There are encouraging signs. When it does snow, the snow isn't sticking and each day more of the five month accumulation is melting. When walking outside I can hear birds singing for the first time since Obama was president and we had no idea what perverse fate awaited us. Oh, those were innocent, carefree times.
Still, though, nothing is blooming and only a few blades of grass have dared peek their heads out of the ground to begin the task of forming a campus lawn. I have entered this short month between winter and spring not knowing what to call this interlude. But after spending last night cleaning off my shoes, this mini Kyrgyz season I have decided to name: The Season of Mud.
Everywhere I walk, mud abounds. It is in the streets and on the paths. On the trail to the garbage bins, gobs of mud await. Naively I walked on the gravel path between the dorm and the academic building only to sink my shoe into mud 10 centimeters deep. It is like crossing a minefield, some of my footsteps land on solid ground, others are swallowed up as though the earth were a hungry teenager devouring a midnight snack.
I have heard that in the lowlands near our campus, there is an archeological dig site where remnants of an ancient civilization have been found. I now am quite certain these artifacts were left behind during The Season of Mud, the earth swallowing up pots and clothing and even the Kyrgyz ancestors themselves, helpless to escape the jaws of the muddy bog.
As is the case with the seasons, The Season of Mud will soon depart and we will look forward to the blossoms on the trees, the brisk May wind and the next interlude that inevitably follows all Seasons of Mud which I'm sure will carry the name: The Season of Dust.
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| The muddy streets of Naryn town |
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| The muddy walk to the garbage bins |
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| Where my foot got swallowed up on the gravel path to the academic building |
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