You never know who might show up for dinner

I woke up in the middle of the night before this day officially started and found myself unable to go back to sleep. Then, I did something I never should have done: I checked the Emails on my phone. A person should never check their phone if they wish to return to a peaceful slumber. In fact, after bedtime, cell phones should be stored in a locked steel box on the front porch if restful sleep is one's primary nighttime concern.

I scanned my inbox and found a panoply of mildly troubling and slightly annoying messages to consider. But one was particularly jarring: the ex-President of Kyrgyzstan was arriving at our campus later, that very afternoon, with no prior warning. Ordinarily, such news wouldn't concern me a bit as I am usually able to blend into the background when dignitaries visit, except at that moment I realized the two administrators on campus with a higher rank than me were both out of town and would not be present for all the hoopla. That meant I would be the one to have to hang out with the ex-President.  And even worse, as a person who keenly dislikes formality, I would have to wear my suit.

For those of you unfamiliar with matters Kyrgyz, this was no ordinary ex-President of Kyrgyzstan who was planning a visit, it was Roza Otunbayeva. President Otunbayeva started her career as a leader in Soviet Kyrgyzstan, educated in Moscow, speaker of five languages. After the fall of communism, she became a pioneering figure in the infant Kyrgyz nation. Otunbayeva was Kyrgyzstan's first ambassador to Canada and to the United States. She later served served as foreign minister and then as Ambassador to the United Kingdom. In 2010, Kyrgyzstan spiraled into chaos and revolution against a corrupt regime. Otunbayeva was one of the leaders of the democratic movement and was chosen to be President as Kyrgyzstan recovered from its instability and transitioned toward a more reformed government.  Otunbayeva is the first woman president in Kyrgyz history as well as the only woman to ever lead any of the nations of Central Asia. In 2011, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton presented her with the International Women of Courage Award for her leadership especially in promoting women's rights.  Since departing from office she has headed the Roza Otunbayeva Foundation which has created dozens of initiatives and projects designed to further Kyrgyzstan's social, political, and economic development.  In other words, this was the Kyrgyz equivalent of having to host Jimmy Carter or Bill Clinton.

Madame President arrived on campus late in the afternoon and I was required to accompany her on a campus tour. Then she spoke extensively to our student body, particularly about her foundation's initiatives. Finally, I had to host a small, hastily arranged, dinner in her honor. This was the most troubling aspect of my duties. I am an American in my eating habits, which means that anything not readily consumed with one's hands--like pizza, hamburgers, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches--presents the potential for social disaster, especially when in the company of former heads of state. After all, the last time I shared a meal on campus with an even slightly prominent outsider, His Highness the Aga Khan's personal photographer, I ended up spilling a half a plate of rice and stew down the front of my shirt. Please don't ask me how I managed to accomplish that great feat of skill. I would be lying if I didn't admit that visions of me chatting with Roza Otunbayeva with a bowl of soup splattered across my suit had been bothering me throughout the entire day.

The average person only meets an extremely small number of prominent people in their lifetime. And an even smaller subset of these dignitaries live up to the expectation you have for them. President Otunbayeva was certainly one of the members of this minuscule subset. Her encyclopedic knowledge of world affairs, her vivid descriptions of various world leaders, and her overall gracious and down-to-earth demeanor made dinner a pleasant and enjoyable event.  And then it happened: President Roza Otunbayeva asked me who I would be voting for in the U.S. Presidential election.

Anyone who knows me well realizes that asking me that question is like waving a red cape in front of an angry bull, whacking a hornet's nest with a baseball bat, or wearing a Boston Red Sox cap into Yankee Stadium. This seemingly innocent question had the potential of being more embarrassing for me than if I had spilled an entire ten-liter bucket of chili on myself in front of the Presidential dinner party.

Somehow, though, I managed to take a deep breath and provided a calm and rational explanation for my vote. Fortunately, all in the room agreed that the thin-skinned, xenophobe I opposed would be an unmitigated disaster, not only for the United States, but for the entire world. Funny how virtually every human being I have encountered outside the U.S. with an ounce of education and a half a brain is in complete agreement on this point.

This final minefield avoided, we concluded our evening, the President departed, and our campus returned to normality.  Best of all, my soup stayed out of my lap and my encounter with an amazing Kyrgyz leader entered my memory forever.

Seated next to President Otunbayeva after dinner

My favorite Kyrgyz driving game: Pass/Don't Pass

I've spent a fair amount of my time in Kyrgyzstan riding in cars going from one place to another for work-related business. To pass the time, I can't play my favorite driving game, which is "license plate lotto" as 99.99% of the vehicles' plates are Kyrgyz; no cars from Turkmenistan, Afghanistan or Idaho to be found, so that game gets dull pretty quickly.

Conversation with the hired drivers usually ends after 1.4 seconds on average:

Driver: Здравствуйте

Erik: Hello

End of conversation.

So, that means something else must done to pass the time on these drives across Kyrgyzstan. Luckily for me, virtually every hired driver in the Kyrgyz Republic is a wildly enthusiastic participant in what has certainly become my very favorite driving game of all time: Pass/Don't Pass. The premise of the game is really quite simple. Every Kyrgyz driver will make unceasing efforts to pass any vehicle that impedes his forward progress, while every English-speaking passenger will make all possible effort to send mental messages to the driver in the hope of conveying the message "Don't Pass." Passengers are allowed to shout, gasp, or scream final messages to the Supreme Being of their choice, but only three times in any given journey, so one must use these exclamations wisely in order to avoid penalty.

Today's game features one of my favorite drivers: Bekbol. Readers of this blog will remember Bekbol for his amazing feat of driving 500 kilometers over rugged roads at very high speeds on a temporary tire designed to travel only 50 kilometers. As an added challenge, Bekbol is driving a vehicle with the steering wheel on the right side, making it even more difficult to see cars coming when he tries to pass on the left. At least, on the passenger side, I will have a perfectly clear view of what is bearing down upon us. Is everyone ready to play Pass/Don't Pass?

ROUND 1: DOUBLE VEHICLE PASS

Two vehicles to pass

Bekbol has the chance to pass two vehicles, including a rare Kazakh driver who has dared venture onto Kyrgyz roadways (extra points potential for Bekbol). However, Erik notices that Bekbol is going much too slowly to get the momentum up for a double-vehicle pass and there are oncoming vehicles on the horizon.

Erik's Verdict: DON'T PASS

Bekbol's Descison: PASS

Bekbol fails to pass

The result:  DON'T PASS.  Despite Bekbol crowding his way toward the center line, the oncoming grey van was sufficient deterrent to keep him from passing.

Scoring:  5 points for Erik as the pass was not completed. 0 points for Bekbol as he clearly had just enough space to have squeezed between the two vehicles in front of him and the oncoming ones if he had just shown a bit more initiative.


ROUND 2: ULTRA-SLOW FARM MACHINERY

The 98th slow-moving piece of farm equipment we encountered along the way

Slow moving farm machinery ahead. However, the road is wide and clear sailing is on the horizon.

Erik's verdict: PASS

Bekbol's decision:  PASS

The easiest pass one could ever possibly have

The result:  PASS, as easy a maneuver as one could hope for on a Kyrgyz highway.

Scoring: 10 points to Erik for finally manning up and showing some bravery. 15 points for Bekbol as not only did he pass the farm machinery successfully, but he was also able to drive unimpeded in the left lane for over a kilometer, apparently just for the hell of it.


ROUND 3: DILAPIDATED DUMP TRUCK

If there is a dump truck in Kyrgyzstan capable of traveling at speeds over 20 kilometers per hour, I have not yet encountered it. 

Another ancient, tortoise-like dump truck crosses our path. The road is bumpy and cars are coming, clearly not an opportunity for passing.

Erik's verdict: DON'T PASS

Bekbol's decision: PASS

Passing on the right! What a daring gambit on Bekbol's part.

The result:  PASSING ON THE RIGHT.  Bekbol comes through with an amazing ploy: if you can't pass on the left, traverse the gravel shoulder and pass on the right.

Scoring:  Bekbol kills it this round with his unexpected maneuver. 25 points for Bekbol. Erik gets -5 points for his lack of imagination and for uttering "what the hell" just as Bekbol began his move and for complaining aloud about his bruised kidneys after they were jarred severely while bouncing along the pothole-filled gravel shoulder. Two negative utterances in a single round will always get points deducted.


ROUND 4: JUMBLED MESS AS EVERYONE TRIES TO PASS WHILE THE ROAD SIMULTANEOUSLY NARROWS FROM TWO LANES TO ONE

Two oncoming marshrutkas with no place to go

The title of the round speaks for itself. No wise driver would interject himself into this mess by attempting to pass, but I can see Bekbol's fingers twitching, I think he is itching to make a dramatic move and possibly force the oncoming marshrutkas off the highway.

Erik's verdict: For the love of God, DON'T PASS, PLEASE.

Bekbol's decision: PASS, I wouldn't be a Kyrgyz driver if I thought otherwise.

A more-daring Kyrgyz driver squeezes past us on the left, before Bekbol can make his move

The result: Utter humiliation for Bekbol.  The worst thing that can happen to a driver in the game of Pass/Don't Pass.  Someone actually passes Bekbol first.

Scoring:  -20 points for Bekbol as he allowed the unthinkable to happen. 10 points for Erik for witnessing the calamity. Erik would have received 15 points, but laughing at a Kyrgyz driver when someone passes him will always get you a 5 point deduction for poor sportsmanship.


THE FINAL RESULT OF THIS GAME OF PASS/DON'T PASS

And the winner is: both of us.  Because we made it to our final destination unscathed, and in one piece, we both were declared winners. The game of Pass/Don't Pass might be the only contest on the planet where you root for everyone to have an undefeated season.

Next up in the Kyrgyz Pass/Don't Pass schedule is the highly anticipated and infinitely more entertaining winter season of the game where ice and snow and sleet are added to the mix just to maximize the challenge and level of fun. Can't wait for that.

Common threads: playing Briscola

When I first lived in Italy years ago, before the Internet and Email, my social life consisted of failed attempts at finding English language news on short wave radio and doing the crossword puzzle in the USA Today newspapers that occasionally found their way to the newsstand at the Mantova train station.

I resided in an apartment above a pizzeria adjacent to the train station. Every time the 10:14 express to Milan, or any number of assorted other trains, rumbled by, my apartment would shake as though it were perched atop an unstable volcano. Because my residence was also adjacent to a motorway the locals called "the street of trucks" it would also shake anytime a vehicle possessing more than four wheels would zoom past.

This constant rattle and commotion sometimes made it impossible to decipher any radio transmissions or come up with the answer to 26 down or 35 across. That left me no choice but to escape my apartment to find some peace, or to go to the nearest bar to drink a Campari with soda, or to even take a seat in a pew in Mantova's massive cathedral, the quietest and emptiest place, perhaps, on the entire planet.

The times my refuge consisted of that medicinal Campari with soda, a sobering and bitter tonic that could make any person's mundane day seem sweeter by comparison, I always found myself in the same small neighborhood bar across the street of trucks from my apartment. While sipping, grimacing at the pungent aftertaste of my beverage, I would observe the older gentlemen sitting at neighboring tables playing a game with cards I had never seen before. This was my first exposure to a game called Briscola.

These cards are from the Piacentine deck.  Because of its clean, yet elegant, design it is my favorite. 

I couldn't exactly figure out how the game worked, because these older gentlemen were playing for money and were deadly serious in their demeanor, no conversation, except a few mocking comments in Italian dialect when a game was done, pride was gained, and lire changed hands. Fortunately, I had a couple of Italian acquaintances, with whom I could communicate, who purchased me a Briscola deck and taught me the game. Little did I know how a deceptively simple and fiendishly strategic card game would serve as a common thread throughout my life.

A wonderful and distinguishing feature of Briscola is that each region of Italy has its own distinctive 40-card deck, with the four suits (coins, sticks, swords, and cups) depicted with radically varying design concepts. I soon became enamored with pursuit of the various kinds of Briscola decks whether they were Roman, Sicilian, Neapolitan, or Sardinian. As for the game itself, the object is simple: whoever captures the cards with the most value is the winner. How one gets to this victory is a bit trickier. The rules and strategies represent more than this blog entry can handle, but suffice it to say that Briscola has been called the quintessentially Italian game, in a somewhat flippant reference to the nation's lack of military success, because the winner is usually the person who best surrenders his valuable cards early in the game in order to gain the possibility of success in the end. One principle that must always be remembered and it's a principle that might also be applied to life: you cannot win a game of Briscola without, at times, surrendering.

This is the peculiar Sardinian deck. It stands in striking contrast to the Piacentine deck, almost to the point of seeming as though these are the cards of a different game. Notice the suspicious scenes portrayed in the 4 of each suit. Each Briscola deck has small nuances of meaning embedded in it. 

After leaving Italy, I took on the role of Briscola missionary, teaching the game to whomever was interested, particularly students with whom I have shared experiences. When I worked at the Castle in the Netherlands, I would introduce Emerson College students to Briscola before our field trip to Florence. They would then spend their Italian excursion happily in search all the variants of Briscola decks and would challenge me to games during the remainder of their time abroad.

When working with Latin American students studying in the U.S., I would introduce the game to Hondurans and Nicaraguans and Mexicans and Costa Ricans. Perhaps a dozen Costa Ricans on the entire planet know the game of Briscola and three or four of them were taught by me.

Even at camp this summer, a group of high school students from Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, and Tajikistan joined me most every afternoon for a leisurely Briscola matchup--probably the only seventeen-year-olds in their respective countries to have ever acquired this delightfully useless skill.

And perhaps the most important games of Briscola I play, are the ones I contest with my father whenever I visit him. It is a game I like to play with my father, because it is actually a rare thing that I have taught him. Though now we both seem to wade unsteadily through the passing of time, one of our first actions when we see each other again is to take the Briscola deck out from the small cupboard in which it resides. At one time in our lives, the score might have mattered, but now it is simply the acts of sitting near each other, placing cards on the table, finishing out the game, that carry with them the sense of victory, rather than calculating win or loss. It is one of our common threads, this game; though not terribly profound, it is still one of the tangible strings that binds the two of us together no matter where we are.

Last night, I taught a new group of students this Italian game of strategic surrendering as I find myself in yet another different place and time; I am amused that people from lands far from Italy like Pakistan and Tajikistan are sharing this game with me, the Briscola missionary from America. The common threads between people seem so few and spindly, even when one as insubstantial as this one is created, as foolishly naive as I may be, somehow it feels as though it might have some small power to bind.

Playing Briscola in Kyrgyzstan

The story of my shyrdak

Last weekend, some of us on the staff and faculty took an excursion and got on the road that leads to China. About 45 minutes south of Naryn, after you go over a small mountain pass, you arrive in the town of At-bashy, which is the Kyrgyz word for "horse head." In the center of town you will encounter one of the most striking sculptures of a horse's head that one would ever hope to find.

Sculpture in the At-bashy main square

We did not come to this town nestled in a picturesque valley to gaze at the heads of horses, either sculpted or in the flesh. Our trip was organized so that we could visit a family who makes shyrdaks, or Kyrgyz felt carpets. It takes the wool of five sheep to hand craft the average shyrdak, which is also dyed by hand.  This labor-intensive and painstaking craft has been a part of Kyrgyz culture for centuries and remains an integral part of Kyrgyz life and a source of commerce.

Where the shyrdak makers live in At-bashy

In the living room, where the shyrdaks are displayed; the woman makes shyrdaks with her son and daughter-in-law and also served as the town's French teacher when not making carpets

I had joined the trip to At-bashy because I needed to get away from campus, where I am sometimes stranded for days at a time, and because I wanted to see another small corner of Kyrgyzstan. I didn't really need a carpet because I had purchased a couple for my apartment from a shop in Bishkek. I was a bit surprised when we stopped in front of a house in a residential district as somehow I had the impression we were going to visit a commercial establishment.

We passed the chicken coop and the wood pile before entering the house--this was certainly not a place created specifically to cater to tourists. Once inside we were taken to the living room which resembled a fantasy from the dreams of Aladdin. Shyrdaks of all shapes, sizes, and hues were spread across the room for our inspection. There are few people who deserve our respect more than those who take knowledge from prior generations to craft something with their hands possessing both great beauty and utility. Perhaps the masterpieces I have viewed in museums like the Louvre have infinitely more value, and maybe my small bias toward the applied arts is showing, but to stand in the living room of a family beaming with pride while they display the products of their hands and hearts is no less inspiring to me than gazing upon the enigma that is the Mona Lisa's smile.

After looking through all the shyrdaks, a few of us purchased one or two. Then the family took us into their kitchen. Evidently it is a tradition of the Kyrgyz shyrdak maker to finish the transaction by setting their table for their customers and serving homemade breads and jams along with steaming cups of tea. As I sat and relished the tart goodness of the raspberry jam spread across my slice of bread, I contemplated the act of hospitality I was receiving. At that moment, I realized that my new shyrdak will always carry with it, in whatever place I call home, the same warmth that radiates from the hearts of a family in At-bashy.

Preparing tea and food for us

Shyrdaks often have a pattern that represents a traditional motif: mine is that of deer antlers

Spiritual Leaders and those of us untethered

This week our campus celebrated its formal inauguration. The featured guest was His Highness the Aga Khan, Chancellor and benefactor of our University. Even more important is the fact that he is the head of the Ismaili Islamic community, its spiritual leader.

His Highness at Inauguration

His Highness came to the inauguration to give a speech on the importance of UCA and what it all means. About half of our students are Ismaili and what struck me as much as anything I experienced on that day was the love and devotion these students had for their spiritual leader. I don't know if I have ever seen an outpouring of emotion as genuine and heartfelt as what I witnessed on inauguration day. I overheard one inaugural guest, clearly a non-Ismaili Westerner, comment to her companion, wondering why some of the students were crying. She had misinterpreted the tears as a manifestation of distress, perhaps unable to comprehend the joy people might feel when encountering their spiritual leader for the first time in their lives.

After the ceremony ended, and His Highness had departed, I sat in my chair quietly, waiting for the buffet line to diminish, and at that moment I realized that never in my life have I ever looked to a spiritual leader for guidance or been truly devoted to any creed or organized belief system. Yes, I was raised in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, but somehow the teachings of the ELCA never inspired me or captured my soul. The spiritual leader of the ELCA is called the "Presiding Bishop."  And the Bishop is headquartered in Chicago. The current Presiding Bishop was born in Cleveland. Somehow none of that inspires much fervor or devotion. To the Lutherans' credit, the current PB is a woman named Elizabeth Eaton and she is married to an Episcopal priest--all a testament to the general progressive spirit and open-minded nature of the liberal wing of Lutheranism in America, but relatively meaningless to me personally.

What caused this disconnect from the spirituality with which I was raised? Perhaps it was my experience with the spiritual leaders with whom I interacted. Was it the interim pastor of our church who sexually harassed women? Was it the minister I knew who fooled around with the church secretary? Was it the pastor I listened to every Sunday for years who had no humility and was certain he would enter heaven, not even possessing one small doubt that perhaps the Lutheran doctrine of salvation by faith alone was not enough if that faith was devoid of goodness and a kind heart? I don't know exactly what it was, but untethered I became.

Despite being raised a Lutheran, and possessing a newly-untethered status, somehow I kept finding myself remaining connected to Christian spirituality in the company of the Roman church. I graduated from a Catholic university, taught at a Jesuit high school, and served as the Dean of Students at a university run by Ursuline nuns. They all had the Pope as their spiritual leader, but sometimes I felt the Notre Dame football coach was a more-influential religious figure with many of the Catholics I knew. Besides, when you are not a Catholic at their institutions you are always an outsider, not allowed to take communion, never truly connected to the intricacies of their spiritual world and untethered I remained.

While never being connected to a spiritual leader or particular creed during my life, that doesn't mean one is devoid of spiritual experiences. One such experience happened to me in Japan. My apartment in suburban Osaka was located near a Buddhist temple.  On Mondays, which I always had off, I would often walk to the temple and sit and gaze at the statue of the Buddha situated there. The temple was tended by an elderly priest. He could not speak English and I could not speak Japanese.  However, he would come up to me whenever I was there and we would both sit together silently. We never exchanged more than a glance or a knowing smile and we never learned each other's names. I am still not sure what it all meant exactly, but I knew, as I sat in silence, I was at a rare place in the world where peace presided. But aptly, one does not gain attachment to creed or spiritual leader while in a Buddhist temple.

Before I moved to Kyrgyzstan, I lived in Arkansas. It is a place where everyone says they have a spiritual leader of some sort or another and where everyone is saved. There I worked at a Presbyterian university in the heart of the Bible Belt. How is it I, the untethered one, seem to always find myself among the devout? I worked with a group of Central American students, most were ardent Christians. These students were the possessors of scholarships where one of the values I was required to promote to them was faith, and promote faith I did, in my unorthodox manner. How peculiar it was to find myself attending chapel every Wednesday. I even was called upon by the chaplain to give the sermon once, and a fire-breathing sermon I did give. I wonder how many of my students suspected that, when it really comes down to it, I am an agnostic person, uncertain of matters spiritual, unable to cast my lot with any faith or creed? Well, they all know now.

What happens to a person when they are untethered from the world of faith, disconnected from spiritual guidance, without a spiritual leader? Much depends on the person themselves. I have had people tell me that they couldn't live, couldn't face the world, if they didn't have their faiths and couldn't hang onto the promise of the afterlife they've received. For me, I think I am not worried about what comes in future realms of existence; there's enough difficulty deciphering this one. All we can do is live our best, try to help others, err on the side of kindness, and work to bring justice, mercy, and peace to whatever corner of the world in which we happen to reside. Trying to follow these humble principles might be all someone without a spiritual leader can do.

Despite being untethered, I found great joy being with the students here and witnessing the great flood of emotion and pure happiness they experienced this past week. How wonderful it must be to see and hear the person who represents your faith and who provides you with wise guidance and direction. After being here awhile, I realize His Highness and the Ismaili people are also trying to live their best, trying to help others, trying to err on the side of kindness, and working to bring justice, mercy, and peace to whatever corner of the world in which we all happen to reside. It turns out that is why I also shed a few quiet tears when I saw His Highness and heard him speak--because it is my hope that at some point in human existence those of us following spiritual leaders of every calling, and those of us untethered, can all unite to follow these humble principles which matter so much and which are the inspiration for this secular, yet spiritually-guided, place where I now work.

The two-hundred teapot winter has arrived

Halloween is over a week away, but that has not deterred winter from making its first appearance of the year. I woke up this morning to find a thin blanket of snow on the ground and temperatures well below freezing.

Today's morning winterscape

I have consoled myself with half-felt reminders that it is the oppressive heat and humidity of the summers I have experienced in the Eastern and Southern U.S. that afflict me the most severely. My half-felt reminders are about as warmly received by my spirit as backhanded compliments or advice from back-seat drivers.

I wonder about winter in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan. I fear it will be like an unwanted house guest, arriving unexpectedly, lingering far too long, and once departed leaving chilly memories that send shivers down one's spine well into summer.

I have thought today about the coldest winter day I ever experienced, in Ithaca, New York. Or the time I visited Niagara Falls one early February when the mist drifting off the falls froze instantly the moment it touched my clothing. I'm afraid the coming chill will make these frigid moments of the past seem tropical by comparison.

It is true that misery loves company. I have seen the looks of dismay on the faces of some of our students who have never experienced snow or temperatures below freezing before now. Rather than inspiring me to empathetic heights, instead, somehow, it comforts me to know that my frozenness will be shared with others. It's truly appalling that sometimes I find that I suffer less when someone suffers more. Instead of feeding my "Inner-Trump" by enjoying the suffering of others, I think it will be far better to soothe my misery by making pots of hot tea for my fellow sufferers, because spreading warmth is usually more satisfying than enjoying scalding cups of schadenfreude.

I look out my apartment window this evening and see that the puddles of moisture from the snow that has melted this day are freezing back up again. I'm becoming convinced it's going to be at least a two-hundred teapot winter when all is said and done.

Random Remnants of the Soviet Era: the Subbotnik

On Saturday morning, we had a community service activity where many of our students spent a few hours picking up litter and doing general cleaning along the public roadway near our campus. The voluntary Saturday cleaning is something that is still done in Kyrgyzstan and throughout Central Asia. However, the Saturday morning volunteer activity is something that has its historical genesis in the Soviet era.

Our students working to clean up the public roadway this past weekend.

This voluntary clean-up time dates to 1919 and is called a Subbotnik. The first all-Russian Subbotnik appears to have taken place on May 1, 1920 when Lenin himself led a Subbotnik at the Kremlin as pictured below.  Lenin helping carry logs during the 1920 Subbotnik is a moderately famous event in Soviet history and it led to the Subbotnik becoming an institutionalized event around the USSR.

Lenin leading the Subbotnik of May 1, 1920 

Over time the Subbotniks became a little less voluntary. The Soviet people half-jokingly referred to participating in Subbotniks "in a voluntary-compulsive way." Fortunately, our little Subbotnik was voluntary and students were rewarded with a Shashlyk barbecue of lamb, chicken and beef kebabs at the end of their labors. The Shashlyk barbecue is not a traditional feature of the Subbotnik as the Kyrgyz person who was a school child during the Soviet era and who worked with me to organize the event had a little trouble grasping why I felt that there was a need to pair the work with a reward. Despite the fact that I am living in a post-Soviet nation, I guess I have been contaminated by my soft Western ideology and don't quite possess the full post-Soviet vibe.

Students cleaning up the sidewalk adjacent to their school in Bishkek during a Subbotnik I witnessed a week ago.

The Subbotnik remains a central feature of Kyrgyz culture as most schools and other civic organizations engage in voluntary work and clean up, as a stroll through many Kyrgyz communities on a Saturday morning will demonstrate. Even though the Subbotnik is a random remnant of the Soviet era, it is not surprising that it is one of the few that has endured.

Kyrgyz Autumnscape

An autumnal view of the Blue Mountains about 2 km. from campus

The gifts of sponge cake and kind intent

In our cafeteria, we have a group of four cooks from Kyrgyzstan and Pakistan who are trying to figure out how to feed our peculiarly diverse campus population. My favorite cook is a 19-year-old baker from Pakistan who was brought here to work. I admire the courage it takes for someone his age to pack up and move to a place where he has no roots or friends to cook in a kitchen where he shares a language and culture with no one--except the other Pakistani cook. I have tried to be cordial and strike up a conversation whenever I encounter him as I can't imagine his experience is an entirely pleasant one. I even smuggled one of our campus orientation T-shirts to him as a token of my appreciation for his efforts in the kitchen.

In return, he smuggles a dessert to me each lunch time, because dessert isn't on the menu for the midday meal. He doesn't realize I am not supposed to eat desserts, so I always end up giving my treat to one of the sugar-loving students I am sharing a meal with on any given day. I admit, I always tell a white lie when he approaches me later, when I tell him how great his treat was. I guess it's really not a lie, as the students who get my desserts always seem to enjoy them.

Recently this was the dessert he secretly put on my tray as I went through the lunch line.

I checked my watch just to make sure it wasn't the first of April. "Hmm, maybe it's a type of sponge cake I am not familiar with?" I wondered as I contemplated the confection perched upon my lunch tray. I felt my friendly baker deserved points for realism, as the dessert resembled a dish sponge more than any sponge cake I had ever previously encountered, but it was the yellowish part of the dessert that was a bit more enigmatic. "What flavor do you think it is?" one of my co-workers asked.  Egg yolk, banana, and extreme vanilla were the guesses that were generated.

For the first time ever, none of my fellow diners was willing to take me up on my kind and generous offer to take my dessert off my hands. Soon my dining companions left the table leaving me to ponder the sugar bbs that seemed to be staring at me like the steely eyes of a creature from a science fiction movie.

After I put my tray away at the cleaning station, the young baker came up to me as I tried to escape from the cafeteria without having to render my customarily positive judgment upon his dessert. "Never before have I had such a colorful and intriguing dessert," was the best that I could do. He smiled broadly. I think his first language is Urdu and his smile was based more on my enthusiastic tone of voice and positive demeanor than upon the exact meaning of my words. Maybe I am wrong for thinking the world is a better place when kindness and gentle misdirection prevail over stark, unvarnished truth in matters not involving life and death, or righting wrongs, or providing for those without.

I still receive lovely lunchtime desserts that I never eat. And they are uniformly wonderful, outside of the one featured here, happily consumed by those who sit near me. Most important of all, I have come to realize that the kind daily act of a young baker, even when it is an uneaten piece of renegade sponge cake, leaves me with a sweeter taste and pleases my soul more than the most delicious creation a Parisian confectioner could ever make.

Unexpected Pleasures

In my meandering through life, I often find that I dwell on the unexpected. Perhaps it's a feature of my line of work, where the unexpected sometimes carries unhappy baggage, that I spend far too much time wondering what unpleasant surprise lurks just around the corner. When I travel, as the plane sits on the runway ready for take off, I consider the probability that my luggage will be lost, that I will miss my connection in Moscow, or that the sleeping baby resting peacefully in his mother's arms in the seat next to me will turn out to have a temperament as bad as Donald Trump's and will end up shrieking throughout the duration of the flight. And, of course, I expect they will unexpectedly run out of the entree of the meal I want when they hand the last one to the passenger next to me, if they even serve food at all.

The unexpected. It fills us with dread, because the possibilities are endless.  There are terrorists and tornadoes and blizzards and politicians and food poisoning and invasions of mice in our cupboards and mosquitoes and drunken drivers and power outages and broken elevators and surprise visits from the in-laws and bee stings and daylong marathons of Duck Dynasty and the prospect of a certain Presidential candidate sitting next to the nuclear button one fine day. It is no wonder we are an anxious and fearful group in this modern world.

And the unexpected is unrelenting as I discovered on my recent trip to Bishkek this past week. My meeting at work was delayed for a day, just before I arrived there, throwing the plans I had for a mini-vacation into disarray. I sat grumpily in the meeting, when it finally arrived, and I wondered what unexpected misery would land in my lap--perhaps the request to write a five-page memo throughout the remainder of my scheduled rest?

The first sign that the unexpected has two faces was a shocking one: our lengthy meeting actually ended ten minutes ahead of schedule, a happening in my organization as rare as a full solar eclipse. As I departed the conference room and dashed down the stairs leading out of the building, that's when I could feel it. I could sense the warm glow of unexpected pleasures.

So, this past weekend I still dwelt on the unexpected, but instead on those surprises which provide our lives small and humble joys.

One unexpected pleasure was the delicious warm weather in Bishkek, away from the mountain chill.

I also enjoyed the unexpected pleasure of dinner with a colleague I had never really spent much time with during my stay in Kyrgyzstan. It is a joy to share simple conversation over a fine meal and to discover how much common ground one shares with another.

And I had the unexpected pleasure to share another dinner, this time with a colleague whom I know quite well. The pleasure of catching up with news of work and life after weeks of laboring in different cities carries with it a comfortable happiness that one doesn't quite expect.  And the feeling I get after devouring a delicious pizza and a drinking a glass of intensely cold beer is always a surprise, because one never expects such simple things to carry so much feeling.

The entire weekend there were no mosquitoes, no mice in the cupboards, no daylong marathons of Duck Dynasty. I found only unexpected pleasures of rest and meditation and calmness and walks along Bishkek's boulevards and finding jars of peanut butter to purchase and Emails left unanswered and the knowledge gained that the unexpected has two faces and the realization of which face should capture my greatest attention.

Lunch at the Social Welfare Kitchen

There's a second place to eat lunch on our campus, about a 10-minute walk from the academic building and the dorms. As the lunchtime menu in the student/staff cafeteria was becoming a bit predictable, I decided to take lunch at the Social Welfare Kitchen. It's the place where the workers and laborers on our campus eat their meals.

It seems that fewer workplaces in the U.S. have community kitchens where workers share meals together. In America, you pack a lunch and eat your own private food in your office or you hop in your car and drive to a fast-food establishment to scarf down a meal in between errands you can't accomplish at any other time of day. Eating at work has become less of a community exercise and has morphed into separate acts of individualism, except perhaps on the rare holiday when the boss deems it acceptable for everyone to share a few Halloween cookies together. I don't know if I can remember the last U.S. workplace where I shared a meal with my colleagues on a daily basis.

But, in Naryn, workers are provided with a substantial meal and eat together in the Social Welfare Kitchen. For about a dollar, you receive a hot entree, a bowl of soup, three hearty slices of fresh-baked bread, and a steaming cup of tea.  I learned about the Kitchen from one of the Kyrgyz staff who would disappear from our building at noon each day. Curious as to his whereabouts, I asked him where he went. That's when he told me about the special lunch place on the other side of campus.

A couple of weeks ago, I finally went and enjoyed a filling, authentic Kyrgyz lunch at the Social Welfare Kitchen. Perhaps even more enjoyable, was watching everyone sitting together sharing a communal meal, engaged in conversation and laughter. I understand not one word of Kyrgyz, but I didn't need to in order to sense the importance of this meal and the nourishment, to both body and soul, that was received in this humble dining hall.  

People in America can pack virtually anything they want and have their choice of thousands of foods when eating lunch at their jobs. But these cornucopious meals we eat at work are impoverished by the lack of sociability that is often present when consuming them. We seldom realize that there is such poverty among the plenty in our daily lives.

Sadly, the Social Welfare Kitchen will be closing next week as the construction and landscaping on campus will be coming almost to a halt and there will be far fewer workers left to feed. I will continue to eat in the regular university dining hall, which has social virtues of its own, but I will feel a tiny sting of loss that others, I fear, will feel with far greater intensity.

Lining up for lunch

The meal we're served

Rush Hour traffic jam on the road from Bishkek to Naryn

When I commuted from New Jersey to Pennsylvania on Friday afternoons during rush hour, I often found myself trapped in the most horrific traffic jams. Sometimes I would be stuck, not moving an inch, for hours at a time. Despite the fact there was nothing to be done--all of us motorists would be equally stymied--some of my fellow drivers would still honk their horns and yell out their windows or try to sneak their way onto the shoulder, or even drive off of the road in a vain effort to somehow escape our gridlock. The inability to get where one wants to go might be one of the most frustrating feelings known to humans and it is a predicament that I am fairly sure the Gods have designed to test the character and patience of us feeble mortals.

I discovered on my trip yesterday afternoon from Bishkek to Naryn that Kyrgyz drivers must also face Rush Hour traffic jams. This is what a Kyrgyz traffic jam looks like.

I must admit a Kyrgyz traffic jam is somewhat more bucolic and quite a bit more quaint than one a motorist might encounter on Interstate 80 near Parsippany.  Sadly, I was disillusioned to discover that the typical Kyrgyz motorist exhibits the same unbridled rage as the most stressed-out Jersey hedge-fund commuter, as the driver of the car coming toward us was frantically honking his horn, shouting out his window, and shaking his fists in anger at the shepherd who was responsible for this delay. The Gods must be extremely bored, by now, of their tests of motorists, because it takes so very little to unmask our weak, impatient character.

The good thing about Kyrgyz traffic jams is that they end not long after they begin, because sheep are like the Gods in that they too become quickly bored with the predictable nature of humans and soon find their way off the road where they might find a bit of grass to eat. However, this time of year when livestock is quickly being herded off the mountain pastures, down to the valleys, away from the oncoming snows, it's only a matter of time before the next Kyrgyz traffic jam is formed. Sure enough, 20 minutes later another herd of sheep surrounded our vehicle causing me to pause to consider our fate as creatures not allowed to move ahead at the pace we desire, unable to progress according to our will. But soon this second traffic jam also disappeared and it struck me as being a reminder that those impediments that slow our personal journeys are much like sheep in that, most times, impediments can be waited out and endured if we can somehow gather the patience to realize they also usually wander back from where they came.

Traffic jam #2