Kyrgyzstan

I returned to Kyrgyzstan several times. The third time I went was for an project seeking private financing for their airport infrastructure. Kyrgyzstan lies right in between Asia and Europe, at least as the airplane flies, and they were hoping that they could justify some investment as a cargo transfer hub or at least refueling stop. The primary airport, Manas, in Bishkek, is pretty run down, to say the least. It’s telling that no international carriers will land there (in fact, they cannot land Boeings there, as anything with a wing-mounted engine is in danger of sucking in a rock from the crumbling runway and blowing an engine) – and when Air Force One visited the year before I was there, they had local farmers come sweep the entire runway free of debris by hand with brooms.

All of the airports and the airline were nationalized under Kyrgyz Air – this was pretty standard in the FSU. Kyrgyz Air was now run by a Col. Uruzbaev – previously of the KGB. Prior to our beginning work, I had to obtain a signed statement from Uruzbaev that he would provide me (World Bank) with requested operational and financial data, and in exchange World Bank would pay for the study and financial planning, and keep the data confidential (standard NDA). You’d have thought we were signing an international peace accord.

I met with him at his offices for the signing. Soviet-era offices are really interesting – they are HUGE, incredibly drab concrete buildings, and in the specific office suites of high-ranking executives, the furniture ornate but cheaply made, so that the whole effect is kind of like a poorly executed stage set. Uruzbaev had set up a table for two with two chairs, two fountain pens, and two copies of the agreement, where he and I sat. With great formality, he signed the document as several unintroduced staff members (hit men?) looked on. They clapped when he put the pen down.

I stood up to leave, but my translator, Sveta, told me that we would now go into the reception room (vaguely reminiscent of a bordello with red velvet settees and coffee tables with chipped inlays) for some refreshments. Refreshments translated to cookies, and vodka. I should mention a couple of things here. One: it was 3 in the afternoon at this point and two: while I can definitely hold my own as a drinker in the states, I cannot hold a candle to the Russians with vodka shots. Ninety minutes later, I was barely able to sit on my chair, and I begged Sveta to get me out of there. Although there was still vodka on the table (it’s considered rude to leave if your host still has drinks on offer), she made some excuse about having to call my boss and managed to extricate me. They sent one of the goons in the car with me with a bottle of champagne to make sure I didn’t sober up on the drive home.

Luckily for me, my boss at the time (whom they made me call, just to make sure my story was bonafide), was an understanding guy, and only mildly shocked that I was three sheets to the wind at 5pm Kyrgyz time. I believe it was 6am at home, so I undoubtedly woke him up. However, since I had access to his email, and therefore some pretty juicy personal secrets, he laughed it off and sent me home. Mama Rosa, as we all called the woman whose apartment I shared, wagged her finger at me, tsking, and sent me off to bed.