(Update, 10/27: About a week ago, the police came back to explain all of the diligent work they had been doing on our case. You would not believe how crazy this story turned out to be! All along, we assumed it was a group of spoiled rich hooligans that broke our door, but the police told us, no, the license plates corresponded to stolen government vehicles and the people involved are likely part of a whole conspiracy of crimes around the city. Our reaction? Oh yeah, we totally believe you, sure, definitely! [No, wait, not at all.] Therefore, the police said it was impossible to keep investigating it, and we might as well just sign this paper saying they could close the case and go back to being one of the most useless institutions in Bishkek. Thank you for nothing, police.)
(Update, 9/13: The door is fixed now, decked out with a bunch of ugly, but effective welds. A police report was filed and I don’t have much confidence that anything will come of it, but for those who are interested, the dark-colored Volkswagen had a license plate B7902BA.)
I’m closer to the sleeping side of half-asleep when someone rang the doorbell. First thought? “Oh shit, it’s 8:30am, we overslept, and it’s one of the employees coming in for work.” But it’s not 8:30, it’s 7:30, and there’s no logical reason for anybody to ring the doorbell this early.
Farrell throws on his clothes to check it out. A few minutes later I hear several loud crashes against metal. A group of wasted kids, probably in their late teens/early 20s, had decided to park their shiny new cars (a red BMW and a black Volkswagen Jetta) in front of the gates to our house and enjoy a few more rounds of vodka and Jivoye beer.
Seriously? A shiny new BMW and you assholes are buying Jivoye? I’ve been led to believe it’s one of Kyrgyzstan’s cheapest, shittiest beers.
Farrell told them to leave; our employees would be showing up for work soon and we couldn’t have a bunch of drunk kids loitering in front of our door. “Okay, okay. Just ten more minutes,” one guy said, pouring another round for the group of guys and girls. “No, now!” Farrell replied, slamming the door and walking away.
So they kicked the door in, destroying its ability to function as any sort of useful barrier and eventually drove off.
Farrell went through his phone list, calling anybody who might be awake and who spoke enough Russian to call the police for us. Two cops showed up a while later, acting completely apathetic. “Well, it’s a big city, there are a lot of cars. There’s really no point in filing a police report.” “But I have descriptions of the cars and a license plate number,” Farrell told them. “Yeah… but…” They really didn’t want to have to do any work, it seemed.
It’s real swell to know that this whole time, the fancy metal door standing between my house/office/possessions and the sketchy neighborhood around me could be so easily demolished by a shitfaced 19-year-old.
“Next time there’s a revolution, we’re coming to your house,” Farrell told one of our employees. “Between yelling at the cricket players, the homeless guys, the guys who work next door and the drunk kids, I’ve made myself a list of enemies.”
And now that it’s been brought to my attention, what a terrible quality welding job on the door. I’ve done sturdier work in my seventh grade shop class.
Sorry Kyrgyzstan, today I don’t like you very much.