There are four things that are quite essential for human life. In order of quickness of death after access to them is suspended: air, water, food and the internet. Conveniently for life on earth, it's difficult to not be surrounded by air. Food and the internet are less ubiquitous, but you can generally live long enough on reserves of bread crumbs caught between your teeth and cached browser history to at least cry out for help. Water, however, is scarce and deprivation is a quick killer. Using my own experience as the only data point, I would estimate that a well-hydrated, genetically unmodified human can survive the Kazakh steppe for about 10 hours without water. (The other homo sapiens in the area may be better adapted to the region's climate than I am.) So it is quite important to my own well being that I carry with me the trusty green nalgene water bottle emblazoned with the name of a college I did not attend that I bought at a Colorado Springs thrift store for $2.95.

Feeling a little thirsty after dinner last night, I suddenly became aware that my water bottle was no longer in my possession. The clock was ticking, and had been for about an hour. I was going to die of thirst in about 9 hours, unless I could either find the water bottle or alternatively, miraculously acquire another source of dihydrogen monoxide. Not one to leave things to chance miracles, I settled on the former option as the only way to avoid certain death. The situation was made only slightly more calamitous by the fact that the last time it had been in my possession, the container of life giving water was attached to my backpack, which contained my only connection to the internet: my laptop.

My last memory with the sweet nectar of life was on the Kazakhmhys bus from Satpaev to Zhezkazgan. Gulzhan, Jenny and I visited Satpaev yesterday, and took the bus back, arriving at the bus station at about 10:15 last night. I estimated that my last sip was about 30 minutes before that time. Hence, my 10 hours would be up at 7:45 the following morning. Normally, while riding the bus I would keep my backpack on. On this particular bus, however, there were 4 seats in a club arrangement. If I sat with my backpack on, it pushed me too far forward in the seat to be comfortable for me and the person across from me. So I stowed the bag and water bottle in the convenient overhead rack. As I said, when I went for my after dinner drink, the water bottle was gone, meaning I must've left it on that overhead rack. I immediately called Gulzhan, my trusty counterpart, who knew exactly what to do: tell Bakitzhan, my host mom.

Having taken my health as her number one priority while I'm living under her roof, my host mom was aghast at my recklessness. Wasting not a minute, she called my host dad to send him to the bus station, the bus dispatcher to find out where the bus was now, and Gulzhan to discuss what an idiot the Peace Corps had dumped on the two of them. After finding out that the buses spend the night at a garage in Satpaev, we determined that no further action could be taken until the garage opened the following morning. Setting off at 5 am, we would have just under 3 hours before the effects of dehydration became irreversible.

Dark and early this morning, the three of us set out across the steppe and arrived at Satpaev's bus garage at 5:30. Not being able to communicate very well in Kazakh or Russian meant that my big role in the garage was to do as much breathing as possible, absorbing poisonous carbon monoxide myself so that the two capable detectives would survive long enough to find a clue in the expansive garage. Between breaths, I was able slip among the dozens of buses and finally find one that had the same club seating configuration as the one we had taken last night. I brought my handy cell phone flashlight to bear on the rack where my key to continued survival should've been. Disaster. No backpack, no internet browser cache, and no water bottle. Meanwhile, Gulzhan and Bakitzhan had successfully used their impressive arsenal of Kazakh and Russian to interrogate one of the drivers who had begun to trickle in. They had determined that the bus we had taken was actually back in Zhezkazgan and its number was 850.

Armed with this knowledge and the information that it would be leaving the Zhezkazgan station to begin the daily haul of commuters between the two cities at 6:45 am, we flagged down an empty bus heading that direction. It's about a half hour drive back to Zhezkazgan, which was exactly how much time we had before bus 850 left the garage. Unfortunately, the bus was not going directly to the bus station. The driver kindly dropped us off at the point on his route closest to the Zhezkazgan bus station, just as the clock struck 6:45. Hoping beyond hope that the buses were running late as usual, we anxiously hailed the first taxi on the chilly morning's empty streets and said "to the bus station and step on it!" Or something like that in Kazakh or Russian.

As we were sitting in the taxi and looking at our watches knowing that once the 850 bus left the bus station our task would become significantly more difficult, a Kazakhmhys bus flew by us on the other side of the road. I was busy confronting my own imminent demise, but Bakitzhan had the wherewithal to notice the license number of the bus and realize it was the 850. She once again deftly wielded her native tongue to communicate to the taxi driver that we must turn around forthwith and follow that bus!

He obligingly did as she'd instructed, blazing through a red light and pursuing the bus for what must've been at least half a mile. When the bus finally arrived at a stop, he stopped the cab immediately in front so the tricksy driver wouldn't be able to escape while I jumped out of the back seat, scrambled up the stairs and headed for the back of the bus. The unique club seat formation, the familiar overhead bin, this had to be the bus where I'd so carelessly left my belongings. I approached the back of the bus with the look of a death-row convict who's expecting a last minute pardon and hears the warden's phone ring. But once again, I was met with only an empty bin, and the confused looks of some sleepy commuters. Time was running out.

I feverishly looked around the back of the bus, looking where I expected the bag and water bottle to be, not seeing them, then looking away and back again in the vain hope that they would sneak back onto the bus while I wasn't looking. As I continued my irrational behavior at the back of the bus, Gulzhan and Bakitzhan made themselves useful at the front of the bus by talking to the driver and getting the previous night's driver's phone number. My entire future rested on the few bits representing this mysterious driver's digits in Bakitzhan's phone. As we left the bus and she began to speak with him, she shouted for joy. Something big had happened.

In her excitement, she forgot that I only understand baby Kazakh, but I could tell that something good had happened. Had the driver given it to lost and found? Did he have a description of another passenger who had taken it? Had he given it to Bakitzhan's favorite charity? I was at a loss, but knew we were getting in a taxi to meet this man in person. Dehydration was coming for me. I needed that water bottle, and soon.

The taxi dropped us off in the middle of a group of apartments somewhere in Zhezkazgan and we hoofed it up to the 5th floor of one of them. Standing outside the door, smoking a cigarette was the bus driver from the night before. Some calm words that did not at all capture the desperate situation I was in were exchanged in Kazakh and then he disappeared inside his apartment. Moments later, he reemerged, bearing my water bottle with backpack still attached. The excitement Bakitzhan had demonstrated was because this man had found it and more importantly was willing to part with it!

I immediately sucked down some gulps of water, with just minutes to spare before my 10 hours expired. While we apologized for disturbing him so early in the morning, and he apologized for rummaging through my belongings in the hope of finding a phone number, I felt my strength return. I gave thanks to this wonderful driver of the number 850 bus between Satpaev and Zhezkazgan and proceeded to make two promises to myself. One, to not leave my stuff on buses in the future. And two, to end my dependence on chemical substances.