Bishkek Smiles in the Day, but ...

Five Kyrgyz soldiers, donning camouflage suits, sizeable batons and square-faced grimaces, surround Fatboy's, the British-owned expat hangout where I now sit. Let me put aside the hilarity of me actually being in a cafe with this name -- there are two vegetarian options and, most importantly, Coca Cola Light, apparently the only such vendor in Bishkek. Today is Independence Day, celebrating fifteen tumultuous years of self-governance, the Kyrgyz are out in masses and many families from the rural villages have convoyed in to enjoy the celebration. Last year's partially successful Tulip Revolution, styled after similar successful Color Revolutions that tore through the ex-Soviet satellites Georgia and Ukraine, sought to overthrow President Askar Askaev's increasingly corrupt regime. During the crackdown in which three people were killed, the police and militia were so overwhelmed by angry mobs that they simply went home. The ensuing looting, focused mainly on Turkish and Western owned businesses, was intense. Since then, the police presence in Bishkek has been slight and street crime after dark has spiked. Bishkek smiles in the day but shows its teeth at night. I have already been warned by two embassy workers to not walk alone at night as Kyrgyz men will attack in groups of four, beating foreigners and taking everything, including their clothing. That severely limits the amount of fun to be had by this urban trekker!

I now watch Kyrgyz passersby staring/glaring curiously/suspiciously at the fellow foreigners around me. To my right, a group of Germans blabbering auf Deutsch about their oil investments and the cheapness of life here. On the left is an effete backpacker trio and, judging from their pit-stained tees, chain smoking and noticeable lack of testosterone, they must be French. One of them sports a black nappy-fro (ala Spin Doctors, 1992) and garners titters and stares from every other sidewalk gaper. The two rotund pseudogentlemen in front of me, they who most epitomize the name of this establishment, are naturally American. Texan. I believe that I am the only Spaniard/Portuguese/Italian or whatever they think I am today.

Kirsten, my new journalist friend, suspects that there may be riots in the square tonight, fueled by her conversations with the embassy. The military presence speaks otherwise but they are outnumbered 50 to 1. Her plight has become a bit more bleak as she may face Kyrgyz prison on Monday. An international incident may be blossoming as her situation is apparently being monitored daily by Condoleeza Rice. The New York Times is coming to the hotel to interview here tomorrow. From what I have put together, she interviewed some of the "wrong people" down south in insurgent-infested Osh and now the government wants names. She has so far refused since that would effectively be a death sentence for them. Even though many of us feel that the United States is on the wrong track with respect to its domestic and foreign policy, we must also step back and appreciate and value the legal protections afforded its citizens.

Thousands of jovial Kyrgyz are out and celebration is in the air. When economic disparity and unhappiness mix with cheap and free-flowing beer, the sundown results can be unpredictable and sudden. It's getting dark soon and I will need to thread the needle through the near-infinite police officers looking for bribes to get back to the hotel. Naturally, I plan to watch the fireworks from the Silk Road Lodge patio.