Humanitarian Wonderer

You may wonder, what drives someone to the Kyrgyz Republic? A Stan by everything but name, and even that is debatable.  Kyrgyzstan.  Perhaps a trivia question, “Name a country with only one vowel”, or “Which country has an exclave that is triple landlocked”, or “Where would you find the most northerly mountain about 7,500km”?  Maybe it was just a spin of a globe.

This line of work tends to lead one to the outposts of modern day governance.  Where conflict is merely a poll away, and development seems like a never ending source of debate.  Kyrgyz isn’t the most dangerous country in the world – sitting at Phase 3 of most five phase security indicators, there is still Afghanistan and Libya, though even some organisations have them on par.  Surely, that is due to change, one year after the riots, uprising and mass social unrest the indicators are likely to drop to a comfortable Phase 2.

Kyrgyz is also not the least developed country in the world – you can thank the Soviets for that, providing what remains of the infrastructure for health, education, and the like.  Jarred Diamond and the Silk Road would probably add some further reasons why it is sitting at c.150 out of 220 countries in the world... though quibble as you may over a few dollars here and there, pockets of poverty fill the pants of Central Asia.

No.  There is nothing specific about Kyrgyz, except for the temporal and spatial alignment that exists between me and it for now.

Humanitarian work is a never ending business.  The perfect business model, with an insatiable demand limited only by the generosity of around 30 countries in the world.  However, Kyrgyz is not high on the list.  It seems like a forgotten country, hidden in the shadows of the Tien Shan mountains.  There are a few expatriate people here, many looking for the next conflict or disaster to move on to, others wondering if the development funds will ever truly flow to this unstrategic place.  

The Sun sets.  It’s high summer, and it seems to last forever.  All the kings horses and all the kings men have repatriated themselves, though the humanitarian workers remain.  In compounds, behind walls.  Talking shop, with work lasting as long as the sunsets.  The Moon is high, bursting at it seems.  The heat dissipates, from a dry hot 42c to cooler 18c. 

Evening has arrived and the mood changes.  The lady of the compound has left us her days work, oil with potatoes and chicken on the side.  They eat.  They smoke.  They talk.  They retire.  For tomorrow, the fight continues for approvals to lay foundations of the 500 houses.