Fermented Mare's Milk

Today we had our first official Russian lesson. A faculty member in the Russian Language Dept. at AUCA is coming to our apartment three times a week for an hour and a half each session and more or less making us feel like we've recently been hit hard in the head with something very, very heavy the moment she arrives until the moment she leaves. Simply learning the alphabet--which we both thought we had a pretty good understanding of already--is like trying to swim while wearing a space suit. There's a special kind of embarrassment reserved for otherwise intelligent people on the doorstep of 30 repeatedly being corrected on the pronunciation of one letter of the alphabet. There's also a special level of comedy in having three adults sitting around a table for twenty minutes jutting out their chins and making what to my ear sounds like the worst stand-up comedian's imitation of the retarded kid down the street. Our homework for Thursday's lesson is to do more of the same, repeatedly and in front of the mirror if need be. Sexy!

The other big news of the last two days was yesterday's bomb threat at the university. I had a meeting with the university President at 3:00 yesterday afternoon, so Erin and I walked the few blocks over to the school building around 2:30. As we were approaching, we noticed a rather larger cadre of military and police officials milling about on the sidewalk directly in front of the school building. As the Kyrgyz Parliament building is immediately next door to the university (we were walking past it when we noticed the police) and there seemed to be some protesters setting up in front of that building, we guessed that maybe they were a peace-keeping group of sorts or, on the other side, a show of force. But when we reached them, they all came together to form a sort of loose human wall and told us (we assume, it was in Russian) that we couldn't go any further. Erin pulled out her Visiting Professor id card from the university and the response from the officers was more of the same. Finally, after a few brief moments of utter befuddlement on both sides, a soldier stepped through the wall and told us, "There is bomb. In the building, there is bomb." At which point we and the officers all shared a look of recognition and nods of acceptance. We crossed the street and were made to move into the park opposite the school building by another group of police. Not knowing what to do, how long things would last, where to go, etc., we walked up to the main square and bought a couple of meat pies from a vendor (sort of like Indian frybread stuffed with lamb and onion and other goodies; totally delicious and only 4 som, which is about 6 or 7 cents). When we got back, nothing had changed, so we went home and got on line. There was no information on any of the pertinent web pages--US Embassy Bishkek page, AUCA page...--nor is there any now. An hour or so later I received a message from the President asking if it would be okay if we moved our meeting up a day, as the university was closed due to a bomb scare. Uhmm...sure?

I did meet with the President earlier this afternoon and she assured me the bomb scare was no big deal, happens from time to time, and was nothing to worry about. She was only out of the building for about an hour while police bomb techs went through the building, where they found nothing. Due to the proximity to Parliament and the frequency of protests, this sort of thing sometimes happens in order to stir up some media. Of course, we have no connection to local media, so I can't vouch at all on how that's working out, but I'll let you know if I hear anything. The President also told me to expect more and not to worry until something actually blows up. She followed that statement with a good hearty laugh then changed the subject back toward why I was actually sitting in her office in the first place.

So, bomb scare. As I've been telling my mother and Erin for months, I was shot at from the back of a pick up truck in Bloomington, Indiana, right smack-dab in the Heartland of America, only miles from the little pink mansion* John Mellencamp calls home. It doesn't matter where we are. What matters is that we remain. And I assure you all, we intend to.


* No, his mansion is not pink. Or little, for that matter. But it'd be a whole hell of a lot cooler if it were, don't ya think?