Underground in the Clouds

Yesterday afternoon, Rudi, Nurlan, Ed, and I were on top of the world.  Our journey up into the mountains required three separate gondola rides.  During the winter, Shymbulak Ski Resort  would be packed with almost as many skiers as frozen water molecules, but yesterday, we had an uninterrupted and congestion-free trip up the ravine.  Each portion of the cable car ascension took at least 10 minutes, and the longest leg was almost a half an hour in duration.  Generally, I don't think I'd enjoy spending almost an hour trapped inside a glass case of incineration dangling precariously hundreds of feet above the ground, but neither I, nor anyone else seemed to mind.  Like toads in hot water so enjoying being wet that they don't notice the temperature reaching a boiling point, we so enjoyed the view from our little microwave box, which seemed to improve with each foot farther up the cable, that we didn't even notice the heat.  Furthermore, it's been so hot in Almaty and Bishkek over the past week that most of the time I wouldn't have been able to distinguish the outside temperature from the temperature inside a glass box anyway.  So when we finally stepped out into the cool mountain air at the Talgar Pass gondola station over 10,000 feet up the mountain, the cold snap was a welcome improvement.  I had brought a light coat with me, but I never felt the need for it while we were at the summit, even though Nurlan, Rudi, Ed, and most of the dozens of sightseers sharing the view had all bundled up.

The view was spectacular.  From that elevation, the vast expanse of flat plains to the north became all the more mind-boggling, and the elegant mountain towers to the south became all the more impressive.  There was some snow up at the summit but not much, although there were two peaks quite near to where we were that were still covered with snow another 400 or 500 feet up.  Had I the time and some more appropriate shoes, I could easily have reached the nearest peak within 45 minutes.  For the sake of the adventure, I was tempted to try, but for the sake of the view, there was no need.  Still many more nearby peaks were many thousands of feet higher than we were.  We were probably quite near the official border between Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan.  Rudi mentioned that there was a hiking trail that led over the mountains to the large valley in the middle of Kyrgyzstan, two days hike on the other side.  Somewhere along the trail, there was probably a single lonely guard shack marking the border, but up in the spectacular stratosphere and tumultuous terrain, we were in a region where borders don't matter.  It's likely that many of the peaks I could see to the south were Kyrgyz peaks, but few could be certain.  Aside from that guard shack, you wouldn't be able to tell where Kazakhstan ends and Kyrgyzstan begins.  It's somewhat strange to think that mountain ranges are such things that commonly determine the borders between countries, yet when you are up in the midst of the peaks, it would be impossible to point out where those borders lie.  Terrain defines borders, and yet it defies them.

A second tell-tale sign that we were on the fringes of true alpine adventure was the canine sentry keeping careful watch over the vast premises.  An enormous St. Bernard rescue dog sat near the final gondola stop, chained to what looked like a crudely maintained outpost.  I imagine the crudeness of its maintenance was due in equal parts to the fact that it's not rescue season and to the fact that it's in Kazakhstan.  The dog (I'll call him Anton) wasn't about to stop doing his job, however, just because skiers weren't attempting slopes far beyond their ability.  Anton sat at good-natured attention surveying his lofty domain.  When a parasailer showed up and unfurled his parachute in preparation for a wind-aided leap down the ravine, the dog went nuts.  He had been relatively quiet up until that point, but when he saw the brightly colored chute splayed out over the ground, his booming voice shook the still air over and over again.  Clearly Anton was shouting to the parasailer, "Hey bro!  Not a good idea.  You're totally gonna die.  Safety first!  Why are you not listening to me?  Someone stop this guy from making the biggest mistake of his life.  Ugh–why is no one listening to me?"  Except he would have been shouting in Kazakh.  Perhaps that sounds funny to you because you don't typically think of animals as having any kind of nationality.  It's funny to me because I tend to think of St. Bernards as always being Austrian or Swiss.  

Being up in the clouds as we were incited some chatter from Rudi.  (Many things incite chatter from Rudi, so this was no surprise.)  "They say," he mused, "that there are three heavens.  The first is the sky and the clouds.  The second is the cosmos.  And the third is the spiritual world."  It was clear that we were close to heaven in many senses.  We had indeed poked our heads into the clouds.  It's interesting to me to note that the first two heavens have physical parameters, and some manner of ambiguous boundaries.  When you travel high enough into physical space, you enter the first heaven, and those few who have been fortunate enough to keep ascending have witnessed the material region in which the first heaven fades into the second.  It's appropriate to mention in relation to the exploration of the second heaven, that Kazakhstan is also home to Baikonur Cosmodrome, which is both the oldest and the largest currently operational space launch facility.  The Soviets were the first to go snooping around in the second heaven, sending Sputnik in 1957 and Yuri Gagarin in 1961, not to mention a very confused dog sometime around then as well.  But is there a similar physical transition from the second heaven into the third?  Does God's heaven reside in some physical space beyond space?  I think most of us would agree that there isn't such a transition, and the third heaven can't be reached in such a manner.  Yet we still refer to it as 'above us'.  If God is 'The Man Upstairs', then those must be some terrifyingly endless flights of stairs.  I'd much rather take a cable car and think of God as 'The Man At The Final Gondola Station'.  I generally don't tend to think of the spiritual realm as being physically above me, but it's a notion that has so transcended culture and religion that it can't really be discounted, even if it logically can't be reached with physical travel.  Somehow, however, we were close to that third heavenly realm.  This mountainous area simultaneously defies and defines the very principle of border lines, just as the third heaven is a realm without borders.  As we stepped back aboard the gondola some time later, Anton was still bellowing at the parasailer, who had still not taken off, and I was still pondering the orientation of the three heavens.  Ten minutes later, we were still aboard the gondola when the parasailer finally lifted off, and he had made his landing halfway down the ravine ten minutes before the gondola had let us off.

This morning, I discovered that the third heaven is actually quite accessible within physical reality, and it's much closer than we realize.  It's Sunday, and we attended Nurlan's church–an ethnically Kazakh underground church in the heart of the city.  That's where we found heaven.  The fellowship of believers is as real an experience of the third heaven as a space flight would be an experience of the first two.  And it seems that the spiritual world shines more strongly where believers are forced to fellowship underground.  A couple of years ago, the Kazakh government narrowed the registration parameters for religious meetings of any kind.  This church had formerly been registered when the only requirement was 10 members, but the prerequisites now mandate a congregation of at least 50, as well as several other requirements.  This church easily has 50 members, but all religious meeting places were forced to re-register, and the culturally-Islamic government is not very friendly or accommodating to Christian churches.  So as long as the church's official status is pending, they'll continue to meet below the radar, in constant danger of being exposed and shut down.  

The service was somehow somber, yet passionate.  Subdued, yet fervent.  They were very joyful, but not without the memory of recent pain or the anticipation of imminent distress.  It felt very much like attending a house church in the 1st century.  Ed had prepared some remarks, but he was asked not to preach, because of his higher profile and another strict government regulation, so he simply shared a short greeting.  Under the new law, anyone who preaches must also be registered as a resident pastor, or otherwise have a missionary visa (which are rather difficult to acquire).  Were Ed to share too much, or enter into a discourse remotely similar to preaching, the church could be in danger.  Similarly, last week in Bishkek, Rudi had to preach under the guise of being a visitor simply sharing greetings with the congregation, even though he did give far more of a sermon than Ed was advised or comfortable to give.  I was also asked not to photograph during the service, which was agonizingly difficult.  Normally, when asked not to photograph, I don't pay a whole lot of attention, because the only person whose safety would really be in firsthand jeopardy would be me.  But in this case, my photographing could potentially put an entire church in jeopardy.  So I only snapped a few scene-setting shots and put the camera away during the service, even though I saw compelling images everywhere.  It always seems that whenever the camera is in the bag, I see great images everywhere I look, and then when I hold it up to my face, I find myself having to search for interesting material.  Surrounded by images that would have way more impact and meaning than those taken out the side of a car, I was still able to be present with joy amidst my regret, because of the genuine worship that was clearly happening in this place.  At one point, they sang a song in Russian to the tune of 'All in All'.  It's a song I haven't heard for years, but I recognized the tune immediately and felt blessed to be able to sing along.  To join in their experience of the third heaven.  Once again, Rudi sang Kto Ya, and this time I actually did sing along with the chorus.  After the service was over, they gladly allowed me to take some pictures.

The spiritual realm seems to shine most obviously when the physical realm is confining.  Saints who have been imprisoned and released have sometimes longed for prison again because of the closeness to God they experienced while behind bars.  In 2007, 23 South Korean missionaries in Afghanistan were kidnapped by the Taliban.  For 42 days, they were forced to live in some of the worst conditions imaginable.  Two were executed.  Some time after their release, many of them expressed nostalgic feelings towards the time spent in prison.  They felt so close to God while under extreme torment that they were left longing for that closeness again, even if it meant enduring physical hardship in order to experience it.  The book of Acts is full of stories about early Christians who were imprisoned because of their zeal for spreading the gospel, and in many of those accounts, we find them praising God joyfully.  The Apostle Paul's letters, likewise, feature frequent allusions to the spiritual fulfillment he received during times of physical deprivation (see, for instance, 2 Corinthians 11:23-28 or Philippians 1:12-14, and 18-20).  And it makes a strange sort of sense.  When a person has been stripped of physical freedom and health, the only comfort and power that remain have to come from someplace else.  Faith, hope, and love exist in a place within the body, but also beyond the body, which is why they can never be taken away.  And they come from an infinite Source, which is why they can be constantly replenished in the hearts of those who know where to look.  So where is the third heaven?  It's behind bars.  It's underground.  It exists within confined, restricted physical situations, and yet it cannot be contained.  I've looked for it in many places, on many journeys.  I was close on top of a mountain yesterday, but didn't truly find it there.  I found it this morning in the midst of an underground church service in Almaty, Kazakhstan.  Even though we were underground, we were still in the clouds.

Back In The USSR

This morning I woke up humming 'Hail To The Chief' because the President arrived last night.  No, of course not THAT president.  Ed Cannon took over as President and CEO of FEBC last year after 9 years as the Executive VP of Moody Bible Institute.  Prior to that, he worked for almost 25 years as an executive in the oil industry, primarily for British Petroleum.  I rolled out of bed, opened my door, and there he was; coat, dress shirt, slacks, wingtips and all, ready to go.  I witnessed the coat come off a time or two, but for a while I thought he slept in a dress shirt, slacks, and wingtips until I discovered that sometimes he wears jeans instead of slacks and cowboy boots instead of wingtips.  He's very presidential–he carries himself with an element of decorum and charm (but not self-importance), and yet at the same time, he's incredibly genuine–he engages people in sincere conversation and responds with honesty and interest.  Originally we had planned to have our visits to Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan coincide a little more closely, but unfortunately, he had an annual executives meeting that could not move, so he had to come later, and we would only get to spend a few days together in Central Asia.

Fame in foreign countries–especially less affluent countries–is a curious thing.  Yesterday, we ate lunch at a Turkish fast food place which was relentlessly playing American music videos and American advertisements.  Most of the advertisements feature American models and stars, and those that don't still predominantly feature faces of Russian ethnic background.  There are very few ads featuring ethnically Kazakh models, partially because many local companies probably don't have the funds to afford mass advertising, but also partially because fame and attractiveness have become associated with a more Western look, if not altogether American.  Nurlan's kids are obsessed with One Direction, a teenie-bopper pop group which has made a decent-sized splash in America, but a Beatles-sized splash in Central Asia.  I thought I had come here to get away from One Direction.  Apparently not.  Just like the Beatles, their popularity defies logic as well as cultural borders, and their music videos were present during lunch yesterday, bombarding my senses.  There's a cultural center and tourist attraction on a hill in Almaty known as Kok-Tobe.  There, you can find a statue on a bench in homage to the Beatles, where you can sit with John, Paul, George and Ringo.  Even though The Beatles sang about being back in the USSR, they never actually visited any part of Soviet Russia, let alone Kazakhstan.  I suppose it won't be long before Ardak, Adina, and Dana will be able to have their pictures taken with graven images of One Direction somewhere in town, despite the fact that those prepubescent boys in the music videos probably don't know that  Kazakhstan exists, let alone where to look for it on a map.

I think that though we live with it in every day USA, we're still aware that America is where the movie stars come from, and most of the famous people in the world are American.  But there's more to it than that.  Simply being an American makes you a big deal.  I can say with just as much honesty as facetiousness that I'm a big deal in Kazakhstan.  (Of course I already thought I was a big deal, but Ed sincerely doesn't think he's much to write home about.)  Whenever I've visited people in countries like Kenya, Kazakhstan, and Kyrgyzstan (especially in rural areas), they've frequently gone very far out of their way to welcome me.  I know that in these places, generosity and hospitality is an understood part of the culture, especially when guests are concerned, but I also know that I'm not imagining things or grandstanding when I say that there's a little more effort that goes into the preparations for my visit simply because I'm an American.  In these places, when I tell people that I'm from California, their eyes get a little wider and their jaws drop a little lower.  Though they don't ask me directly, I can tell they're wondering whether the streets in California are actually paved with gold, and whether I received my first Ferrari at the age of 12, or if I had to wait until I was 16.  Today, we returned with Ed to visit Oscar and his family.  We had told them two days ago that we might be returning with THE PRESIDENT, and maybe you can imagine how much more impressed and honored they were to have the chance to host the president of anything from America.  Today's meal was even more carefully prepared than the meal had been two days ago, when they were just hosting a non-presidential American.  We visited with Oscar and his family for several more hours.  Oscar reenacted his powerpoint presentation about the house church movement for Ed, and Oscar's youngest son reenacted his Lil' Rascals routine for me.  It was clear that this is a project for which FEBC will be intentional about looking for support opportunities.  Having satellite radio at Oscar's house has the potential to be a powerful resource for the underground church in Kazakhstan and for a growing number of foster children.

After visiting Oscar and his family again, we engaged in the most appropriate leisure activity Rudi could think of while Ed was visiting.  We took the president to the First President's Park.  Nursultan Nazarbayev is the first and only President of the Republic of Kazakhstan.  He's been the official president since April of 1990, which predates even the fall of the Soviet Union, which was finalized in December of 1991.  He actually assumed office in 1989 under the Soviet Union as the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet (i.e. Chairman of the Head of State), and then won the first presidential election in Kazakhstan in 1991 with a whopping 91.5% of the vote.  Though his name actually includes the word 'sultan', Rudi refers to him appropriately as "a czar", hearkening back to the old tradition of rulers of the Russian Empire, which is a term itself which hearkens back to the caesars of the Roman Empire.  So even though Nazerbayev is 'democratically elected', he's a dictator.  He is, however, a very popular dictator, as evidenced by the fact that he's been reelected 3 times after his initial election, in 1995, 2000, 2005.  In 2007, the constitution was amended to allow him to seek reelection as many times as he wishes, so even though he's 73 now, there's a high probability that he'll continue to be reelected until he's tired.  In 1997, Nazarbayev moved the capitol city from Almaty to Astana in the north of the country, but had the First Presidential Park in Almaty built in his honor, and it is a marvel of landscape architecture.  Rudi insists that he personally commissioned the construction of the park prior to Ed's arrival, and then had it named in Ed's honor.  From within the park, there is an excellent view of the mountains, which improves significantly after hiking up to the vantage point on a hill in the park which overlooks the entire park and most of the city.  Even the streets from the airport to the park are nicer, and continually decorated with flowers, in the event that Nazarbayev might decide to come for a visit to his park.  Of course Rudi claims that he was personally responsible for the nicer streets as well, in preparation for Ed's coming.  And he might as well have been.  The affluent parts of this diverse city were still manufactured to accommodate the fame of one man.

Such notions of fame cause me to reflect upon the traditions of the Orthodox Church, which was once so popular here in an area formerly controlled by the Soviet Union.  In the Orthodox tradition, tremendous care was also taken to glorify and commemorate the fame of one Man–Jesus Christ.  Today, most would call it foolish to spend so much time, energy, and money in praise of a Jewish carpenter who lived 2000 years ago, and certainly no pop star.  Even in the Evangelical Christian community, where the Person of Christ is understood, significant criticism has been levied upon the Orthodox tradition for presenting such ostentatiously syrupy ornate cathedrals and icons as places and tools of worship.  "After all," we might say, "Christ doesn't care about your wealth; He only cares about your soul, and you can worship him just as well in a cardboard box as you can in a gaudy cathedral."  That may be true, but Christ also cares about our first fruits.  If His fame is truly above all others, then He is deserving of the best.  If we, as a culture, roll out the red carpet for One Direction, and build monuments to The Beatles, should we not, as a culture, reserve our finest for the King of kings?  This is why I tend to admire the cathedrals and icons constructed in order to venerate Christ, rather than renounce them.  This is why I am moved by the fact that a large majority of the most renowned works of music and art throughout the last 2000 years have been dedicated to one Man.  It's not mere coincidence, and it's not for nothing.  I long to participate in that tradition.

Five Pillars

In Kazakhstan, people squat.  They squat by the side of the road, they squat by their front door, they squat in groups to have conversations.  It's like a nation of catchers.  I find myself wishing I had a bag full of baseballs with me so that I could practice throwing my curve at every squatting Kazakh.  (My curve needs a lot of practice on account of the fact that I can't throw a curve.)  This is just one of the most prominent things of many that I'm noticing as we head to a more rural part of Almaty to install the next dish on the home of a foster family.  As we drive, Rudi and Nurlan and I discuss the social and spiritual situation here.

Like Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan is culturally Muslim, but most believers are only Muslim because they were raised in Muslim homes, and few are very devout.  The branch of Islam practiced here is Sunni Islam, and specifically the Hanafi school of Islamic law.  Speaking in broad generalizations, Sunni Islam is the less militant branch of Islam, emphasizing 5 pillars of faith; the declaration of faith, prayer, charity, fasting, and pilgrimage.  All very reasonable foundational elements of faith.  The idea of jihad is found more in Shia Islam, which also has several sub-branches, and even among these divisions, jihad doesn't always indicate the pursuit and persecution of non-believers.  Speaking in broad generalizations, the notion that all Muslims are violent is a broad generalization.  Still there is often significant chastisement for those who choose to turn their backs on their Muslim faith, and sometimes significant danger in preaching Christ to them, even in areas where their faith is nominal.  So great care must be taken to present radio that approaches issues from a welcoming talk-show standpoint, and not treating the airwaves as a pulpit.

The FEBC station in Almaty is currently running satellite and internet broadcasts only.  They have yet to procure a radio frequency.  A frequency has been promised, but in Kazakhstan, there is plenty enough red tape and corruption to make it a lengthy process, even if there weren't many opponents to the mission of FEBC, and there are plenty of opponents.  The facility, however, is well-maintained and sizable.  Well-maintained enough for each of us to feel comfortable living there for a week.  Sizable enough to house a peanut butter factory downstairs which I wouldn't even know about if I hadn't been told.  The building is owned by a charitable foundation and is under Rudi's management.  Due to its size and quality, he's on the lookout for partnership opportunities with other Rudi-approved projects and ministries interested in sharing the building and joining the vision Rudi has for it.

Kazakhstan is home to a great many orphans.  Some would not even be categorized as orphans, having parents who aren't necessarily absent, but have marginalized their children so much that they essentially become social orphans, living on their own even though their parents are known and quite nearby.  There is a foster care system here, but it's somewhat inefficient and poorly populated.  Rudi has a passion for getting Christians on the forefront of the development of an effective and widespread foster program in the former Soviet Union.  Lots of missions money is going to orphanages, and that's admirable–orphanages play a badly needed role with disenfranchised kids, but the institutions are not as efficient as a foster care system could be.  The best solution would be to pull the kids out of institutions and orphanages and place them with real families.  In the long run, it would cost less, and generally, it would help reverse the cycle producing a generation of kids who feel forgotten, giving them instead a situation in which they feel accepted.  Rudi would like to use the foundation in Almaty as a center for developing such a foster system–perhaps as a headquarters as well as a church and an apartment with tenants and a peanut butter factory.  What is needed more than materials is mentality.  People need to be trained.  Radio is a great medium for training and advertising training.  We don't need to ask of the Kazakh people "who is willing to be a missionary?"  We need to ask, "who is willing to start a home church, or take in some orphans or older people to care for who don't have convalescent homes?"

Today we set up the satellite dish for a family who clearly fits in with Rudi's vision.  Oscar, with his wife and three young kids, represent a family that's 5 pillars of Christianity, established as an excellent example of what Christian living ought to look like in Kazakhstan, even during this time when Christian living can be dangerous.  Oscar has taken in 4 foster children (making his family of 5 a family of 9), between the ages of 15 and 19.  The state does provide a small amount of money per child for those willing to participate in the foster care system, but it isn't a large sum, and it seems that people are already somewhat culturally opposed to the idea, so there aren't many families taking part.  Oscar is also coordinating an underground church project, aimed at growing the 0.01% population of ethnic Kazakh Christians.  Rudi explains that "a Kazakh administrator is a rare breed."  Again, speaking in broad generalizations, the notion of encouraging and managing joined forces is somewhat unfamiliar to a culture that has been historically nomadic.  Cities here did not really exist until after the Soviets brought the infrastructure and the vision to build an empire.  After a very generous lunch prepared by Oscar's wife (who I'll refer to as Pat, even though I'm certain that isn't her name), Oscar scurried away from the table and returned with a packet of paper outlining the plan of expansion for the house church movement.  If he had possessed a computer and a little software-savvy, he would surely have shown us an elaborate powerpoint presentation.  He flipped page after page, first  explaining statistics about the population of Christians in Kazakhstan, both those who are ethnically Kazakh and those of other racial backgrounds.  Then he detailed the action plan for reaching the surrounding cities, by starting one house church in each of 10 surrounding areas, and training each church to found 10 more.  It's a very Acts-inspired vision; it made such a stupid amount of biblical common sense, I wondered why every evangelical organization ever isn't doing it, and how we could get Oscar to explain it to them.

Oscar raises chickens and grows produce, partly for sale, and partly for his own family to live on, so his work is right there at home, and he never has to be away from his children, or his foster kids.  Another way in which he fulfills perfectly Rudi's vision for the future of foster care in the former Soviet Union.  The chickens provide a constant murmur in the background, punctuated by the occasional rooster crow, and his children provide a constant murmur in the foreground, punctuated by the occasional screech of distress or delight.  His youngest boy, about 3 years old, was a particularly entertaining rascal.  When he wasn't firing his bow and arrow at me, he was stomping on the wooden patio floor (causing the entire structure to resonate from his behemoth footfall), or climbing onto the unused bags of cement around the house, causing them to burst open and spill their contents as a miniature avalanche cascading to the ground.  His two older sisters, perhaps about 5 and 7, would prance around the yard humming their English A,B,Cs, but to a different tune.  I desperately wanted to correct them, because I love crushing the spirits of children, but I was too busy entertaining the young one.  Or perhaps I was being entertained.  It was difficult to tell.  For the final hour of our time there, after I had taken all the pictures I could possibly have needed, and while the final touches of the satellite dish were being set, and Rudi and Oscar were talking in Russian, I allowed the little one to play with my camera.  I kept it strapped around my neck, which kept the camera from being destroyed several times, but also resulted in strangulation several more.  First, I took his picture and showed him.  He giggled.  Then I allowed him to look through the viewfinder while I flipped the camera around and took a picture of myself.  He snickered.  Finally, I allowed him to aim the camera and push the button himself.  He bellowed with joy.  I had to support the camera, because it was a little too heavy for him, and too precious to me, but he did most of the aiming and shooting for a solid 10 minutes.  We would examine every picture together.  I didn't want to instill any false hopes in him regarding his future as a great artist, so I told him with a completely straight face what I thought and didn't hold anything back.  "Dude, that's a terrible shot." I'd say, or, "I'm sorry man, but that's probably the worst picture I've ever seen." or sometimes, "Little guy, don't quit your day job as a mediocre archer to become a pathetic photographer."  Surprisingly enough, he loved being berated.  Every time I mercilessly critiqued his work, he laughed with glee.  Of course he didn't understand a word I was saying, but I like to think that my very constructive criticism has given him the tools for success in the future.

After our time at Pat and Oscar's, we returned to the station for some family time with Nurlan, whose family is also a family of five.  After our meal of bishbarmak (which means 'five fingers' because you're meant to eat it by the handful), we headed up through a small town whose name translates as 'Five Trees' up to a nearby resort low in the mountains known as 'Five Hills'.  Apparently the number 5 is important in the Islamic culture.  When we got home, we all sat down to watch re-runs of Party Of Five.  Just kidding.  When we got home, I did an interview with Nurlan and his wife, Karlygash (whose name also translates to mean something regarding the number 5, but I don't recall exactly what).  Their story is truly remarkable.  Nurlan's ancestors journeyed to Central Asia from Persia as Muslim missionaries.  Now, he preaches Christ to Muslims.  As he's telling me about his ancestry, I can hear the call of the mosque in the distance, impelling the Muslim faithful to take part in the second pillar of their faith–prayer.  Nurlan and Karlygash married 23 years ago, both very young, and had their first son Ardak within a year.  He spoke Kazakh and she spoke Russian.  Like most Kazakhs, they were nominal Muslims, and didn't have much spiritual foundation personally, let alone for the building of a family.  After a short time, Nurlan turned to alcohol, and when things spiraled out of control, they separated.  He eventually called a self-help hotline, and the counselor on the other end advised him to turn to Christ.  He was desperate enough to try anything, so he took the advice, and his life began to turn around.  He went to his then estranged wife, and told her that he had changed.  She didn't believe him.  But after watching him closely for a couple of years, it became clear to her that he truly was a different man, and when she took him back, she took Jesus along with him.  During the interview, Nurlan explained his ancestry and their family history in about 12 minutes, and then Karlygash talked for over an hour.  Husbands and wives in Kazakhstan are still husbands and wives.  I wish I could relay more of their story, but I can't because most of it was told to me in Russian.  My Russian is still a little rusty, so Rudi relayed to me many pieces of their story, but I know that I still haven't presented them all, and God is still working on the puzzle.  Now, Nurlan is a pastor of one of the few ethnically Kazakh Christian churches in Almaty.  Along with Karlygash, Ardak, Adina, and Dana, their family is beacon of light on a pillar outshining the dead faith that once had imprisoned them, and still confines so many in this city.

The Eye in the Sky

This morning, we were at it again.  Purchasing parts and installing a satellite radio receiver, this time at a foster home in another part of Almaty.  That meant more driving.  A lot more.  Nurlan is considered a very cautious driver.  Rudi praised his driving skills on several occasions, sometimes by comparison to Janysh who, though very responsible, is "a younger driver".  Yet even riding along with a good driver in Almaty is an experience.  It's a little bit like riding a hummingbird through an acid rainstorm.  Personally, I find it delightful, as a lover of chaos (because it provides the most interesting subject matter), a lover of thrill and adventure (and roller coasters), and a lover of assertive driving.  Few would find it as delightful as I do, however.  Were my mother to ride along with the cautious Nurlan, it wouldn't be 5 minutes before Nurlan would have to change course and head for the hospital to tend to her cardiac arrest.  At one point, we were traveling along a side street and needed to cross to the other side of a major thoroughfare with three lanes in each direction and two trolley rails in the center, which people drive on anyway, because 6 lanes is not nearly enough.  (If I was driving here, I would do the same–braving death via trolley collision seems favorable compared to braving psychosis-laced boredom via gridlock.)  There would never ever in many hundreds of millions of years have ever been enough of a gap in traffic for us ever to have crossed all 6 lanes and two trolley rails, ever.  So Nurlan just dropped his right-hand drive 1989 Subaru station wagon into first gear and headed out into the fray.  It was very much like frogger.  You remember frogger, right?  It was an old computer game in which you control a frog in the attempt to jump across a busy street dodging cars, and then across a river on swiftly traveling logs, eventually reaching your final destination in a cave on the other side of the river which may or may not contain an alligator.  We drove out into the traffic, advancing lane-by-lane.  The perpendicular traffic would have to stop for us and we would cause further back-up in whichever lane we were blocking, until we were able to pull forward into the next row of cars.  And drivers only stop out of necessity, not out of courtesy.  So the next row of cars would keep moving until Nurlan pulled the front end of the Subaru into their path.  The entire process took at least 10 minutes.  Safely on the other side, we hopped our frog into its cave (because of course frogs live in caves), and parked the car.  This cave was occupied by an electronics store rather than an alligator.  We purchased parts as we had yesterday, but for less money, and this time without anyone yelling at me to put the camera away.

My camera is not the only camera in town, either.  A couple of years ago, they installed traffic cameras everywhere around the city.  These aren't just red light cameras.  These cameras can catch you doing anything, red lights, speeding, not following the lines, running stops, etc… and then they mail you a ticket.  That kind of sneaky government micro-penalizing would cause an absolute uproar in the USA.  There are fines for every little misdemeanor, and as Janysh found out on the drive to Almaty, if you aren't fined, you're forced to 'volunteer' a bribe.  When you're stopped by the police, it seems that bribery is still an accepted, and even recommended form of payment.  Money talks.  In Kazakhstan, the abbreviation for a law enforcement officer, MAI, is the same word that refers to a dog who chases cars.  But because of the traffic cameras, the cops themselves are no longer the enemies, according to Rudi.  People now have the impersonal cameras to worry about, and less cause to be angry with the cops themselves.  Despite the fact that people seem to have vilified the cameras, it's interesting to hear tell of their effects.  According to Rudi and Nurlan, the cameras have "really organized the traffic and made the streets much more orderly."  "Really?" I think to myself, "It used to be worse than this?"  Even with cameras that penalize for speeding, running stops, and disregarding lines, everywhere I look, I see nothing but speeding, running stops, and complete disregard for any type of painted line.  I admit it is more organized than in Bishkek, but it's still complete chaos, and since the city is so much larger than Bishkek, the traffic is many times more prevalent.  So although it might be more carefully regulated, it feels much more chaotic to me.  My need to complain about traffic in LA grows weaker and weaker every time I experience traffic in other countries.  Los Angeles is a golden land where sitting in traffic is like a day at the spa compared to what many experience worldwide.

Incredulous though I might be about the traffic being better than it once was, I completely understand the effect cameras have.  I'm regularly on both sides of the issue.  Of course people are always wary of my camera, even when it's switched off or hanging from my shoulder, but I've learned to be wary of other lenses as well.  Since I'm frequently misbehaving in government buildings and private businesses where there are security cameras everywhere, I have learned to fear being caught on camera too.  Ironic.  The photographer fears the camera because he's using a camera.  Still, I often wonder why others are afraid of mine.  Obviously, when I'm trying to sidestep the rules, I'm on edge.  I'm doing something I'm allegedly not supposed to be doing (although there are not always posted rules).  But if you don't have anything to be worried about, why are you so concerned with my camera?  As it was at the border crossing a couple of days ago, it's often difficult to tell who's more afraid of being caught on camera - me, or them.  We live in an era when cameras signify exposed secrets.  So here in a city where traffic cameras are the law, there is a culture of heightened awareness of the presence of any camera at all.  They're trained to find the camera in any chaotic situation.  We walked into a bank earlier, and even though I kept the lens cap on and the camera switched off the entire time inside, there was still a guard who was pacing and hovering near me looking very perturbed.  Even dummy security cameras that aren't hooked up to any recording device are imposing enough of a threat to cause people to behave.  It's no wonder when I walked into the tech shop yesterday, the manager shouted at me immediately.  He's probably been ticketed by the traffic cameras 17 different times, and now he's predisposed to hate anything with a lens.  So he warned me sternly many times even though I wasn't obviously taking any pictures or video.  Of course I was taking video - I just wasn't obviously taking video.  And I know he didn't know I was taking video, because the guy hollered at me the moment I stepped into the store with the camera hanging from my neck, neither eye peering through any viewfinder, and both hands free.  The camera was rolling, but I wasn't paying any attention to it.  There's no way he could have known, and he still hollered at me, and then followed me around for several minutes reiterating to me several times that pictures are not allowed.  Sorry pal, you give me trouble, I take your picture.  That's the arrangement.  I took down the name and address of the store so I can mail him a copy with a note informing him that he is now under investigation by the KGB.  If money talks, then cameras scream.

Psalm 119 has always been really interesting to me.  The longest chapter in the Bible is about the law.  And not only is it about the law, but it's entirely about how much the psalmist LOVES the law.  In American vernacular, the entire chapter is tantamount to someone saying over and over, "Thanks so much for giving me rules to follow so I don't do dumb stuff.  Rules rule!"  This attitude baffles me because no one thinks rules rule.  Some of us relish our freedom and impulsiveness way too much to have such reverence for rules, and even among those cautious folks who don't cling doggedly to an impetuous way of life, few people really appreciate being told what to do.  Yet this chapter–longer than any other–reads like a love song to the California Vehicle Code.  This is a notion that I've often reflected upon.  I'm well aware of the deficiency that exists within my own heart in resistance to the rules I know are meant for my own good.  In an imperfect world, I've developed a distrust for them, because I understand my own abilities and intentions (for the most part), and I believe that because I'm capable and well meaning, I know better than those trying to regulate my behavior.  Even though most of my transgressions are not regarding ethical issues, I know that there are still reasons for following regulations which I disregard because I know they're made primarily for those who seek to disregard regulations for reasons which are truly unethical.  I know that in large part, this is the wrong perspective.  Psalm 119 has pointed a lens straight at me, and the harsh light of truth reveals my shortcomings.  The psalmist demonstrates that he loves the rules not because he loves being told what to do, but because he loves the right way of living they represent, and the heart of a Ruler who desires that right way of living for each of His subjects.  So many of us go through life doing the right thing, not because we value what's right, but because we're worried about being caught doing what we shouldn't do.  Nurlan is a good driver not because he's constantly worried about being caught on camera, but because he wants to be safe in a chaotic environment.  There are still risks involved–no one would be able to drive here at all without developing driving habits that would be considered insane on US roads–but the risks are dampened by an intention towards safety.  What I'm still learning, and what I anticipate will take a lifetime to learn, is how to shift thinking away from concern for being caught toward concern for actually doing wrong, and eventually away from even a concern for doing wrong toward a simple desire to just do right.  Taking a camera into a government building is often a good reminder.  The sooner we can learn to see the Ruler not as someone to avoid upsetting but rather as someone worth pleasing, the sooner righteousness will flow naturally.

Toto, I've A Feeling We're Not In Kentucky Anymore

I have now been to half of the countries in the world beginning with the letter 'K'.  I'm not sure how or when I'll make it to Kuwait, Kosovo, or Kiribati, but the simple notion that I've visited three of the six is enough for me to make it an official life goal.  I may not get to see every country in the world, but seeing all of the Ks is within my grasp.  The odor of yesterday's border crossing and kumis had been washed away by the rain, and as I looked out the window of my room in the Almaty station, it was clear that we were officially over the rainbow.  The FEBC station in Almaty is a large three-story office and apartment building owned by a charitable foundation and under Rudi's direct management.  Most of the rooms are vacant, especially on the top floor, but there is a handful of tenants on the first floor, as well as a business.  The business couldn't be any more strangely coincidental–it's a peanut butter factory.  Not only is the one substance to which I'm most susceptible being manufactured right below me, but it's probably the only place in Almaty where it's being manufactured at all.  Peanut butter is not very popular in this part of the world, so such a factory is a rarity to begin with.  Furthermore, since Rudi manages the building, the toxic tenants downstairs keep us supplied with little cups of kryptonite for free.  Of course Rudi just can't resist offering me a sample every time he gets a delivery.  With the exception of not being included in the free treats club, there's nothing to smell aside from coincidence, and there are no ill effects aside from irony.

Nevertheless, I was glad to escape the irony and embark upon our first full day in Almaty.  Our primary task was to purchase a satellite radio receiver with accompanying dish, and travel out to a rural part of Almaty where we would install it at the home of a woman helping to manage a rehab center for men recovering from drug and alcohol addictions.  And when I say 'we would install it', I mean 'Nurlan and Ardak would install it while Rudi and I skulk about doing nothing'.  Our secondary task was to spend some time seeing the city.  Secondary things first.  We braved the chaotic traffic through downtown Almaty to an area that was once something like the Soviet cultural center of Central Asia back when there were Soviets who wanted to implant their culture in Central Asia.  There is a large memorial called the Paniflov War Memorial dedicated to the 28 Kazakh soldiers from Almaty who died fending off Nazi tanks near Moscow in 1941.  There's an inscription that reads something to the effect of "This far, and no farther."  It's a compelling sculpture of soldiers hewn out of solid stone: very raw and foreboding.  But we did go farther, because beyond the war memorial sits the Ascension Russian Orthodox Cathedral, sometimes known as the Zenkov Cathedral.  It rivals to some extent St. Basil's Cathedral in Moscow, although the domes are more traditionally European in design, and not onion-shaped.  Of course there are fewer tourists around, so the pigeons have more room to run.  And run they do, because there is a throng of Kazakh children scampering about in frenzied attempts to catch the flying rats.  On a couple occasions, I witnessed a child actually apprehend a pigeon, and in both instances, the child was completely dumbstruck as to what to do next.  Both kids simply stared at their quarry, mouth agape, knees knocking, with little child wheels turning.  When, after a few moments, the wheels had finally turned enough, each kid released their respective pigeon in a sudden panic, realizing, "oh oh OH – I should not be holding this!"  And each kid immediately returned to pigeon-chasing.  While I was stalking Kazakh children who were stalking Kazakh pigeons, Rudi was stalking me and explaining some of the history of the cathedral.  It's still active, but not nearly as active as it was before Kazakhstan gained independence from the USSR.  It's noteworthy because every piece of it (down to the nails themselves) is made out of wood, and it's the second-tallest wooden building in the world.

After some sightseeing, we went to something like the Kazakh version of Radio Shack to purchase parts.  Of course I was accosted for even having a camera, though I'm certain they didn't know I was taking pictures.  And in keeping with policy: if you give me trouble, I take your picture.  The portrait I captured of the store manager is distant and blurry, but I just can't bring myself to delete it, because he asked for it.  City exploration accomplished and purchases made, it was time for installation, but it would take us a while to get there (especially traveling these crowded streets), so first, it was lunch time.

The movie Demolition Man (a film unsurpassed in excellence and one of the most egregious Academy Award snubs in history) takes place in a futuristic society in which all restaurants are Taco Bell.  The expertly-fabricated backstory explains that the food industry in the utopian society came under a monopoly, and even the most fine dining experience is provided by Taco Bell.  There was a time when I made mockery of this idea, noting how ridiculous it was that what we consider to be the lowest class of food service could possibly become so highly esteemed.  Now such a dystopian future seems all too real a possibility, and it's not funny.  Without time for an authentic Kazakh lunch, we went to KFC.  And it was a temple.  Suddenly the Orthodox Cathedral I had just visited seemed insignificant.  This KFC had an ultra-modern decor, a swanky lounge area, and more space and variety of seating than any fast food restaurant I'd ever seen in the USA.  There were LCD advertising screens inlaid into the bathroom mirrors.  Clearly this was Colonel Sanders' very own private eating establishment.  He was just allowing the simple people of Almaty to dine with him.  I asked if the Colonel was in, but I didn't understand the response.  So what would often be considered among the lowest classes of fast food in the US is actually a high class experience here.  And it's expensive to boot (our bucket of chicken and 5 sodas amounted to $37), but the place was packed.  Apparently this is not a struggling franchise.  It's been a while since I've been to a KFC, but I immediately recognized that the chicken here had a slightly different flavor, and in our discussion over lunch, I discovered the reason why.  In Kazakhstan, all restaurants serving cooked food must use local products.  Kazakhstan Fried Chicken.  Furthermore, McDonald's apparently won't play along with Kazakhstan's rules, and that explains the conspicuous absence of golden arches in Almaty.  It probably also explains why KFC can be so popular here–less competition.  I left lunch pondering the end of the world and whether or not the inevitability of all restaurants becoming KFC would happen in my lifetime.

After quite a long drive through the city, a seemingly interminable stretch through a bazaar of sorts (where we bought a miniature flag of Kazakhstan and were presented with many more trinkets that we did not buy), and a short jaunt down a rolling dirt road, we finally arrived in a rural village north of Almaty where we found the rehab center.  We were greeted by Dorothy and her dog Grom.  Dorothy is a 71 year old retired school teacher from New Zealand who developed a heart for the Kazakh people and has been here on a semi-permanent basis for nearly 20 years.  She has sold most of what she owns and lives very humbly in a house near the rehab center.  Technically it's two stories, but the bottom story looks like it was originally built by Genghis Khan, and the top appears to have been assembled by very large birds attempting to build a nest out of ancient tree branches.  Dorothy has a meager farm with pigs, chickens, rabbits, and an assortment of fruits and vegetables.  She makes jam and other delights for the men, and puts several of them to work tending the pigs (pigs–I might add–that stink more like pigs than any pigs I have ever smelled).  It's a very primitive way of life.

Suitably, Grom is also quite a primitive creature.  If all dogs are decedent from the gray wolf, then Grom seems to have been plucked from an older part of the family tree.  He's a large German Shepherd with a wagging tail and one floppy ear, but he's no mild-mannered Toto.  He barks uncontrollably at every passerby.  Though he seems good natured at first, there's a distance threshold that, once crossed by a stranger, converts Grom into a primeval wolf-monster.  If a person is within about 12 feet, the teeth come out, and he starts straining desperately at the end of his chain with all his paleolithic might, yearning to tear them apart.  Furthermore, he has a real wolf's den.  This is no doghouse.  It's a cave in the ground, entirely of his own making.  Apparently he has delved so deeply that he can reach the limit of his 20-foot chain underground.  Soon after we arrived, one of the men tossed Grom a chicken that had died of unknown causes and was unfit for human consumption.  Apparently Grom did not have the same reservations about its cause of death.  First he buried it, and when we came back a couple of hours later, he had deemed it appropriately seasoned, and had almost completely devoured it.  I discovered later that 'grom' means 'thunder'.  A primitive beast named for an ancient force of nature.

Dorothy, too, is a force of nature.  She has traveled farther and endured modes of transportation far more frightening than a tornado.  How many grandmothers could really live like this?  She lives on the pennies they earn from selling eggs, jam, and honey by the side of the road and to the neighbors.  The men also make bricks, some for sale, but mostly for the sake of improving the rehab center.  There are usually around 20 of them, though the number fluctuates as men become ready to rejoin the world or grow deeper in need of being removed from it.  They all live together in a moderate two story house, much nicer than Dorothy's, but still no palace.  Having the ability to listen to FEBC on satellite radio provides them with great encouragement and sound teaching.  Useful tools for living with courage in the world, let alone for overcoming oppressive addictions.  They need every bit of emotional, psychological, and spiritual fortification they can get.  Dorothy helped to found the center, and the men see her as their grandmother, even though she has actual grandchildren elsewhere in the world.  "The worst part," she remarks, "is being so far from my grandkids."  A true grandmother.  Her cares are limited to her grandkids.  Everything else is easy to manage.  She does have an apartment in Almaty city, but she stays here alone on the farm for most of the summer, and even parts of winter.  She has made this place her home, and her example gives the men the courage to dare to think that it could be their home too.  "If granny can do it, why not a big tough guy like me?"

One of the things I've always liked about the Wizard of Oz is the way the Wizard grants the wishes of the four travelers.  I suspect that there are those who look upon that as the worst part of the story.  Some might say that it's a total cop-out.  Anti-climactic.  The Wizard who we've so eagerly anticipated would solve all our problems doesn't possess magical powers at all.  Instead, he gives us a few trinkets, a kind word or two, and pats us on the head.  He's just a glorified grandmother behind smoke and mirrors.  But what the nay-sayers don't see is that the Wizard does have magical powers–they're just not the powers we expected.  The Wizard possesses the power that all of us possess, and the power that good grandmothers wield so effectively; the power to find value in people and to help them see that value in themselves, bestowing dignity upon them.  The smoke and mirrors routine is only for those unfortunate critics who are too narrow-minded to value the magic as it is, and need it to be something else.  When you pin a medal on someone's chest, it's more than a reward.  It actually does grant courage.  A cowardly man who has been honored with a medal is no different than he was before he had it, but he will see himself differently, and subsequently, he will act as someone who has courage.  The military has been doing this for centuries, and there's a reason they keep doing it.  It works.  There's a great exchange in the movie Kingdom Of Heaven in which a critic sees Balian (the protagonist) knighting the common men of Jerusalem before battle and contests "Does making a man a knight make him a better fighter?"  Balian dubs another knight, turns to his critic, and with great certainty, simply says "Yes".  As soon as he responds, there is a gleam of valor and pride in the eyes of the poor common man who was just knighted.  You get the sense that even though that man might die, he will fight like a banshee and die with honor.  The sooner we can live our lives simply seeing ourselves as knights of the kingdom of God, the sooner we can approach life with courage we never thought possible.

I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this.  In this story, Dorothy IS the wizard.  She values the men living in the rehab center and treats them with dignity.  For many of them, this is their second, third, or fourth prolonged stay.  Each time they return, they are accepted, even when the cycle seems unbreakable, and even when the thought of returning only seems to multiply shame upon shame.  We spoke–well, Rudi spoke with several of the men and heard their stories, then relayed the big picture to me afterwards.  Every guy Rudi talked with had a compelling story, and conveyed the feeling of hope and purpose he had been given because of the rehab center.  I've no doubt that the same is true of the guys we didn't meet.  Grace is power and love is magic.  They are older and stronger than thunder.  They break chains, defy logic, and grant hope.  We may not always wield them perfectly, but we have an example of One who did, and we can both accept for ourselves and grant to others real courage when we follow that example.  We can become knights and bestow knighthood of a new country, and make that place our true home without the use of sequin-bedazlled shoes.  Dorothy is a great example, but she'd tell you that she's just following the real Example.  This trip over the rainbow has helped me to see that in a new way.

The Border and the Brink

Bishkek and Almaty both lie right on the edge of the Kyrgyzstan-Kazakhstan border, but on different sides (obviously, since they're in different countries).  And both lie on the northern edge of the Tian Shan mountain range.  Aside from a valley somewhere in the middle, the small country of Kyrgyzstan is almost completely mountainous, while the enormous country of Kazakhstan is almost completely flat.  Geographically, Kazakhstan can be very proud of being the largest of several things of which a country probably does not want to be the largest.  It's the ninth largest country in the world, but by far the largest landlocked country.  The steppes of Kazakhstan form the largest region of continuous dry high plains in the world.  From the mountainous southern border, you can look north across over a thousand miles of gently rolling hills to the horizon.  If you were to travel those thousand miles, you would come across just about nothing, all the way to Siberia.  It's also bordered on the West by the Caspian Sea, which is the world's largest lake, but since no body of water wants to be known as the biggest lake, they call it a sea to make it feel better about itself.  Likewise the Aral Sea is partly within Kazakhstan, and even though it's significantly smaller than the Caspian, it would throw a fit if it wasn't allowed to copy its big brother, so they call it a sea as well.  Our three-hour drive today was in the margin–the flat area on the verge of being mountainous, the Kazakh region on the verge of being Kyrgyz, the direct route on the verge of weaving.

At least we thought the drive would take 3 hours.  Bishkek lies much closer to the border than Almaty, so after 30 minutes, we were at the crossing.  Once we'd crossed, we'd have a long, uninterrupted 2.5 hours along the Kazakhstan edge of the border.  But first, we had to cross.  Rudi, Anni and I got out of the car with most of our bags to walk across while Janysh followed in the car.  There was a line of cars at the border so long it bordered on interminable.  Since the customs procedures would be different for the three of us compared to Janysh, a Kyrgyz citizen, it made sense for us to split up.  Furthermore, there is a trend of illegal car-smuggling from Kyrgyzstan into Kazakhstan.  It seems strange to think of smuggling a car, considering that cars are typically the vessels in which other things are smuggled, but since vehicles in Kyrgyzstan are significantly cheaper, it has become common for entrepreneurial-minded individuals to purchase cars in Bishkek and sell them in Almaty for a profit.  So while the three of us dealt with our own migration details, Janysh handled a completely different set.

Our migration details began with a long line of people waddling slowly toward a giant gate through a long and narrow cage that would have made any type of emergency evacuation absolutely impossible.  Safety first, right guys?  The on-foot crossing begins maybe 400 meters from the first of two customs offices, as a pathway about 2 meters wide with metal bars on either side and a corrugated tin roof (I'm even starting to think in the metric system).  Despite the fact that we were plodding like cattle (toward an end that would turn out to be much closer to slaughter than I would have expected) through a narrow chute that practically forced us to travel single file, the concept of a line still seemed foreign to these people.  There was constant pushing, nudging, and jockeying for position.  I was on the brink of a claustrophobic breakdown.  Each centimeter forward was a victory won at the cost of someone else's progress, and several people behind continually crept forward in repeated attempts to cut in front.  Were it not for Rudi behind me making himself as wide as his slender frame would allow, we surely would have been unjustly bypassed several times.

When we finally reached the slaughterhou–I mean, the customs office, the claustrophobia reached a climax.  The corridor opened up into a large room which contained several booths, each housing an official.  Ironically, more space, immediately resulted in more crowding.  The larger room provided more opportunity to circumvent the universally-agreed-upon single-file procedure, and people pressed forward shoulder-to-shoulder-to-back-to-hip-to-elbow-to-knee-to-armpit.  The narrow cage which I had grown to despise moments ago actually seemed comforting.  I looked back with longing, but knew I must press on.  One lady behind Rudi thought she might be able to get ahead if she could get her bag in front of us.  She put it on the floor and scooted it continually forward with her foot, even when the crowd was not moving.  Eventually, the bag was beside me, and almost at the end of the reach of her leg, yet she limboed down under Rudi's arm (which was glued to the handrail in order to prevent her from passing) and scooted her bag forward still.  Despite the fact that neither Rudi nor I would have consented to her passing us just because her bag had somehow magically appeared in front, anyone with the inclination could have simply reached down and stolen her stuff.  When we finally reached the passport window, someone did pick up her bag, and simply handed it back to her.  I don't know if I have ever had to resist an urge stronger than the urge I had to turn around and laugh in her face.

On the other side of the border, Rudi and Anni and I waited.  We waited and waited.  We waited until we could wait no more, and then we waited more.  When an adventurous photographer has a camera and nothing else to do, he takes copious amounts of pictures.  It does not matter where he is, or whether the fact that a border crossing is not the most advisable place in which to take pictures.  So I took copious amounts of pictures.  Of people.  Of cars.  Of dogs.  Of trash.  Of the gas station where we were waiting.  Of the foreign border officials… (oh, right–I'm the foreign one…) Of the domestic border officials.  It turns out that domestic border officials do not like their picture taken.  Domestic border officials always throw a fit when you try to take pictures of the domestic border officials at the border.  So the domestic border officials tried to arrest me.  If I'm not on the verge of being arrested, I must be doing something wrong.  I'm accustomed to the idea that as long as I take pictures, and as long as I hold to the notion that all activity lies well within the bounds of the artist's scope, I will be frequently faced with near-arrested-experiences, and forever at odds with the domestic officials.  And I'm absolutely ok with that.

I was knelt down by the side of the road with the camera pointed toward the border crossing when a guard approached me from the side saying "You come with me."  I love interacting with officials who clearly don't speak much English, because I can be as dry and underhanded as I want in response, as long as I do it with an accommodating smile and a tone of voice that isn't too snide.  "That's ok," I replied, "I'm good here."  He pressed further, and I politely declined a few more times before beginning to head back to where Rudi and Anni were waiting with our bags.  I didn't have my passport physically on me at the time, so I hoped he'd eventually succumb to the lost-in-translation routine.  He didn't.  I told him I had a passport "over there" and that I needed to get it before I went with him, but he insisted that I go immediately, and I finally did, once I got him to assure me that I would be able to return if I went along.  We headed back into the border crossing compound where he showed me to his superior officer.  "You, journalist?" he asked in a tone that implied that he simultaneously hoped I was so he could arrest me, and hoped I wasn't so I wouldn't reveal whatever it was I shouldn't be seeing.  I almost replied, "That depends, do you have something to hide?"  I didn't though, because this guy seemed to understand just enough English that the sardonic subtlety might actually hit home, thereby inviting more trouble.  A part of me hoped that there really was something shady going on at the border so that I could expose it and break onto the journalism scene with a bang.  Honestly, I don't know why else they'd be so paranoid about a camera at the foot crossing between Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan unless they really did have something to hide.  "Tourist." I said, adding, "I have a visa in my passport." motioning to the freedom beyond the gate.  The superior officer called over his superior officer, who called over another superior officer.  Eventually, I was scrolling through pictures on my camera exhibiting to them that I had not taken any incriminating photos, and that everything I had shot was "out there" and not "in here".  Finally, they let me go.  On my way out, another guard at the gate who had not been involved in the process stopped me and demanded that I wait while he retrieved his superior officer.  "Seriously, homeboy?" I retorted, "Your buddy literally just told me I could go."  I motioned to 'his buddy' who came over, and reinforced my right to leave.  "Thanks, boss."  I concluded.  As I walked away, I flipped the camera around and took his picture.  You give me trouble, I take your picture; that's the arrangement.  I rejoined Rudi and Anni and recounted the last 20 minutes.  Looking back on the incident, I still prefer the verge of being arrested to the verge of fatal boredom.

Back at the gas station with Rudi and Anni, I witnessed the illegal activity the border officials were trying to hide.  They didn't want me to see their melons.  An old beat-up Russian car, the likes of which is only found in movies about the Russian mafia, pulled up under the awning and out stepped a disheveled-looking Kazakh with the last fringes of a cigarette butt hanging out of his mouth.  In the back window, I could see the tiny car was filled to the roof with watermelons.  A couple of the unofficial border officials (guys wearing military-issue camouflage who weren't actually patrolling the border but I had seen them commiserating with on-duty guards) trotted up to the fruit-laden hunk of junk and his car, and instantly began melon negotiations.  After some lively repartee, and more than enough sideways glances to be suspicious, they walked away with two of the biggest specimens.  I don't know exactly what's packed inside, but I'm on the brink of a story that will surely expose the corruption within the ranks of the Kazakh border patrol.

Finally, almost 4 hours later, Janysh emerged from the border gate.  Even though I had just been on the verge of Kazakh prison, It was clear that Janysh had drawn the short straw today.  Sure enough, they did suspect that he was attempting to take the car across the border to sell, and they gave him the worst kind of run-around.  The kind that involves government ignoramuses.  Janysh had to remove everything from the car, including a couple of bags we had left (one containing my laptop–yikes), and some very expensive and large audio equipment we were delivering to the studio in Almaty.  They opened up panels of his doors, and even removed the air filter, running the whole thing through an x-ray machine and letting the dogs loose on it for a while, and I don't mean that the dogs were marking their territory.  But the domestic border officials sure marked their territory well.  We get it guys.  This is your turf.  Another half hour down the road, as we were still discussing the ridiculous nuisance of the border crossing, we arrived at a police checkpoint.  It seems that there's a law in Kazakhstan that all vehicles must have their headlights on, and Janysh was in severe violation of that law, which was not posted anywhere along the road.  "How am I supposed to know?" he asked them.  A very reasonable question.  "You must read the laws."  An absolutely ridiculous answer.  They had seen his ID card, and they knew he was from another country.  No one in Canada would expect a visiting American to have read whatever 2-page document they have describing the 16-or-so Canadian rules and regulations (but then again, everyone in Canada is just too nice to be concerned with in the first place).  The fine for not having headlights on amounted to almost $80.  Needless to say, Janysh wasn't going to pay that, so the officer offered an alternative, "I haven't had lunch yet, maybe you give me some money for tea."  So Janysh volunteered a few bucks to the officer's personal fund and we were on our way.

The rest of the drive proceeded without incident.  When I say 'without incident', what I mean is that we didn't die.  It's impossible to drive the road from Bishkek to Almaty without experiencing close call after close call.  Drivers have as little respect for lines as people trying to cross the border on foot.  The middle of the two-lane highway is apparently reserved for anyone and everyone who might want to pass anyone and everyone else traveling furious speeds at any time or every time.  Most of the time, the two-lanes are three cars wide, and who knows what direction the car in the middle is going.  We drove along the bleeding edge of safety between the mountains on our right and the thousand miles of prairie on our left.  And then it started pouring rain.  This rain was unlike any rain I have ever witnessed.  These were Asia-sized drops of rain, and they pelted the windshield as if God was angry at water, and water was trying to run away.  All the way through Almaty the torrent continued until we couldn't see anything in front of us, even with the windshield wipers on full boar.  Once in Almaty city, traffic becomes completely chaotic, but I didn't really realize how chaotic it was until later, because we couldn't see it well enough to notice the chaos.

And then I ate horse.

There's a mildly humorous expression in which a person may wrap up a very boring story by saying "… and then I found five dollars." in an attempt to make their terrible story interesting.  I have decided to adopt a similar strategy for improving upon my terrible stories by concluding with "… and then I ate horse."  You might wonder where I came up with this idea.  I'll tell you.  I came up with it tonight at dinner when I ate horse.  We arrived at the FEBC station in Almaty 4 hours later than expected to meet Nurlan, the station manager, his wife Karlygash, their son Ardak, and their daughters Adina and Dana.  They had prepared a very generous meal for us, including a pile of flat sheets of pasta boiled with beef and onions known as bishbarmak, several different kinds of meats and cheeses, pastries and salad, and kazy.  Kazy is sausage made with horse meat.  As I was chewing on the horse meat, Nurlan was pouring drinks for everyone, as a good host often does.  "What's this, milk?" I asked as he filled my cup to the brim.  "No, no, no, no!" Rudi exclaimed, practically jumping out of his chair.  He said something else to Nurlan in Russian, clearly trying to get him to pour smaller portions.  Obviously this was not milk.  At least not the milk I'm accustomed to.  I don't think Rudi would try so hard to protect me from milk.  Rudi explained, "This is kumis.  It's fermented horse milk."  I tried not to react, but failed miserably.  "I'm sorry, it's what WHAT what?"  Rudi reiterated "Fermented horse milk." and passed my full cup over to Janysh.  Janysh already knews he didn't like kumis, but he accepted it anyway.  As Rudi was explaining, Nurlan continued sloshing out the kumis into every empty glass, as if it was liquid happiness, and Rudi continually tried to slow him down.  Rudi protected me once again, taking the next cup for himself, which had a little less than the one which ended up in Janysh's hands.  The third cup still had WAY too much in it, but I accepted it anyway, not wanting to be rude.  And the answer to your question is "Yes."  Whether your question is "Is it gross?" or "Does it taste like rancid coconut mixed with hand soap mixed with despair?" or "Would you rather peel off your taste buds one-by-one with a fish hook?" the answer to all of these questions is "Yes."  So after a day on the brink of disaster, I crashed into bed on the brink of an upset stomach.

Sundays in the Park

It's Sunday.  Traveling abroad always seems like entering another plane of existence devoid of time.  Of course I'm aware of the passage of time, but I'm rarely aware of the hour, and almost never aware of the day.  My lack of awareness of time-keeping, in a sense, sends me back in time to an era before clocks and calendars.  To an era when we lived in caves and did the same thing every day because the big yellow thing rose in the sky and we needed food so we grabbed our spears and ran off to capture some sort of wild prehistoric caribou and pick some sort of wild prehistoric berries.  Hotel Dostuk, in it's monolithic form, is very much like a giant rock formation, and my dwelling, therefore, very much like a cave.  I was tempted to find a spear and hunt for my breakfast in lieu of facing the food in the Arizona room once more, but I had not the time.  Even when I'm not keeping track of the time, I still have little of it.  I grabbed my camera rather than a spear, and rushed to head downstairs to meet my ride, which had four tires and a steering wheel rather than four hooves and a mane.  If we hadn't gone to church, I wouldn't have known that it's Sunday.

Church this morning was a Russian Baptist church, which really just means it was a bunch of Russian people gathering together to worship and fellowship.  Generally speaking, I get the sense that denominations have little bearing on the church worldwide.  It's only in the USA (or perhaps the cultural West) that Methodists, Baptists, Lutherans, Episcopalians, and Quakers try so hard to establish such clear denominational boundaries.  Perhaps the Russians do notice a significant difference, but church here just seemed to me like church in Kenya, Mexico, or Hungary; a bunch of people who love Jesus coming together one day a week in order to love Jesus better.  One distinguishing factor was that this was predominantly an ethnically Russian church.  There were a few Kyrgyz people in attendance, but most of the congregation was clearly Russian.  Since the Kyrgyz people are culturally Muslim, there are far fewer Kyrgyz churches, even though their Muslim faith is very nominal.

Another factor unifying this church in Kyrgyzstan with other church experiences I've had in other parts of the world was the presence of children.  Whether by intentional choice or–more likely–by lack of funding and volunteers, churches elsewhere in the world rarely have children's programs.  So if mom and dad want to come to church, the kids come too.  Perhaps these people see bringing the kids to church as an unfortunate necessity, or even a chore, but it seems to me that the kids see it as an outing.  It's like a day in the park.  Of course it can be boring after a while if not much seems to be going on, and of course every child causes a disturbance at some point during the service, but at least it's something different that isn't like every other day.  Not being a parent with any real experience, it seems to me that Americans pander to their children a lot more than necessary.  It seems that American kids are often poorly behaved because they've been given so much, and allowed to direct the activities instead of being told to come along and attend life like the adults do.  Of course it's good for kids to know that they're loved, and I would never speak ill of the importance of biblical teaching at a child's level, but sometimes 'love' results in spoiled children, and sometimes too much kids' church results in kids who don't understand church (yes, yes, I also realize that children's church is as much for the parents' sake as it is for the kids).  So the kids were present, and there was a delightful commotion of wonder and fidgeting.  After a service like this, church without kids present seems a bit stale.  I remember the few times we've had the kids stay through the whole service at my home church, and I find the buzz refreshing, even though many probably find it distracting.  In today's service, it was understood, and because it was understood, it was not a distraction.  The kids aren't catered to, and they don't have their own special kids' church.  They sit in church like everyone else.  Once in a while, a child will cause too much of a fuss, at which point he or she will be taken outside by mom or grandma for a different kind of kids' church; the one-on-one kind that no child wants to experience.

And church is not short.  It seems that I'm not the only one in other parts of the world who isn't very concerned with what time it is.  In a far less time-conscious society, church starts when everyone's there, and ends when the pastor has spoken and all the songs have been sung.  Again, this is similar to experiences I've had during other travels.  We sang several hymns in that infamous Russian style characterized by the minor key, the methodical cadence, and the long and lyrical phrases.  Russian hymns would probably sound too somber to most American ears accustomed to upbeat, life-is-always-wonderful-with-Jesus, celebratory worship choruses, but I find these hymns to be beautiful in a sweeping and majestic sort of way.  Just like Russia (or Kyrgyzstan).  Between hymns, one old babushka read some poetry, one young German student shared a short message, several assorted choir members presented songs, and one lively Rudi Wiens conferred grace and truth to all.

Rudi is a radio personality, even off-air.  There's almost always a twinkle in his eye and a grin on his face.  He loves to share crazy stories and often pokes good-natured fun at friends and companions with a wink and a smile.  You might think, upon meeting him, that he's just being an entertainer, but I can say genuinely after several consecutive days with him, that it's all genuine.  And it's all infused with the sincere love of Christ.  First Rudi played the guitar and sang a couple of songs.  One song he played, called 'Kto Ya' (meaning 'Who Am I?'), was a song I was familiar with.  Last October during our annual church missions conference, we had an international worship night which I helped to plan and lead, and Rudi shared this song with us and was gracious enough to allow me to sing and play piano along with him, completely butchering the whole thing.  It was long enough ago, and I was already slow enough as it was, and it was in a foreign enough language (and by 'foreign enough', I mean 'completely foreign') that I didn't remember it well, but I really wanted to sing along.  Afterwards, Rudi presented a message.  He was a bit uncertain beforehand as to whether they'd receive it well, because he's such a jocular fellow in stark contrast to their typical solemn church experience; not only were they Baptists, but they were Russian Baptists.  Nevertheless, he had everyone laughing within moments, and it was clear as Anni was beside me translating some of his message, that he was laying down some serious truth from God's Word as well.

After church, the time-devoid day in the park continued.  We took Sunday afternoon off.  If I was already oblivious to time as a traveler in a foreign culture less concerned with schedule, then the concept of 'free time' really transported me to a new state of being.  Back in my hotel room, I took a nap for who knows how long, and then decided to do some exploring.  Across the street from Hotel Dostuk, there is an abandoned, gutted, former casino building.  Talk about a day in the park.  It was an absolute playground for me.  (No, not in the sense that I was swinging on every piece of rusty metal like monkey bars.)  I love mysterious places and evidence of past civilization, and one of the exciting things for me about visiting the former USSR is knowing that the communist expansion and rapid recoil left behind cities worth of mysterious ruins of recent history.  I suppose I would liken myself to some sort of urban Indiana Jones, but without the wealth of localized archaeological expertise.  In fact, to go waltzing in there without knowing what unsavory creatures might await would indicate that I'm without any intelligence whatsoever.  But waltz in, I did.  And I played like a kid at Disneyland, journeying down dark hallways and meandering through ancient ballrooms while dodging fallen scaffolding and feeling the broken glass crunch under my feet.  Several hundred pictures later, I got a call from Rudi, wondering if I was ready for our evening activities.

I rushed across the street and met Rudi and Anni, and we headed out for two more church experiences.  First, we stopped in at a gathering for international Christians living in Bishkek.  They're an unofficial group made up of Australians, Brazilians, Canadians, and many more who are residing in Kyrgyzstan for various lengths of time doing ministry work.  When we arrived, they were in the middle of concluding their service with prayer, and then planned to break into small groups for further study.  We waited around for a few minutes to see if there'd be an opportunity to visit.  It seemed that there wouldn't be, so we headed for our other evening fellowship destination; a youth group from a local church that meets in a large park for some more outreach-oriented congregating.  When we arrived, we found about 20-30 high school to college-aged students playing tag.  There seemed to be a more even mixture of Russians to ethnic Kyrgyz among this number, and we enjoyed watching for a while.  Rudi caught up with the leader of the group, a son of a pastor connected to the FEBC ministry in Bishkek, and discovered that today was more of an outreach-minded meet-and-greet than an actual worship gathering.  I meandered through the heavily wooded park (Bishkek is already a city covered in trees, but this park was a veritable forest) and happened upon a homeless couple sleeping under the pine canopy.  The old homeless fellow spotted me and teetered over to pose for the camera, even donning a shaggy blonde wig at one point.  Then, he apparently decided that I would be an excellent candidate for his expert instruction, and began beckoning me to follow him around pointing off in different directions, jabbering on in Kyrgyz.  Even though I clearly don't speak an ounce of Kyrgyz, I could tell that this was a special dialect of the language known as drunken Kyrgyz.  I think he was attempting to coach me on subject matter for photography.  I indulged him for a moment or two, snapping shots of whatever it was he was pointing at in whatever direction he was pointing; pictures which I reviewed and immediately deleted, because they were almost totally uninteresting.  Finally he guided me back to the youth group, and instructed me to take pictures of them.  I figured I had laughed and smiled enough for him and didn't need any more shots in the park, so I took his final piece of advice and rejoined the group, now finished with tag and playing dodgeball.  It seems that playing games in the park looks the same anywhere, regardless of culture or country.  Finally it started to rain.  It was that refreshing kind of rain with which every good day in the park ought to conclude.  Rudi and Anni and I caught a taxi back towards Dostuk, and stopped for some Chinese food.  Considering that we're in a country that shares a border with China and were being served by a genuine Chinese staff, I'm going to consider it truly authentic Chinese food.  We had beef with noodles and sweet and sour chicken, and everything was absolutely delicious.  It was a trip aboard the real Panda Express.  Just the sort of meal for finishing a rainy Sunday in the park.