When I went to Kyrgyzstan last summer to help initiate a research survey, I initially planned to spend a few days in each town and city where Kyrgyz research assistants already had been hired by the project leader to do the surveying. My purpose would be to help each researcher begin her survey work, and to help her solve any difficulties she might encounter.

But as I learned more about the country, I realized that I had to decide whether it would be safe to travel to Osh, where E, one of the researchers, lives. Osh once was a stopping point on the Silk Road. Now it's a provincial capital in an unsettled region near the Uzbekistan border, where there have been recent ethnic clashes and one incident in which U.S. tourists were briefly captured. Getting there would require a flight over the gigantic Tien Shan mountain range in an aging, Soviet-built airplane. And Kyrgyzstan itself is not so far from Afghanistan, Pakistan, or Iraq. Though it's relatively calm, it seemed a place to avoid taking chances. I researched news reports and U.S. State Department advisories, and consulted with a friend who had been a Peace Corps volunteer in Kyrgyzstan. By the time I flew to Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan's capital, for a planned kick-off meeting with the research team, I had decided not to travel to Osh.

E, though, had a different idea. Soon after meeting her in Bishkek, I realized how much she would love to show her town to a visiting American. Her hope--were I to agree to come to Osh--was to take me to the mountains for a short stay in her family's yurts and a little horseback riding. That idea was tantalizing, I enjoyed E's company and trusted her, my friends in Bishkek all judged that the trip would be safe enough, and so I soon agreed to fly to Osh.

Some of my confidence evaporated when I boarded the tiny, very stale-smelling Yaak jet, and little of it was left after mechanics spent the next two hours hammering on the engine to fix a problem of unclear magnitude. No one else seemed a bit perturbed, though, so I stayed in my seat, the plane eventually lifted off, I had a few glimpses through clouds of snowy Tien Shan ridges and valleys, and then we landed at Osh's airport, where E and her husband were waiting to greet me.

I had a fine time in Osh, after all, though unseasonable rains prevented our expedition to the mountain yurts. Most days, E and I worked on project tasks, but we also fit in some memorable sightseeing and socializing. We hiked up Solomon's Throne, a small peak above town, to see the cave where Babar, an great spiritual leader, had lived many centuries ago. We saw Silk Road artifacts and a rare two-story yurt built specially for Osh's 3,000th anniversary celebration. One evening, we drove out to a country village for a traditional dinner with E's inlaws. We spent another evening in a lovely outdoor cafe set in a wooded park, drinking kummus (mare's milk), eating traditional foods, and enjoying Kyrgyz music performed by a family of musicians who are friends of E's family. Afterwards, we posed for pictures together and I took photos of the family's two children: a slim, handsome teenaged girl with beautiful dark braids and her wide-eyed younger brother. He stood tall and bravely in his felt Kyrgyz man's hat, but was obviously daunted by the tall foreigner.

Then I flew safely back to Bishkek, and eventually home to Seattle, where my Kyrgyz friends and travels have been fading in my mind. But the memories came back a couple of days ago when I found a note from E in my morning email. She thought I might remember the musicians' little boy. He has just died, she told me, and she asked whether I could send copies of my photos for his mother.

I did remember the boy, and of course I sent the photos. Now I'm at my desk, reflecting that, after all my concern about going to Osh, it's I who sits comfortably, warm and breathing, and the little boy who is gone.

Aesop didn't append moral lessons to his fables. They were added much later by some ancient scribe. If I were that scribe, perhaps I would add just a few words to my little tale:

You can never tell. You just can never tell.