6 feet in diameter, and at least 4 feet deep. With the help of a fellow volunteer, of strong Midwestern stock, we broke the pick-ax handle, the shovel handle, and had to sharpen the hatchet. It took us only two days, but we impressed them all.