pedicab.ru
NEW YORK, 15May2009 — They come from Russia and Kazakhstan with love. Smiling street urchins in tattered shorts and gnawed-up shoes, seem more than trapped night workers.
Like death-defying bike messengers, they have packages to deliver too. But Aziz and Sam’s packages are alive. Six days a week, they roam the streets in five hour shifts roaming the city with their rented rickshaws looking for fares.Fearlessly, Aziz and Sam pedal furiously dodging the blitzkrieg of yellow New York City cabs. Aziz, only days into his 19 years still has downy brown overgrown fuzz above his upper lip. His once white “I heart NY” t-shirt and mop of grungy hair make him look closer to 15.
It is Friday night 9.13p at base camp mount Empire State Building. Aziz, Sam and the other pedicab drivers chat leisurely. In the distance there are some African pedicab drivers. This prime territory at the corner of 34th and 5th seems staked out by the Russians. Loitering in a clump of pedicabs, like horses in a corral, the drivers banter playfully, leaning on each other. Set aglow by the wash of amber incandescent, blue-green florescent and neon lights, Aziz flits around chatting like a hummingbird looking for nectar. His carefree smile breaks out easily across his face, his arms gesturing frequently. They are back lit by the signage of Walgreen’s that recalls Aziz’s flag: White, blue and red.
Aziz’s home is Tver, Russia, a city that is built around a looming statue of Lenin in a square surrounded by colonial style buildings. Aziz’s strong slavic tongue is still learning to curl into an “R” sound. But it’s not bad for his fifth language in addition to Russian, Persian, Turkish, and Uzbek. Aziz is unflinchingly patriotic.
“My countlry is better but I like it herle too. Amerlica has vely beautiful girls,” informed Aziz. Sam, 19, is from Kazakhstan. Hisneuro-surgeon father his and OB/GYN mother have no clue that Sam is working at nights, “Zey pay for apartment, school, food, and clothes. I should bve studying.” Aziz’s parents have no idea either. These are children of priviledge sent here to study English, working pedicabs late at night — wait for it — for “fun.”
“Dees iss fun, stay at home iss not nice,” explains Sam, “Dlriving pedicab iss fun, to earln money and be with friends.” They came to the City, “Because we’rle young, we vwant to go to a moderln city, the most forlemost city in the vworld.” Aziz breaks into a dance move, “Dees is where to be, vhere else? England?” Aziz stiffens, robot walking stifly doubling over in laughter. Though they love America, they are both clear in their hopes: to complete Russian and Kazakh University studies.
“Herle I am lrearlning english, and zen I vill rleetorln to go on to good job with high salarly and be a good fahzer to my cheeldren, and have fourl wives,” Aziz impishly grins. An older Russian pedicab driver looks up, and Aziz backpedals like a scolded child hastily retracting, “Just kidding, just kidding, one vwife vill be good.”
“This is like a sport to me, this is not a job.” Sam is the more reserved of the two. Today marks exactly his one year anniversary of coming to America. Inquisitive, Sam speaks observantly and thoughtfully. It’s hard to tell whether he is calculating or simply curious.
“Dees here, dees are my worlk clothes. My parents vwould not like to see me like this. If people from Kazakhstan or school saw me zis vway, vould be shameful.” He can not articulate why he finds this so shameful, but it is clear where he wants to go next.
“I haf traveled to Tchicago, Indiana, Minnesota, Philadelphia and here. My dream is Los Angeles. There is all my favorite Iranian singers.” Like Aziz, Sam is going back to finish university as well. Unlike Aziz, Sam has a plan, “I vwant Red Diploma, means very smart to enter more jobs more easily. Zat is my hope.” Most tourists who grab a pedicab ride, will not realize that Aziz and Sam have a brighter future ahead of them than at first glance, and America will send them back to Russia with love.
