It’s 8pm on a Tuesday night. I hear an elderly lady knocking at my door and my neighbor’s door. She’s yelling something in Kyrgyz – all I can understand is "money." I don’t answer. After a solid five minutes the knocking stops and I peek out of my balcony door to see if I can see who is coming out of my apartment building stairwell. It’s an old lady and she spies me! “Devushka! (Girl)” she shouts, “Pachemu ne otkriviete deveier? (Why didn’t you open your door?) Chas (Wait)…” and she runs back up the steps to my door. “Give me 100 rubles,” she says in Russian, “our building needs to put in a new water pipe tomorrow. We have no water now. We need clean water. Give me 100 rubles. Everyone has paid except you and your neighbor.” “Can my landlord pay?” I ask her as I reach for my cell phone. “I’ve lived here 56 years and I don’t know who your landlord is,” she says. “I knew the last one, but not this one. Is he Kyrgyz? Is he young?” I ask her to wait one minute while I grab my wallet and instead of waiting outside she comes into my apartment. She’s a tiny woman, perhaps 75 years old, wearing a patterned dress, rubber boots, and a hand-made wool shall covering her head. Her eyebrows have been filled in with dark black charcoal. She only comes up to my shoulder, but her voice is loud, hurried, and confident. When she speaks I watch her gold teeth and wonder if she thinks my apartment smells – I just fried some tempora and the oil smoked. She eyes my cat but doesn’t comment. I give her the 100 com and ask her if she wants my landlord’s cell phone number anyways. She takes my phone and calls him – explains what she’s doing in my apartment and that she’s taken my money. When she hands me the phone my landlord asks me if there’s a problem. “No problem,” I say – though he should have paid the money and not me. I figure I’d rather be on good terms with my neighbors than refuse to pay and be blamed for the building’s lack of clean water. Plus, I’d like to have my water turned back on sometime soon.
Just now, another knock on my door. It’s an old Kyrgyz couple. They look confused when I answer. They ask for someone, say something in Kyrgyz, I tell them (in Russian) I don’t understand Kyrgyz. They say something else; I stare back at them. Then they ask me in Russian, “Where do you live?” “I live here,” I say, “this is my apartment.” They stand there staring at me for a few more seconds, then look at each other and shake their heads. Then they turn around and leave.
I used to have a policy of not answering my door for anyone who doesn’t do the “Peace Corps knock” – especially at night because there are no lights in my hallway and no door to my building so it could be anyone. Most of the time people knock it’s just to collect money anyway. But I think I might have to change my policy. I’ve met some interesting people the past couple times I’ve opened my door and it’s been really good Russian practice!
