Nighty-night, Dushanbe.

(all he could carry was Utah, but Mitt is huge in Dushanbe)

(Mochon waving goodbye with Bakhtior)

(car bazar)

Dir Frenz,

I just said goodbye to my host parents, cat, and brother and sister and am now writing from the American Councils office before we board our 5:30am flight.

A couple fun notes from the day:

Halimjon, my peer tutor, took me to the Dushanbe car bazar. Thousands of cars and sellers looking to bargain. If lived here longer I would buy a red 1987 Lada Zhiguli. They were asking somewhere around $2000. I'm not sure why Soviet classic cars haven't caught on yet in the States.

Lots of funny guys at the car bazar with nothing to do (I didn't see any sales going down). During conversation with one group it became apparent that Halimjon thought I worked at the US embassy. No wonder he wanted me as the honorary witness at his wedding. Turns out he's not the brightest bulb.

For my departure dinner Saidaopa surprised me with a replica version of the meal I cooked for them: roast chicken, mashed potatoes with caper-laden gravy, and a salad with vinaigrette. I was touched, of course. And it turned out pretty darn well, though the skin was not crunchy enough. And most surprising, Shahsonam joined us for dinner! First time the whole summer we shared a meal with mixed gender company! Amazing! Totally un-risky, totally ho-hum! No sexual advances made by either side!

I then distributed a round of presents. Some glassware, a Mitt Romney tee-shirt for Muhammadamin, and some nice large photos I took of the kids. They were all pretty excited. I was gifted a teacup with a few glasses (please don't break). Then the heartfelt statements of thanks. I was assured that I have a home here in Dushanbe when I return and was complimented on my ability to fit in and to scold Malika when the occasion arose.

With that I said my goodbyes to Mochon, picked up the heavy sack of assorted baked goods that I'm obligated to bring to Bunyod in Istanbul, and was on my way.

I'm pretty sure most people know that Turkey is a real country, and I don't think you need my proof. So this is likely the final blog until the spirit moves me, once more, to prove to you Tajikistan's existence from afar.

Thanks for reading.

Love,

Charles

Some parting thoughts

(my teacher, Abdullahjon: this man loves Michael Jackson)

(silent cousin from meal photos; Shahsonam (NOT Sherzoda!); Malika and Muhamidamin.)

(just enjoying the latest issue of "Zamondosh" ("Contemporary").

Dir frekhnds,

My times in Dushanbe, they are grow short. I write my conclusive ideas now, below:

Four days before departure I'm sitting on the 'so'ri' (outdoor table/bench) with Bakhtior and he calls for his daughter, "Shahsonam!" I say, "who is Shahsonam?" And out comes Sherzoda, hidden host sister. "here is Shahsonam," he says. Say what??!! (For the Russian speakers that translates as "Chego???!!) Turns out that traditional Uzbek husbands and wives dont' call one another by their given names, but by the names of their eldest children. This is because, according to Bakhtior, their bond is sacred and the name of their eldest child signifies the beginning of the family they create together. After all, you can call a common acquaintance by their given name, but you can't call any common acquaintance Sherzoda, can you? You will remember that I was never formally introduced to any of Bakhtior's adult daughters, including the who lived under the same roof as me, I had always assumed that "mystery host sister" was Sherzoda, because either she or Saida-opa would come running when he yelled for them, lazily, from his chair in front of the TV. He had a good laugh at my stupidity. I had a good laugh at teh fact that it took me two months to figure this one out. Of course, I couldn't laugh about it with Shahsonam (lit. "queen-beautiful-goddess") because I'm not allowed to talk to her.

Bakhtior also explained that after deaths of close relatives women in mourning wear dark colors, green or dark blue, for a year whenever they leave the house. This is to show other people that they are in mourning and to respect their moods. Saida-opa will also not be attending an extravagant wedding of a female relative because she's in mourning due to the death of Bakhtior's sister who died earlier this year. However, a prime money making opportunity she will however be making 70 loaves of "pater" bread (a version of traditional central asian non, but with flaky layers and lots of oil. Saida-opa is well known for her paters and sells them to a store on the side). I asked if there was a similar rule for men as far as special mourning dress or obligatory skipping out on invitations and he said no.

In a general talk of women's fashion, Bakhtior also said how women are beauty, flowers, nature's gifts, delicateness, etc, etc, personified, and therefore should be surrounded by beauty and color. Hence the really colorful dresses that non-mourning central asians wear. I told him that in the West wearing black was considered rather fashionable, and he looked at me as if I were a moron. He then said that it was just rude/uneducated (po russki, "grubo") that Iranian women all wore black.

In our final conversational tussle of the night we broached the seemingly safe topic of the Olympic games. He asked me how many countries participated....40 or so? I said closer to 100, and he was surprised. He said it was impossible, for how could they find the time for 100 different nations to compete in a space of 3 week. I tried to explain to him that athletes in different events, in different heats could represent easily 50 countries in a single day. Somehow or other he refused to believe this. I said take the marathon plus 20 different swimming heats. And still he refused to beleives this.

(and while we're at it, if the olympics only took 40 countries why on earth would TAjikistan be invited?)

This was a pretty contentious evening. I think it says a lot about one's ability to really get to know people and their traditions that after two months I only figured out everyone's name in a house! What does this say about international diplomacy, I don't know.

My last complaint/moment of disbelief occurred at Bunyod's going-away party. I had really been looking forward to it because I thought it would be a chance to be invited to see the whole family interact and enjoy one another's company. Instead the menfolk, including Bunyod, me, his friends, and older cousins were segregated from the women and their table. There was not a full moment of whole-family interaction. Perhaps my presence had something to do with it. Perhaps because his friends were there. But in any case, it was a really boring affair. A bunch of dudes eating plov, drinking RC cola and watching the same Turkish 'serial' on TV as all other Uzbeks. I was a bit disappointed and sad that we couldn't all have fun together. But such is the house that Bakhtior, bastion of worldly perspective, has built. I think it's pretty good that Bunyod gets to exit it for a while...

( I did get the chance to take photos of the closer relatives when the party ended however, so I can show them to Bunyod's aunt in Istanbul. Hence I have, surprise, surprise, a photo of Shahsonam with her kids! Amazing.)

On the teaching front....our female teacher, Dilbar, is sweet, attentive, and clued in. We play games in class, she adjusts things according to our mood, and she speaks English. These are all great things in my book. Abdullahjon, our conversation teacher, is a little less clued in. Twice this summer we've informed him of things that have made his jaw drop, and he gets this look in his eye as if we've just told him there is no santa claus. It's pretty damn informative of just how insular this place is to learn what these moments are. First, we told him that Michael Jackson likes kids. No, really likes kids. He was still under the impression that the king of pop was a shining American star. Second, we told him about somethign called the "Andijon massacre," when in 2005 the Uzbek president ordered troops to fire into a crowd of innocent protesters, killing perhaps as many as 500 people. This occurred in his neighboring country, perpretrated by a man that most local Uzbeks (like my host father) revere for his strength. Hearing about Andijon from Americans in broken Uzbek made him a bit uncomfortable so he turned the conversational tables and asked us about 9/11 and why no one saw it coming. According to his worldly knowledge alll terrorists notify journalists at first, to make their ransome demands known. We then proceeded to role-play as journalist and terrorist. I was the journalist and he made my classmate, Ailey, call me and tell me he had my wife and kids captive on a plane and that they would die unless I gave her money. What wonderful conversation practice. I cut the thing short and said I wouldn't continue to make light of such things. Sometimes we have off-days with Abdullahjon....

He did recently take us to the editorial offices of all the Uzbek-langauge papers in Tajkistan. They were quite a site. I think I saw two computers total for three different newspapers. They folks working there were very nice, however. Ailey was interviewed for Uzbek radio and as long as I send my photos via email (to the one guy in the office who had an email address; the papers don't have their own), they will publish them in the papers! They're kind of funny and Soviet-posed.

Can you sense the growing jadedness? I think it's time to go soon.

Thus might be my last post. But I might be going to the car bazar on Sunday with my peer tutor, which could result in some awesome stories and pictures. So stick around.

Charles

A few more photos

(my peer tutor and family. from left to right: Halim-jon, grandma-hajji, Gulshoda the Uzbek teacher, me, peer tutor's father, his older brother and sons, unidentified and unintroduced woman, and his mother)

(my dinner! from left to right: potatoes, Muhamad-amin, salad, Malika, roast chicken, unidentified silent cousin, vinaigrette)

(my, er, private dancers: Bunyod, Malika, Muhamad-amin)

(The birthday spread: Note the soccer ball-shaped sugar bowl on the birthday spread and the two heaping bowl fulls of chuchvara. )

So here are a few photos from the last few days. At the top is a photo from my visit to teh home of my peer tutor, Halim-jon. To refresh your memory, he is paid by ACCELS to be my friend and speak Uzbek to me. Not a bad deal, though we all know how surly I can get.

Anyway, Halim-jon is painfully shy most of the time, speaks quietly or not at all, and slurs his speech. Other than that, he's a fabulous peer tutor. He's 20 and getting married in two weeks to a girl whose also 20. Apparently they know each other, but essentially it's an arranged marriage.

We had run out of things to do in Dushanbe (not a difficult task) and I proposed we visit his house at the "kolkhoz Rossiya" and milk his cow. So we went last week, with KC, another student, and Gulshoda, an Uzbek teacher, in tow. Little did I know that a quick visit for "milking cows" meant a full on Uzbek hosting experience. I arrived at the gates of the collective farm and found Halim-jon had cleaned up (really, he seemed somehow cleaner and lighter skinned, but perhaps it was just because he wasn't wearing his usual black shirt and black pants) and his father was by his side. I soon learned that this would be an entire visitation affair.

We were showed around their house and courtyard, which were quite large, I think becaue there was simply more land for homes on collective farms. His father used to be and maybe still is the main accountant for the farm. They also had a large family garden in back where they grow melons, loads of cucumbers, peppers, tomatoes, apricots, and peaches. They had two cows, several dogs, and many hens as well.

Since it was ultra hot we started in doors with all sorts of wonderful hot-weather food: green tea, watermelon, "dinosaur egg" melon, tomatoes, cucumbers, and katok(kefir?). The katok was hands down the best dairy I've had in Central Asia. Light, tangy, cold, and fresh from the cows. Next we went on a walk through the estate and were duly impressed and oohed and aahed. Next we went to the suite of rooms that Halimjon had recently renovated for his new bride. When I had asked what he was up to all summer he would demurely say "housework." I had no idea he was preparing for his bride! It was impressive and quite moving to watch him shows us around the two newly renovated rooms that will be for him and, god willing, their new baby in nine months.

Finally, we returned to the sitting room and had some pretty darn good plov. It wa pretty simple (no garlic, raisins, nor chickpeas) but the meat was excellent and easy to chew. The grandma kept urging us to "take, take, take" and we "took" as much as we could before we stuffed ourselves. She was quite a funny old woman. She was proud to say that her parents moved here from Andijon in the 30s (like many Uzbeks) and they had all wound up together outside of Dushanbe and hence "kolkhoz rossiya" is synonymous with "Uzbek." In 2005 she went on the hajj and described not being able to communicate with people but for hand signals. Going on the hajj is a really big deal, so now she is referred to as "hajji-opa" or "hajji-grandma", or some such formulation. She was in charge of all the prayers for the day. Halimjon's father is quite a chracter: handsome, jocular, and confident, and exactly who I think the Soviets were trying to create in Central Asia. He invited me to return next week for a tour of the farm. We were joined by Halimjon's 25 year old brother who has two kids, the eldest is 7 (!) and the youngest is perhaps 3. He's a cabdriver around town and he has a new, tiny orange Nexia. I mention him only because he's pretty young to have a 7 year old. And because his youngest child is named Shah-jahon, or "king of the world." This is of course the name of the Mughal emperor who built the Taj Mahal. Babur, the Mughal founder, was from Andijon himself. And so it's always interesting to me to see how Uzbeks name their kids. Needless to say, they're pretty darn proud of the Mughals. Needless to say, when you keep the literal translsation of his name in mind, it's pretty hard not laugh at, say, "king of the world, eat your plov."

Finally, I was moved (again) by one final invitation: Halimjon and his dad (though I think the invitation came from his dad) want me to stay in Dushanbe to be the official witness to their wedding. I think this is something like the best man, or at least the person who signs papers. I thanked them profoundly for the offer but explained that my visa expired before the wedding and that my plane ticket was in hand. Grandma-hajji kept insisting, "charlesjon, stay, stay!", but unfortunately it won't work. So it looks like another summer in Central Asia has come and gone and still now weddings. These are the biggest and grandest events in people's lives, and they love to impoverish themselves in order to throw a good party. In fact, the president recently passed a law capping the number of guests at 150 so people don't throw all their money away. But this rule is detested, is untraditional, and will not be enforced.

Ah well. Next time, halimjon. Maybe in three years I can come to your son's circumcision party (another major, major life event!).

Till next time,

Charles

The Tables Turn and Birthday Celebrations

Hello all,

I missed out on a triplet birthday celebration in Detroit but had a very memorable dinner in Dushanbe.

This was now the third birthday I've had the pleasure of celebrating in the former Soviet Union. The first, in Russia, involved going swimming in, literally, a greasy lake in Podmoskovia, enjoying a homemade banya and getting attacked by a local drunk. The second, in Tashkent, involved two of the most spoilt, most delinquent kids I've ever met, ages 6 and 8, drink beers and terrorize the staff of a local hotel. This was the most quiet and the most satisfying.

Saida-opa asked me which meal I wanted and I replied, with no hesitation, "chuchvara." These are basically like Russian pelmeni but they're homemade and she makes the dough so thin and sweet and the insides have the perfect amoung of meat, onion and spice. It's all topped off with basil, dill, and "kainok," Central Asian kefir. Because it was a feast all the stops were pulled: we ate in the living room rather than in the courtyard, and the table as bedecked with candy, cookies, RC cola (ubiquitous local cola) and peach juice. Aka, it was a party. For dessert they bought me a cake which, unfortunately, had its "happy birthday, Charles" greeting smudged off upon arrival. The best part of the night was the presents, of course! They picked out for me a sugar bowl shaped and decorated like a soccer ball with the words "football" all over it. I was really touched because soccer is the thing that Bunyod and I both share a passion for, and we've spent more than a few hours playing soccer at teh local stadium and logged many early morning hours in front of Euro2008. Amazing how cheap Chinese-made mass-produced products can be really moving, when picked out for the right moments by the right people. The evening was then topped off with Malika's present, which was a solo dance performance for me. Bunyod cranked out the tunes (Uzbek pop) from his cell phone, and off she went, dancing like a real Central Asian, turning her hands in and out and twirling a bit out of control. It was amazingly cute. I asked where she learned to dance like that and Saida-opa said purely from TV. Then she was joined by Bunyod and Muhamad-amin for an entire family performance.

The next night I was really glad to follow through on my promise to cook an American meal for them. Bakhtior-aka considers himself quite a gourmand, if only because of his ample midsection and his two years spent in the army staged at the world culinary capital, Communist East Germany. He's completely Soviet in his thinking about nations and national cuisines. He was adamant that there must be an American equivalent for plov, the Uzbek national dish served at all major events (in the Soviet era, of course, each nation had its own national dress, dish, language, Academy of Sciences, etc.). He was somewhat dissastisfied by my response that we have no true national "special occasion" food, but that people love steaks, seafood, and pasta, among other things. What sort of undeveloped nation do we have, anyway, esepcially with all those silly California chefs hellbent on innovation?

Anyway, I told them that my options were limited by a few things, notably my inability to cook and the lack of salmon in Tajikistan. Nevertheless I had a plan (thank to mom). I roasted a couple chickens, made an "American-French" salad with leaf greens and vinaigrette, and did a gravy with chicken juice, capers, lemons and butter I learned from my friend Andrew.

It was pretty entertaining just getting the ingredients at the central bazar. I purchased capers a few weeks before at a local high-end grocery store and went looking for French mustard, which would have been easy but for the fact that I waited til the last second and found a pretty poor version. I also bought olive oil, garlic, heirloom tomatoes (ubiquitous, incredibly!), and potatoes pretty easily. No one at the meat counter sold whole chickens, so I had to by imported hallal chickens from Brazil!

Back at the house I acquainted myself with Saida-opa's tools and went to work. Her oven is a little desk-top number that plugs into the wall and was made in Turkey. It took a bit longer to cook than usual, but out it came, looking pretty good: topped with loads of salt and some pepper, with some butter and garlic wedged inside, and some basil sprinkled on at the end (my search for thyme had been fruitless, each time I asked I was presented with carroway seeds!). I then brought out the mashed potatos, gravy, and salad, and away we went.

The kids were a bit skeptical of the gravy (lemon is out of season and hence from Argentina, and they'd never encountered capers before) but they ate the potatoes quickly. They also wouldn't stand for the vinaigrette, picking out the cucumbers and tomatoes. But everyone else seemed to really enjoy it and Saida-opa commented on how beautiful it all was. For desert I brought back, what else, melons!

Cliche of the day: it feels so good to be able to reciprocate the favor for once. I was really happy to cook for everyone a satisfying and tasty meal. And if you don't believe I pulled it off, aparently Saida-opa was gossiping with another student's host mother, who reported to me that apparently Charles had made a really tasty and aestheticallly pleasing meal. So there.

Sorry, no pictures this time because I'm writing from the internet cafe. Soon to come.

Finally, in big host family news, Bunyod, my 21 year old host brother finally got his visa to go to Turkey and is leaving on Tuesday! He'll be gone for 5 months, either to work or study or both. His cousin, who graduated from a local Turkish "lycee" moved there and works at the Istanbul airport, and will be hosting him for his time there. As you might now, a full 50% of Tajikistan's GDP comes from citizens mailing home their work checks from abroad, with Russia, Turkey and Kazakhstan being popular destinations. So Bunyod is about to join this labor stream and this international labor movement. I'm really happy for him but a bit worried. He didn't know which countries bordered Turkey nor where Istanbul was on the map. I gave him a quick Turkish history lesson and assured him that Turkey is probably one of the most interesting possible places to live in right now. But I'm not sure what a labor migrant/student with little English or Turkish language skills can offer to the economy. We'll see. I've got my fingers crossed and I bought him a Russian-Turkish dictionary that I'll give him on our big final dinner on Monday.

And with any luck, I'll be able to stay with him and his cousin in Istanbul when I go there in about a week! I feel somehwat sorry for Bakhtior-aka and Saida-opa. In ten days their household will diminish by 2 persons! And this is the first trip abroad for anyone in the house, so it will be a new experience for all of them.

That's all for now. I might be going out to dinner with my on-again off-again Tajik TV magnate friend. If so, I'm sure it will be interesting.

Best,
Charles

Pamirs, part II

(interior of Ismaili shrine. Note the altar with the pile of antlers. Islam?! The roof opening is the traditional Pamiri homestyle.)

(at the Afghan market. The Afghan in blue pulled out the pelican bones, set them up like a living bird and started selling medicaments. Note the green hat on left, a typical Pamiri hat. Note also that Tajiks wear cheap Chinese clothes, and Afghans don't!)

(the nicest, cutest girls in the world. After photos with their cat I was invited into their house where I wrote down my name and they offered to make me tea.)

(Ismaili shrine exterior. Note the Marco Polo sheep horns and partially obscured painting of Ali.)

(at the entrance to the shrine. I call it "Ismaili-Zoroastrian-jackalope-Jesus."

....we spent the night in the town of Ishkashim at a spartan guesthouse with a very caring staff. They made me rice and gave me a yogurty drink to settle my stomach. Ishkashim is not a large town but it's big enough to have a customary Soviet avenue of white birch-like trees (chinor in Uzbek, plane tree in English), a school with a big poster of president Rahmon pondering a field of wheat, a bazar, a restaurant, and a pool hall. Our driver Dildor is from the area, so the stop offered him the chance for an amorous encounter with a local sweetheart.

At Ishkashim the Panj widens into a broad valley known as the Wakhan corridor. It's yet another step more removed from Khorog and home to another series of Pamiri dialects. The Wakhan corridor also separated British India from Russian Central Asia and makes a pretty darn clear and grand natural boundary, to say nothing of the fact that over the centuries it was a virtual silk road highway, and thus filled with religious and military buildings that are fairly well preserved since the area receives almost no water.

So off we went for our big sites. First off was the Kushan fortress that was built, we think, in the 3rd century to guard the valley. It's located on a large rocky outcropping with views in both directions, making it a logical choice for today's Tajik military which still occupies it. We were prepared to fend off teh 18 year old soldiers with candy but we didn't find any so off we scampered, hamming it up for the camera on the Silk Road fort.

Next we happened upon an Ismaili shrine dedicated to Ali (who else?). I got my wish for seeing endangered Marco Polo sheep since the thing was bedecked with their horns and antelope antlers. In the middle of the thing was a pile of antlers and a place for a flame, along with a carved opening in the roof that mimicked the style of the Pamiri homes. One look and it's pretty easy to see the "pagan" or Zoroastrian influences. All in all, quite cool. And free holy apricots in the yard next door to boot!

A bit farther up the valley we came to quite a height and drove a few km up the mountain to find yet another even more spectacularly placed fortress and yet another hot spring. Sadly this visit coincided with the culmination of my evacuations, and I have no photos. However, I have this sneaking suspicion that after a few hot springs and even a few fortresses, they start to look pretty similar.

Our final stop of the day was the town of Vrang, with its little Zoroastrian ziggurat for ceremonies, and a few empty Buddhist caves. I wasn't able to make it up the hill, but I have a photo from a friend. Back down on the ground I befriended two of the cutests little girls I've ever seen. They were staring at me for a good ten minutes before I realized they had a cat with them.They jumped at the notion of being photographed with their cat and after our photo shoot the older girl asked if I wanted to see their house. Of course! I can't tell you what it feels like to be in the utter pits of sickness and have a sweet little kid ask, with nothing but kindness and pure curioisity, if you want to see where she lives. It was wonderful.

Pamiri houses are pretty cool. They usually have five pillars in the main room with sleeping and eating platforms surrounding the center. Teh pillars have some sort of symbolism that was lost on me but I intend to learn more. Like the Ismaili shrine, they are dominated by the central roof opening which lets in light, let's out bugs, and is adorned in elaborate wood carvings. As you can see, the roofs are flat and used for drying fruits, hay, and just hanging out.

Also in the "just plain cute kid" category, the previous evening we stopped yet again at another hot spring. We were obligated to stop because when you are a foreigner and you bypass someone's "special medicinal spring" it's a pretty big slap in the face. So I immediately rushed off to find the nearest pit toilet. And in my time of need, mid-tempestuous evacuation, a boy came and sat at the pit next to me, did his business, and starting chattering away. Turned out he and his family were at the spring for 10 days from Khorog. He spoke perfect Russian and said that at home his father makes them speak in Russian because that's were the jobs are in the future. He also wants them to learn English and Chinese. Who knows, maybe one day. With that he said good bye and I returned to my business. He could have cared less what I was up to, he literally just wanted to welcome me to the Pamirs and figure out why I was there.

That night we slept at our furthest destination, Langar. There wasn't much there because travelers don't often take this route, so we hunted high and low for the two room "guesthouse" and finally got access. Again, I was overcome by the kindness of the people, and the hostess, a young woman in her 20s who is learning English in Khorog, promised to make me potatoes and to "pray to me." This was pretty much the nadir of my health, and when I woke up restored I thanked her and said a little prayer to the potato gods. By way of thanks I deposited my soccer ball into the happy hands of a little kid who wasn't quite sure why I had chosen him or why I would give away a new, beautiful ball. By accident I also gifted the hostess and her nephew my green Seattle SuperSonics hat, which was pretty painful for me, it's quite the nostalgic possession, especially given the Sonics are no more. So pour a little cognac out for the green hat...

Instead of driving up into the Pamir plateau and seeing a cool desert lake we had to return the way we'd come due to the lack of planning by the drivers, who hadn't brought extra diesel and couldn't find any in Langar. Curran, our program coorinator, also thought that they didn't want to find diesel because the crappy Hyundai Galloper may not have been able to make it up. Oh well.

Anyway, we spent another night in Khorog. The next morning before leaving we made perhaps the coolest stop of the journey: the Khorog Afghan bazar. Once a week the Tajiks let scores of Afghan traders and buyers over the river and into a contained bazar. It's pretty funny because you can see the Afghans streaming in from one direction and the Tajiks streaming in from the other. The bazar wasn't huge but it was hectic and full of mutual fascination. The Afghans sold all sorts of weird things unavailable in Khorog: old sewing machines, medicaments, Afghan scarves and hats, and cheap materials, clothing and shoes from Pakistan. The Tajiks were selling the colorful "national" materials, which seemed to be a big hit for the Afghans, whose women dress in pretty staid colors. More than anything it was amazing to see the all the excited faces: Tajiks staring at AFghans and vice versa, and Americans staring at everyone else and vice versa. My favorite seller was an Afghan selling strange medicaments. He took out a pelican skeleton, arranged it to look as though it was perched and then surrounded it with potions and rocks, calling with a loud speaker. The Pamiris and even the Afghans didn't know quite what to make of him.

I also enjoyed chatting with a Kabul literature student who was spending the summer at home in the north. He wanted to know why we weren't going to Afghanistan and invited me and all of you to come and visit. And I think he's right, in most of the north things are pretty safe.

After quelling our Afghan scarf fever, off we went. Even the drivers got in on the action, buying a few scarves and Afghan CDs.

The return trip was fairly uneventful. I developed a further dislike of Khalaikhum, which was even more dark and dreary on the return journey. Rather then yet another dinner of shorbo (beef shoulder, carrot, potato plus water) I opted for can corn and bread. And orange soda.

Getting back to Dushanbe felt like returning home from the wilds. And my host family and I shared a tender moment saying how much we had missed one another. Then we dined on delicious plov and I began to feeel much better. Truly, I'm lucky to have landed in Saida-opa's house.

More on the return, and my Dushanbe birthday celebration, later on.

Charles

Profusion of Pamir Poopiness

(Charles holding down the fort built by the Kushans in 3rd century(??!.) Justing doin' my job, keeping the silk road safe and the Afghans out!)

(Afghanistan! the novelty wore off after five days)

(my personal field of dreams, in Rushon, Badakshon. Panj river and Afghanistan in the background)

(Tajik checkpoint guards are just the cutest! Note Orzu and Dildor in the back, paying off the bigwigs)

(high altitude gangsters, aka Tajik mine-sweepers)

Dir Frekhnds,

You knew this day would come, when this blog, with all of its pristine intentions to deliver the finest in exploration, reportage, and political commentary, would descend into that basest of all genres - the public poop journal. Yes my friends, there is no other way to record the last week other than with copious amounts of descriptions and references to the ole' bowels. So here it goes, faint of heart forewarned.

We left Dushanbe in one Land Cruiser and one Hyundai "Galloper" (read: Land Cruiser knockoff), our drivers, Dildor and Orzu, and the highest of hopes. Rather than risk the 45 minute flight to Khorog, the program decided we should be safe and take the two day drive.

It's sort of a grand tour post-civil war mayhem and present day Tajik disfunction. The paved road ends about an hour out of town and from then on it's just a rocky road full of ups and downs and twists and turns. Large stretches of the road are fronted with minefields and there are plenty of broken-down tanks still resting in place by the side of the road. Some of the countryside is really quite beautiful, but you can't help but looking at the debris and wondering how different it all might have been. This was the center of the anti-government resistance and saw the brunt of the fighting. This really is rough travelling and nothing in my previous Central Asian travels saw anything the poverty of this road. (There are zero signs of the civil war in Dushanbe, by contrast). All in all a 600 km journey to Khorog, the center of the Badakhsan Autonomous Region, took two full days in the car.

Our first night was spent in a dreary town called Kalaikhum on the Panj river and bordering Afghanistan. We took our first excitable photos of both of these sites, but soon realized they would be our constant traveleing companions for the next few days. We spent the night in a truck stop which featured a pretty nice courtyard and food, but we soon got hit by a windstorm which pelted us with apples. My friend Sean and I (a well-built African-American Marine who the drivers took an immediate liking to, "he's tough and he's a novelty!") were going to go for a run along the river in teh morning and when the rain prevented this, the drivers promptly joked that we were "spirits-men" rather than "sports-men", given the vodka of the previous night.

Kalaikhum was the gateway to the Pamirs, and thankfully the scenery only got better. The Panj wound its way through some very steep canyons and created some absolutely unrunnable rapids on its way to the Pamirs proper. The river is pretty silty, but every so often an utterly pristine turqouise stream would come down from the mountains and show its trail in the river for a few meters before being swallowed by the brown.

We climbed higher and higher and found ourselves in a surprising summer rain storm. On our side were brown rocky mountains dotted every so often by the green blotches of Pamir villages. Many of these villages looked downright happy and quaint, especially the farther away we got from Kalaikhum, which I assume is Pamiri for "Tijuana."

In one of these villages we stopped off for a drink and were, as usual, surrounded by curious children. We noticed that the trees were full of apricots, and the hillsides were literally awash in green and orange. Our program attache, Khurshed, (more on this amazing man later) joked that they were "from God," and regarding their bountiful nature, that "here in Pamir there is still Communism." I literally slipped and fell and stained my new Chinse fake-Adidas running pants on a hillside of apricots. Never before in life have I looked down to see that I tripped on an apricot, that my pants were stained orange with apricot, and that my hands reeked of rich, sweet apricot nectar. Then we all started chowing down. This was good, I thought, for I have been constipated for a few days.

The Afghan side was a bit more sparsely populated but with no road, and only spotty electricity. The Soviets didn't do a whole lot right, but they did bring hydroelectric stations and paved roads to Central Asia whereas one look to the Afghan side made one think that the were in the stone age. For four days as we sped along in our cars we would stare at the small donkey trail that linked the AFghan towns. At times it was wide and flat, and at others it precipitously arced back and forth along sheer cliffs. This part of Afghanistan (populated historically with Tajiks, I'm told) is among the most isolated. These folks are literally pinned to the river by massive dry mountains, and the caravan ride to the south and the major city of Faizobod takes two weeks. On a side note, when we arrived in Khalaikum there was no electricity, however when in the bathroom I noticed that there was light coming from personal generators in Afghanistan. You know things are bed when........you crave Afghan electricity.

Anyhoo, eventually the valley opend up and the Panj got wider. The towns got more picturesque and I found the soccer field depicted above. For some reason all the Pamir kids were wearing replica jerseys. Like, way more so than normal. I demanded the driver stop, handed off some strange black cherry lollipops (thanks, mom) to the kids and took a few photos.

All of my communication was done in Russian. One of the soccer kids was a blond-blued eyed fellow who said he was ethnic Russian, and all the other kids chimed in perfect Russian as well. anywhere in TJ, but especially in Badakhshan, where job prospects are low and anti-govt sentiments high, Russian is a necessary job skill for later in life. The kids all speak in Pamiri, which is an Iranian language related to Tajik, but is quite distinct. There are many dialects, depending on the valley, and it all sounded Greek to me. But I did notice that they seem to pitch their voices up and down a lot. They also make up some really zany town names. Some of my favorites: Avj, Sist, Ptup (x2!!), and, my fave, Snib.

We finally pulled in to Khorog on the evening of day 2. Curran, our resident director who likes to embellish things, warned us that unemployment in the town is 80% and that we would find drunk locals looking for fights starting at 12pm. It wasn't nearly this bad, but it was a bit creepy. But it was a town of 20,000 or so, and felt like a thriving metropolis compared to elsewhere. It is the capital of the Gorno-Badadkhshon Autonomous Region, which preserved some modicum of freedom (i.e. neglect) from the Soviets, who created the appellation, and enjoy the same sort of deal from the Tajik govt today (who have nothing to give). I found it to be rather Soviet looking, but charming, with several little bridges over its own Panj tributary, and with settlements creeping up the mountains beside it. My apologies to Anaita for the forthcoming Pamiri objectification, but the women are beautiful. Yes, the men are handsome too ( shocking the FSU), but the women were gorgeous. I feel a little less "national geographic creepy" when I say this about the city girls, though the country girls were just as beautiful. I refrained from taking too many photos, but lots of women with big bright eyes, long dark hair, and, somehow, dressed much less conservatively than in Dushanbe. The Aga Khan foundation must be the primary employer in town, and he and his Ismaili Islam foundation basically keep the region from starvation. It's got a typical bazar and a large World War II memorial. We stayed in a beautiful little guesthouse called the Pamir Lodge, which had a large covered patio overlooking their little orchard, overlooking the mountains. (how's that for an outsider's account of the city?!)

I purchased a soccer ball in town and decided to try to make friends with some local youth in the adjoining school yard. I found two teenagers and one of their younger brothers eager to join me. It was a strange combination of travelers' paranoia, the highs and lows of the Pamiri language, the likely drug abuse of the kids, that made me feel the whole time that they were having fun at my expense. No worries though, fun was had by all, but I left with a creepy feeling.

Dinner was plov. Afterdinner activities were drinking vodka with the drivers and then playing poker (with pistacchios as chips) with two French girls, a Spaniard and a northern Irishman. Something about the vodka left me feeling strange and all the Europeans reminded me that smoking is in fact cool so I was headed for a very unpleasant 3 am wake-up date with the grass outside my room.

Waking up a bit hungover, but having heaved out most of the toxins, I still felt like death. This was constipation in a bad way. You feel completely plugged up and look longingly at your friends with their toilet paper in hand, waiting for the bathroom to open. I told Khurshed and the drivers (the only ones up with me at 6am) and we went over a list of possible solutions: more vodka, run around a little, really strong green tea, more apricots, etc. So I finally settled in with green tea and water. I got a few laxatives from a friend. Hours later and we were ready to depart, but still no movement. I took a few more laxatives, and still nothing. Finally Khurshed asked if maybe I should say in Khorog for three days. Hell no.

So we went on a trip to the local pharmacies to see what they had. Finally, Khurshed asked me if I wanted to try a "klisma" at the local hospital. Without my Russian dictionary in hand, I said yes, guessing what "klisma" must mean.

We walked into a small courtyard and asked for the inpatient room. Khurshed asked the nurse on staff if they could give an emergency "klisma." The smurk she could not hide, directed at the strange, tall, curly-haired American, was all the proof I needed. Enema!

I'll refrain from some of the details and say simply: we spoke in Russian but there was a small communication barrier. So we had a few "practice" rounds before we got it right. We were interrupted a few times by construction workers who were fixing the gutters outside of the room. They seem to be able to walk right into to hospital rooms without knocking in Khorog. As I lay prone, pantless, and on my side, giving a friendly salute to the passing workman, with the nurse holding the tube and bucket at my side I thought, this is a day I'll remember.

The evacuation was only mostly complete and I opted for another laxative, and away I went. I thanked the nurse, who refused payment, but wished me luck and hoped I would make other memories in the Pamirs. Khurshed did see that she got 5 somoni for her troubles ($1.50). Imagine that in America! An emergency room rush visit, 30 mins of very personal attention, no lines, and no payment! Yes, Communism still exists in Badakhshan.

So I rejoined the group and away we went, out of Khorog and on to more adventures. I looked down at my stomach and silently rooted for movement. Any movement.

The first stop of the day was a sulphur hot spring, not far from the town of Snib. It had a cool mineral formation, not unlike those at Yellowstone, and a small little tourist infrastructure for the bigwigs of Khorog who "take the waters" for multiple day stretches. After we waited for the girls to have their turn, the guys were escorted to a small room with its own tub. The sulphur was not too pungent, but the water was ridiculously hot. I put my body in step by step, each new inch feeling like a new area of general burning. Once underwater any sudden movements also felt like more burning. I had already been sweating out my "condition" previously, and sitting in the pool only made me sweat more. After two minutes I got out and felt pretty darn close to fainting before leaving the pool. This had not been a good idea, but no disasters were had in the sacred waters, which was a very good thing, if you get the drift.

Finally, a few minutes from Snib, and not far from Ptup ( I can only assume) I asked for a stop, found a rock, settled in with a good view of Afghanistan, and released.

This happened many other times that afternoon and evening. And I was thankful to the nice nurse at Khorog, the wet-naps which I'd purchased for emergencies only, and that movement had returned.

And on this note I'll sign off till tomorrow.

More to come, and much of it non-bowel related.

Best,

Charles

Off to the Pamirs!

Hi folks,

I'll be out of touch for a week in the "roof of the world", aka the Pamir mountains. Hopefully I'll return with tales of mine fields, Afghan markets, silk road fortresses and Zoroastrian fire temples. Hopefully.

See you soon,
Charles