bill, so we brushed up on bill-paying phrases and headed off to the main post office. To pay the bill, you first need to know how much you owe, and that’s recorded on a printout on a table. We scanned through it but could not find our number; apparently, another customer had removed that page rather than make a note of the bill. The post office staff said they did not have another printout; they just took money and gave receipts, but had no records. We were directed to the building next door where the records were kept, but the office was closed for lunch. We came back later, went up to the window for our station (number 26), and had the clerk enter the amount. Then we went back to the post office to pay and get a receipt and the obligatory official stamps. We had spent almost two hours to pay a 41 som ($2.50) bill.
Where Does All the Money Go?
Perhaps we could have shortened the wait time at the post office by offering a clerk a few som to look up our bill. In Central Asia in the mid-1990s, the line between tipping and low-level bribery to have people do what they were paid to do was a fine one. Of course, most of those who took small bribes—police, officials in government offices, university and school teachers, judges, lawyers, doctors, journalists—did so not because they were innately corrupt but out of sheer economic necessity. Many people working in the public sector earned less than $100 a month; even with a couple of part-time jobs, it was a struggle to put food on the table, and the occasional bribe to avoid a traffic ticket or to buy a grade made a difference.
The problem was that corruption occurred at all levels of society. The most corrupt were among the wealthiest and most powerful people in politics and business who didn’t need the money to feed their families. The government launched periodic anticorruption campaigns, partly to impress foreign donors. In a sweep in late 1996, President Akayev’s new anticorruption task force took action against officials accused of shady deals, plundering tax revenues and foreign grants, and soliciting bribes; one minister, two provincial governors, several members of the parliament, and several low-level officials lost their jobs, although only a couple ended up in prison. The more interesting question was whether the clampdown was partly political, with the government going after crooked political opponents and ignoring corruption in its own party and the president’s staff.
What concerned me was the hypocrisy of international organizations and foreign governments that publicly denounced corruption but privately connived in perpetuating it. In the early 1990s, Kyrgyzstan, more than any other republic in Central Asia, had embraced the economic and political reforms favored by the West. The donors responded by pouring in aid. Some was well spent on development projects, and some was simply wasted or stolen. Unfortunately, some donors, including UN agencies, regarded corruption as the cost of doing business, and found ways to conceal payoffs in the “Administrative Services” or “Logistical Support” line items in their budgets. I was told that the markup for graft ranged from 10 to 25 percent, depending on the project and which ministry or agency was the implementing partner. Fortunately, some donors—including, as far as I could tell, US government agencies and USAID—worked hard to monitor where the money went, even if they drove their grantees crazy with excessive reporting requirements.
Despite official denials, everyone knew that corruption went on. However, diplomatic niceties had to be observed. The United States had dubbed Kyrgyzstan an “island of democracy” in Central Asia, and no one in the US embassy was going to undermine the image by asking President Akayev where he got the money to buy his villa in Switzerland. Instead, Ambassador Eileen Malloy, a competent diplomat who understood Kyrgyz society and politics better than most of her successors, talked about “slippage.” In a speech to a conference held to mark five years of Kyrgyz-US cooperation, she said: “I cannot sit here and tell you that every cent of every dollar or every grain of wheat contributed by the United States has gone where it should. Inevitably, there is slippage.” She was brave to say as much, but the word glossed over the extent of corruption. So the university rector spent part of his US travel grant on a new wardrobe? Not to worry—it’s only slippage. So the agriculture minister who supervised the USAID-funded privatization campaign is driving a new BMW? It’s only slippage. Too many slippages turn into a slippery slope.
FIGURE 3.6 Chess game in park, Bishkek
Life in the Dvor
Most Soviet-era apartment blocks were built around a dvor (courtyard). This patch of land—dusty in summer, snow-covered in winter, muddy in spring—is a public space, a commons for apartment dwellers. In most complexes, apartment entrances are on the dvor, not the street side; you enter the dvor through a tunnel or driveway from the street. When you give directions, especially to a large block, it’s not enough to provide the dom (house) and kvartira (apartment) number, because there may be half a dozen separate entrances (podyezd), each with a staircase and, if you’re lucky, a working elevator. Unless you know the block, you’ll try a couple of entrances before figuring out which one leads to the apartment.
The layout of apartment complexes means that all traffic—people, vehicles, stray animals—passes through the dvor. There are swings and slides for the children, and benches under the trees where, on warm days, neighbors sit and chat. Car owners park on the roadway outside their podyezd, unless they’re fortunate enough to have a small garage at the back of the dvor. Residents cross the dvor to take garbage to the communal dumpsters. Although there’s sometimes litter, many residents take pride in keeping the dvor clean, sweeping the area outside their podyezd. Often, there’s a small grocery or convenience store, and sometimes a hairdresser or shoe repair shop. In our dvor, we knew it was time to get out of bed when we heard the call of the dairyman who sold milk, cream, and eggs from the trunk of his Lada; we went down with our banki (large glass jars), joining the short line of neighbors and children. In the depths of winter, it was a relief to put your coat on over your pajamas and spend a few minutes in the cold, rather than hiking through the snow to the market or store.
Like everyone else, Stephanie and I used the balcony on the dvor side to hang out our washing. The climate of the region is continental, with no rain most days in summer, fall, and early winter; clothes hung out in the evening are dry by the next morning. One morning in late December 1996, as we took down the laundry, we noticed a group of men assembling two yurts in the dvor. The traditional Kyrgyz nomadic dwelling is a round, tent-like structure, about fifteen feet across; sheepskins or canvas are stretched over a wooden frame, and the floors and walls are covered with shirdaks, brightly colored felt rugs. Then the group began chopping wood and building a fire. On our way out to the university, we passed a horse tethered to the fence; when we returned, the carcass was roasting on the spit. We thought it was too early for a New Year celebration so Stephanie asked Ainura, a young neighbor girl who was watching, what they were celebrating. Her face fell, and she started crying. “My grandfather died,” she sobbed. The extended family had come to Bishkek to mourn and to bury the patriarch. By tradition the women of the family sit with the body inside the yurt and wail, while the men sit outside and talk about the life of the deceased. The whole affair lasts a couple of days, and then they bury the body. It is easy to see how this tradition evolved when the Kyrgyz were nomads, moving from winter to summer pastures with their flocks of sheep and horses, and living in yurts year-round. But it was now transposed to an urban setting; the ceremony took place just off a busy main street near shops, markets, and government ministries. It was another sign that although about one-third of the population lived in cities and towns, in some ways they hadn’t moved too far from their rural roots. The mourners likely informed the police of their plans in advance, but in 1996 a wake with open fires and slaughtered horses in the middle of the capital city seemed a normal occurrence. No one was going to tell a Kyrgyz where he could pitch his yurt.
Stephanie got to know the children who played in the dvor, including Dima who lived in the apartment above us and was about nine years old. He would often appear to be talking to himself; when we inquired, he said that in school he had to recite verses by the Russian literary greats, and he was practicing
