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

A few photos

(way back from Iskander Kul)

(bread seller outside of the shrine)

(everybody pose for the camera! I hope my suit fits me better, one day.)

Not much to report. But I finally learned how to shrink my photo sizes so they download faster. Here are a few.

Mochon - the hunter; Charles - the saxophonist

Sorry, this picture of Mochon doesn't do justice to his hunting skills, nor does it testify to his raggedy condition. In fact, he looks downright cute. The other day he caught, killed, and ate a mouse and left its head as a prize for Bakhtior. Nonetheless, he still gets "tssked" consistenly, and Malika loves to step on his tail. I'm telling you, this cat gets no respect. But he does get stray bones at dinner. And for this reason he sits at Bakhtior's side constantly.

My dinner at the US ambassador's house was interesting. The house is designed to compete with the megalomanical pretensions of political leaders' residences, thus the large fountain of the lion leaping through a hoop of water. The ambassador is a very nice and very sharp woman, and she dates a higher-up in the BRitish embassy. On the piano at the entrance is a glamour-shot photo of the Brit that he apparently gave to her as a birthday present. Awesome. The dinner was designed to allow American and Tajik students to get acquainted. But most of the Tajiks were in high school or in college, and most of the Americans were/are awkward. Put that together, and you get a pretty tame affair. I did meet a few nice embassy staff members who got me reexcited about embassy work.

Unexpected treat of today: our conversation teacher took us somewhat randomly to the philharmonic theather. We assumed it was for dance lessons (since word got out that Charles couldn't dance, and this was deemed impossible and immediately demanded fixing). Instead we got an impromptu tour for the "dear American guests" of the shoddy facilities and a peak at the practice rooms of various "national ensembles." This was actually quite a treat. A "national artist" on accordion played a few bars and showed us some traditional Uzbek (Persian, by the way) musical instruments. Then we went into a string of practice rooms and saw, by turns, a modern group (syntehsizer, drums, guitar, sax); girls' ballet class; young women's "national dance troup" doing a sort of spiffed up traditional dance, and a choir. My personal highlight was being invited to blow a few bars of sax: sight reading a song with five sharps on an insturment that had seen better days, with a totally dry reed. the first few puffs were totally and embarrasingly mute, then I tried to follow along, with limited success. Finallly I figured ti would be best if I just did my best Bill Clinton and did some blues scale riffing. Applause.

People are so welcoming of foreign guests here (cliche of the day). I'll return with a camera, I promise.

Charles

Dinosaur Eggs

(at the shrine. On the lookout for non-existant fish in the holy pool. You can see some of the floating bread pieces.)

(selling dinosaur eggs. Bakhtior-aka and Muhamad Amin are at the right)

Although Bakhtior-aka is not the most worldly fellow, and would probably knocked to the curb were he to come to America, like most mammals he is incredibly well suited to his own local environment. Case in point: the bazar.

I hitched along with him and Muhammad Amin to the bazar to get groceries for last night's big dinner of shorvo (soup with boiled beef, potatoes, carrots, onions, cabbage, dill and green onion). Bakhtior basicallly huffs and waddles his way through the world, but when he gets to the bazar I see that this style of transport is ingenoiusly suited for skating from vendor to vendor, laughing off their best offers. Bakhtior is a veritable ballerina amidst the aisles of potatoes, meat, carrots, peppers, and toiletries. (I bought a nail clipper and Muhammad Amin decided he needed one too. $1.50! What a crazy deal!) Sure enough, just like last time in our search for khandalaks, Bakhtior knew that better deals were at hand, so we went to the back corner of the bazar and found our spot: carrots for 2 somoni a kg rather than the 3 somoni listed everywhere else. Next we moved on to the melons.

Khandalak season is over, but there are interesting new varities on offer. This week: I've dubbed it the dinosaur egg. See photo. After dinner we carved it up and, ladies and gentlemen, I had another "groan in my native language" moment. It was delicious and gives the ol' khandalak a run for my affections.

Speaking of runs, I seem to have dried up for the most part. And enjoyed a somewhat frutiful trip today to the national library.

More later,

Charles

Peer Tutor, Bakhtior makes Lagman!, and Dushanbe Discharge

Hi folks,

You might remember me complaining recently that all the other students had been paired with "peer tutors," or paid local "friends" that promise to tolerate an American's bad Tajik/Uzbek for a few hours a week. Well everyone got a good looking local lady except me, who didn't get anyone. Yes, word had even spread to Dushanbe.

But finally I was matched with Alimjon, a 20 year old student at the Pedagogical Inst. Our first "date" was a bit awkward. I think Alimjon was equal parts terrified and bursting with pride to march around town with me, curly haired, bearded, camera-toting, and a full head taller then most, and with that silly American habit of looking people straight in the eye and walking with that 'the world has not yet trod over me' posture. We went to the national musuem, which had a pretty nice assortment of old picks and axes from the Soghdian era, some dreary "traditional" clothing, and an actually really cool exhibit on World War II. The top story of the museum was full of exhibits of modern industry (which didn't take long), cotton (or "white gold" as Alimjon said sheepishly), and personal gifts of Emomali Rahmon from world leaders whose purpose, I think, is to show his citizens that at least world leaders take him seriously (an unlikely proposition).

The next week we walked around to various libraries in search of library cards. Score! Library cards! Dorky mallorkey.

Last week I made it up to him by taking him out ot the fountain at the opera theater for a beer. We shot the breeze and talked about his upcoming marriage, women, and prostitutes. According to him, all the women at the bar were clearly prostitutes. "you can just tell, they're different." I asked him if it wasn't just their habit of making jokes with customers and making eye contact. He said no, and that to some degree their purity had been destroyed. Don't worry women of the western world, I stood up for you, your eye contact, and your jokes. I assured him that only some of them were likely prostitutes.

Alimjon is, I must say, a sweetheart. Notwithstanding the views that he shares with most TAjiks.

The next day was a treat because he took me to a Naqshbandiy (sufi) shrine 20 minutes outside the city and on the grounds of the kolkhoz where he lives. (next week's "date": milking cows on the kolkhoz!) Outside the shrine was a modest collection of regulars, such as the incense sellers, koran and hajj paraphenila hawkers, beggars, and police men. Inside a modest gateway were several huge plane (?) trees and crowds of people coming in to pray and receive good luck. the centerpiece was the tomb of a 16th century Nakshbandiy leader named Yakubi Chorkhi. We walked around the tomb three times for good luck and then went off to gaze in the holy fish pond, which was murky, green, and topped with forlorn pieces of uneaten bread. Fish nowhere to be found, but everyone was staring in. All in all the place felt special and in fact, holy. Somethign about the calm and the massive trees, which are an unusual site around here, and the purposefulness of people, young and old. I bought some Uzbek Islam missionary literature which I look forward to distributing when I get home to the states.

It must have been that day that Bakhtior greeted me upon arrival with a big old grin and the announcement that he had made lagman. Lagman is a Uyghur (Western Chinese Turkic speakers) dish with noodles in a vegetable and meat broth. To counteract the acidity of the vegetables, they usually add a really tart yogurt. All in all, this was the best I'd ever had it, in no small part due to the fact that Bakhtior makes his own noodles by hand. Well done, Bakhtior.

Finally, last week I was hit hard with the drippings, the drizzle, the droppings, the...you get the idea. I settled on the alliterative, Dushanbe Discharge. (I find that the "d" lends itself really well to these alliterations). Becaus what is a blog if not a site for public airing of one's poop diary?

I bring it up also to broach the subect of folk remedies. My teacher Abdullahjon suggested all I really needed was to mix salt with 50 g of vodka and that would do the trick (the salt is just so it doesn't feel too much like a 'treat', i think). I was gulping down water and Bakhtior insisted I drink only black tea which, I must admit, settled my stomach. Of course he couldn't understand why I didn't eat watermelon that very same day. It all goes to show that throughout the world no one is sure what to do with the poops. It confuses us all.

And on this note of hopeful common ground, I bid farewell from the Dush.

Simple Pleasures

A short update today:

In the "first time in my life file," two new items.

1. The ultimate in redundant clothing. A guy walking down teh street had jeans. On the back pocket label was written in bold letters: "MANASS."

2. A child sitting in a remote control car being operated by his mother, five steps away via the remote. The Jetsons meets Dushanbe.

No photos from thes minor events, sadly.

Best, Charles

Talking Politics

(my artsy photo from Iskanderkul... pirated Photoshop: $3.50)

We'll have to wait on the Mochon update. He's been slinking around lately and hasn't been into posing for me.

Had a great talk with Bakhtior-aka yesterday. He showed me the family's wedding albums. Aparently he was serving in East Germany from 1976-78, years he describes as formative and good. "two years is not two weeks," he said. He said that Russians there were amazed with his language skills and that his battalion was a literal Soviet UN. There were Tajiks, Ukrainians, Caucasians, and Russians. He described the time with love in his eyes, and had created a homemmade album with bubble-lettering saying things like, "my memories from Germany" and with postcards from East Berlin. It was, well, cute.

While he was serving in Germany his mom wrote him a letter saying that she had selected a local girl for a bride. She sent a letter with Said-opa's photo. He had never spoken to her because she was three years younger, but had seen her once or twice in school.

When he got home to Dushanbe he met her, literally for the first time, on the front steps of ZAGS (the Soviet marriage "office"), where they registered their marriage, under the chaperoneship of her sister. They were not allowed alone together until after the wedding, a month later!

They're celebrating 30 years together this fall. Here's to arranged marriages! They seem to work. We spoke of her great cooking, and how hard working, and intelligent she is. They certainly don't share a lot of affection, but they seem to respect each other a great deal.

On a different note, Bakhtior-aka and I always seem to get stuck on politics. I tend to say thing like, "[Uzbekistan president] Islam Karimov is one of the world's cruelest presidents." And he'll reply with a, "Karimov is a strong leader, not like [Tajik president] Rahmon." All politics are relative, it seems to me. In Uzbekistan last summer people spoke wistfully of Kazakhstan, which was "20-25 years" ahead of Uzbekistan courtesy of its oil wealth and booming economy. In Tajikistan, people like Bakhtior talk of their Uzbek neighbors the same way, due to Tajikistan's civil war and general lack of natural resources or local industry. Furthermore, he thinks Rahmon - a former kolkhoz director - is simply a moron. He can't understand how he could let bread prices spiral out of control as they've done this year (something out of his control in my opinion). NOr can he comprehend how gas and electricity can be so spotty, especially in winter. Meanwhile, Rahmon's compatriots from Kulob province have "all moved to Dushanbe illegally and are building all of the nice homes you see." He speaks wistfully of the days when Russians and Jews lived in Dushanbe. (he bought his home from a Jewish man in 1990, a sign of quality and prestige that he's proud of) Nobody respects Rahmon, he says, because Rahmon provides nothing. His government is corrupt (our car was pulled over by the cops for being "dirty" and made to pay a "fine" and to get it washed on site) and it can't seem to attract foreign investors.

Meanwhile, he watches Uzbek TV, which is a much higher quality operation than Tajik. He says that even when programs are unscripted (when would that be, ahem?) Uzbek faces are all smiling, in new factories with new equipment, but on Tajik TV no one smiles. Yes, life seems to be better in Uzbekistan.

And it's hard to argue with this thinking. He's fifty. He's lived in East Berlin. He's lived through the collapse of the USSR and his own country's collapse into civil war. He might just know a thing or two about what type of government is feasible in central Asia, quips about Tajiks' lack of education notwithstanding. And while I can't defend Andijon, or kicking out the Peace Corps, or murdered journalists in Uzbekistan, I might have to agree with Bakhtior that when you're stuck with Rahmon, Karimov seems like a bright light of hope.

With authoritarian sympathies,

Charles

Hoover Dam, Ted Turner, and Happy July 5th

(Fresh kebab)

(Norak dam and reservoir, Kudrat and Alisher)

Hi folks,

Hope everyone had a star-spangled 4th. I kicked off the weekend on Friday with an excursion to yet another stream-side picnic. Our group spent the day under shade trees beside a raging stream the color of mint green Crest toothpaste. It was a pretty subdued day but our friend Khurshed manned the fire and the gigantic pot and created a dish called "kebab." Pictures to follow. Note how kebab is not kebab. It's made in the large "kozon" pot. First you boil the beef then you add cabbage, onions and potatoes, cumin, carraway and tumeric. Then simmer for a long time. It was pretty good, but salty.

On July 4th I did my favorite thing: anything for which the American equivalent would be impossible. Here's what I mean:

The childhood friend of a dear friend of mine at Berkeley is the head of Tajik television (hence the Ted Turner reference), named Kudrat. Mostly out of obligation to his childhood friend, he feels compelled to show me a good time here in Dushanbe. We've already been out to dinner and he suggested we visit Norak, the gigantic hydroelectic station, dam, and chain of lakes that's about an hour south east of Dushanbe. Norak was (obviously) built by the Soviets, used to be home to a bunch of Russian engineers, and is "Tajikistan's most strategic object", according to Kudrat, because it provides literally all of the energy to Dushanbe.

See if you can count the ironies in the following situation (and yes, Charles hanging out with Tajik Ted Turner is one of them). We drove to the base of the dam and found a guard station with three guys having tea. Kudrat and the hired muscle, Alisher, sauntered over slowly to ease things over. I didn't see any money exchange hands, but I wasn't exactly staring because I was supposed to be the dumb American. But five minutes later they were opening the gates, and in we drove. After sending a flock of goats scurrying we drove up and up into the hills next to the dam and into a large tunnel. Emerging on the other side we were on top of the dam with the station to our right and an immense deep turquoise (the color of Tahoe?) lake on the left. I asked Kudrat what he had said to the guards to ease the way. He said that he considered himself part of the government and it was his duty to show an American guest the government's primary sites. Baking in the heat I snapped a few pictures and then noticed that there was a large group of cars and boats at one side of the lake. Apparently lots of others had found it wasn't too difficult to enter "Tajikistan's most strategic object." Driving back down we passed several more cars of the local elite taking advantage of a clear lake and secluded beach. And within easy view of the gate we stopped our car again and started pouring water on the engine. After twenty minutes we were off again, stopping briefly at a rest area for fried local fish (hydroelectrically equipped?), before heading back to Dushanbe. Nothing better than a day with a local host whose sense of obligation outweighs any sense of levity. Ah the fun.

On the 5th we were all invited to the US Embassy's July 4th party (no fireworks - mixed messages). The Embassy is a hideous fortress on the outside of town. It looks like a factory, but with a huge, green lawn, because Americans need their grass. Based on a comparative security check, I would say that the embassy is the country's most strategicv object, because there were metal detectors and we had to check our phones and cameras at the door.

Inside was an intereting mix of marines, old fat bald American dudes, missionary families, language students, and local NGO employees of various nationalities. the beer was cold, the TV was huge, and the Serena vs. Venus match was appropriately dull. Later on though, I saw a harrowing Guitar Hero battle betwee a marine and an old fat bald American dude. Compelling.

We med up again with the Brits from Iskander Kul (small town, eh?) and played soccer with some of the lucky Tajik invitees. Then off to the dinner stand for really bad hot dogs and hamburgers. How bad?

Most people I know got sick from the "American food" at the American embassy's July 5th party. Is there no safe haven?

I get this funny feeling that such culinary unpleasantries would not happen at, say, the Vienna embassy.

Coming soon... an update on Mochon, host cat and hunter extraorinaire.

Malika, the Terror

This is a photo of Malika, my four year old "host niece." I tried the standard Salowich joke on her, grabbing her head and saying: this is a brain eater, do you know what it's doing? It's starving. I think it was lost in translation to Uzbek.

According to Bakhtior, she is "stubborn", like her mom. Most mornings she starts off crying for her mom, but by the afternoons she is eager to sing songs from her Tajik kindergarten and to remind me the names of all the plants in the garden: grapes, pears, apples, hot peppers, basil, apricots, and mint. Most of the time, however, I can't understand what she's saying.

She is a patient teacher, though. We had a little impromptu pop quiz at dinner the other night, which was basically an excuse for me to formulate easy questions in Uzbek. I asked Muhammad Amin what the capital of Tajikistan was, who the president was, and where I was from. He got two out of three cuz he thought I was from Turkey (!! - zoiks). We then asked Malika where I was from, or why I spoke such bad Uzbek, she said: you don't speak bad Uzbek. What a charmer.

Yesterday at dinner she was deemed a "champion" for finishing the cabbage in her soup. (it was a basic broth with stufed cabbages (yum), carrots, onions, and potatoes - and lots of dill. A basic form of the national dish "shorvo." Muhammad Amin cried because he refused to eat his cabbage.

But everyone got melon in the end -- yay! Except it wasn't khandalak, but another kind which, by any normal standards would be amazing. But it's not my favorite.

take care,
Charles

The Host Fam

Hopefully some of these work out:

On the bottom is a photo of the "Dushanbe All Stars" soccer team (aka host nephew Muhammad Amin, 8; me, 27, and host brother Bunyod, 20).

On the top is a photo of me at a typical meal: Bakhtior, 40s, host father; Saida, 40s, host mother; Muhammad Amin, 8, "Charles' personal helper"; and me, 27, "speaks Uzbek funny."

I think on this occasion we had just polished off a dinner of plov, the national dish of all the Central Asian republics. It's made in a gigantic round pot over the fire with oil, rice, carrots, onions, and usually beef. More exciting varities include chickpeas and raisins (Tashkent); and garlic (Samarkand), and some exciting folks include spices such as tumeric. My Kazakh teacher, Alma, would alwasy brag that Kazakhs had way more meat and that the Uzbeks are stingy with it. I would say this is true; and my host family had the basic version - no spice, chickpeas, raisins, or garlic.

AKA - I was minorly disappointed. So my plov-making dreams will be of a bland version. Other than that, my food has been great;and my host mom still has not repeated a dinner, two weeks or more into the summer.

More to come,

Charles

Uzbek Richard Gere and Alexander the Great

Hi Folks,

I just got back from an escape of a weekend. A few friends from the program and I hired a car to go to a turquoise alpine lake a few hours north of town. It's called "Iskander Kul" (or, Alexander's Lake) because it's supposedly the lake from which his horse, Bucephalus drank and near the spot where he grabbed his Tajik wife, Roxana. There are other legends associated with the lake, such that it has healing powers and typical Central Asian lore, but most impressive is its turquoise hue which is created by minerals and mercury deposits which prevnt too much organic material from growing.

We took the main north-south highway out of town and I was shocked that it is still being rebuilt after the civil war of the 1990s, and also by some really abject poverty in small villages by the roadside. People are living in mud huts here, in villages high in the mountains with only tiny patches of garden. Other villages are much more prosperous because, as our driver pointed out, all the men were sending money home from Russia. (Tajikistan's GDP is 1/3 to 1/2 comprised of revenues sent back from workers abroad). Two hours in we hit the tunnel of death. It's full of water, carbon monoxide, broken machinery, abandoned cars and goes for about 20 minutes if you're lucky. It was "successfully" opened a few years ago but even teh president refused to go through. It was utterly terrifying. Half way through my nose started to tingle from the collected carbon monoxide, and we all got a little sleepy. Meanwhile, our SUV was trudging through at times a foot and a half of water.

Finally at the end of 20 minutes our nervous chatter about 'death by tunnel' ceased and we breathed in the beautiful, dusty, mountain air.

Only to be stopped 30 minutes later.

The Chinese govt gave teh Tajiks a massive loan in exchange for building the highway, which they're doing in bits and pieces, with laborers imported here who speak no Russian or Tajik and sleep in roadside tents. They have no signage, and yup, they just sort of stop traffic all of a sudden. Literally a half mile from our turnoff to the lake we were stopped by angry, rock holding Chinese who demanded we all stop. Slowly traffic gathered, furious and confused. there was the mullah-mobile, a tiny Chinese made car with two old dudes; there were families going to Samarkand, Penjikent, and other expat groups heading to Iskander kul. We all bonded over shared rage and confusion.

Many diplomatic strategies were used to convince them to open the road for the ten seconds it would take us to reach the turn off. No dice. We tried yelling in Russian, Tajik and English. We tried writing in the gravel to understand hwo long it would take.

Meanwhile, a group of TAjiks invited us down to the little river for vodka, bread, cucumbers and tomatoes. We accepted. And it was a succsssfull way to pass the time: one of our girls was propositioned for marriage; we got to wash our faces in the river; and Curran (program coordinator) and I were invited bear hunting in remote Garm province by a cop who showed us the bone that permanently protrudes from his leg courtesy of a fishing accident, and who told us of the benefits to teh "organism" when, after killing the bear, you climb inside it. He says he can only tolerate it for 20 minutes but that it brings out all the bad inside you and you will never be cold again.

Keep your fingers crossed for a post in a few weeks involving Kalashnikovs and Empire Strikes Back/Bear Grylls-style bear blankets.

A mere three hours later we were let pass and on our way to Iskander kul, and immediately the stream we were following turned a cool green that Gatorade could probably market as "mountain stream," or other such nonsense.

Through canyons that reminded me of the eastern approach to Yellowstone, we finally arrived at the lake at 5:30.

at the lake we pitched tents while our new expat and TAjik friends rented little cabins by the lake. I immediately ran to the water where there was a "cafe-bar" perched over the Tahoe of Tajikistan. I was greeted by a group of drunk men, one of whom demanded that I acknowledge that he looked like "Uzbek Richard Gere." I had to admit that he did. But he was an asiatic version, so after a vodka shot, we agreed that he was half an american movie star, and half Chinghis Khan. Then it was off to pitch the tents.

A mediocre dinner was followed by free hot dogs courtesy of the European NGO workers. then to a dance party dominated by a coed group of foreigners and "local jailbait" in the lingo of Max, from England. An SUV was pumping out Enrique Eglasias, Gypsy Kings, and TAjik music, and only after 30 minutes or so of watching foreign men dance with their teenage daughters did theTajik men join the dancing.

Bleary eyed we awoke the next morning to head for the waterfall that empties out of the lake. Again, I was reminded of Yellowstone - and its massive falls. These were truly awesome - - probably a 20 meter drop into churning white. and you can go to a viewing platform that is freaky, rickety and extends right above it.

After returning home we were met by our driver, Amir, with a crazed look in his eye. "beef, fresh beef," he yelled. The locals had just slaughtered a young cow and they were selling meat for 13 somoni/1kg (that's $4 a kg of fresh, organic, local, farm raised, grass fed, certified "tajik organic" for the Berkeley readers in the house - in other words, a crazy deal). The men dragged me and Curran to the still warm animal hanging in a tree. They were shocked that we wanted only 1 kg, which was bordering on rude given the poverty of the country and the cheapness of th meat. But we were only there for a night and got a kg for kebabs to share with the Europeans.

That night we feasted on kebabs (marinated in beer, ramen noodle spice packets, apples and dried apricots - actually a pretty unsuccessful marinade). Many toasts were made to Chinese road workers, international friendship, north america, the Berkeley organic police (whoops, did I really say that?), and Alexander the Great. Were were mostly too tired this night for too many shenanigans and most of the locals had left. So we cleaned up by the lake and decided the only way to consume the crappy local vodka was, what else, fire breathing. (see photos to come on Facebook or here in the near future).

Given the slyness, slipperiness, and stupidity of all Chinese, and particulalry the roadworkers (this courtesy of our driver) we rose at 4am and got back to Dushanbe at 7:30 am, 12 hours earlier than planned. I expected to find my Uzbek family partying in my room, wearing my clothes. But instead they were all pleasantly suprisied and my host mom was doin my laundry, what a dear.

More to come soon.... meeting Anaita's friend who's head of Tajik TV; seeing the most awesome assortment of antiquities outside the house of stolen goods aka the British Museum.

I miss you all.

Charles

Nectar of the gods

To my Dir Ridirz,

Something about arid climes makes for good melons. There's not a lot of rain here, in Turkmenistan, or in Uzbekistan, especially in the summer (yesterday's freak rain and dirt storm not withstanding). And I want to tell you about the best melon of my life.

So anyone traveling to Central Asia can tell you that in the summer there are mountains of watermelons on the roadsides. The earliest ripening ones come from Iran and southern Tajikistan, and later come the Uzbek and Turkmen ones. These are incredibly tasty and plentiful. Many families have two a day.

But usually lined up in a humble little line in front of all the watermelons are a row of small melons called "khandalaq." Last night I ate a whole one and started yelling to my host family about how "ridiculous" the melon was. They looked at me dumbfoundedly, and Bakhtior was pleased. They are small and tender and make the ripest honeydew taste watered down. They start off white at the rind and gradually get yellower at the inside where there are wisps of soft, yellowy, rich goodness. The consistency is like a bosc pear and I devoured them.

Dad, they are the best food I have ever eaten, and I'll try to send home an unripe one. cross our fingers.

Okay, off to get a crash course in Tajik.

Charles

Oh, what a dusty Dushe

Khello Dir Frehnds!

I write from the air conditioned confines of the ACTR program office in Dushanbe, sitting on our new shiny black leather couch with the rest of the program folk.

As is often the case when travelling, five days here already feels like a month. The teaching has settled into a routine, as has life with the host family. Dushanbe doesn't exactly extend itself like Samarkand, but it's friendly and it's growing on me. It's hot and dusty and very, very Soviet. It seems there hasn't been much of a building boom in post-Soviet Dushanbe, so all the museums, schools, apartments all have a very post-Soviet imperial feel. But apart from the main avenue - called Rudaki - there are large sections of makhallas, or traditional neighborhoods with traditional central Asian dwellings called hovles, which are centered around a courtyard. Thankfully I've wound up in one of those, with a host family that is Uzbek (but of course, speaks TAjik and Russian also).

My host father, Bakhtior, is rotund, affable, and immensely proud of all things Uzbek (including plov, watermelons, and Islam Karimov). When I don't understand what he says in Uzbek, he simply repeats himself until I suddenly and miraculously "get it." We also speak Russian but technically I'm not allowed to use it. My host mother is named Saida, and she's a primary school teacher at the Uzbek-Tajik school; her favorite word is "conscience." Her everyday house-smock is light blue. Bunyod is my twenty year old host brother. He's a part time student at the local Russian-Tajik University, hoping to study in Turkey in teh coming years. He works days at a warehouse and has rooted for Russia, Spain and Turkey in the Euro championships. In our chess matches I've won two and stalemated one. My host sister is Sherzoda, she is in her mid twenties but I have not been formally been introduced, and clearly will not. Why? I'm not sure, but she has two small kids and seemingly no husband, so I guess some sort of scandal occured. She is confined to the back side of the courtyard where she cooks and makes tea for the male folk, when she's not working as a cook for Southern Fried Chicken. She did emerge yesterday to give us tea and it became apparent that she had forgotten to give me a phone message. Bunyod, usually mild mannered bawled her out, and I'm pretty sure I heard a "stupid girl" in there somewhere. This is a myster that I'll be working on all summer. More updates to come.

The lights of my life at the moment are two adorable host niece and nephew. Muhammad Amin is 8 and was delighted to get my soccer ball as a present. He has been appointed my "assistant" by Bakhtior and will do my bidding, as soon as I can figure out how to give orders in Uzbek. Hopefully we can take our courtyard soccer matches to an outside pitch sometime soon. Finally, there is 4 year old Malika, which means "Princess" in Uzbek. She's rambunctious, either smiling or sobbing, and has investigated all of my belongings from shampoos, computer, notebooks, toothpaste, etc. She's earned some sort of nickname for her "capriciousness." She loves her Detroit Red Wings tee-shirt and likes to list the features of the face for me in Uzbek. She gets to join the menfolk at dinner because she's just a babe. But most of the time me, Bakhtior, Bunyod and Muhammad Amin eat on our own. I wouldn't mind changing this up beause Bakhtior takes great pride in slurping his food, grunting, and wiping everythign up with his fingers. He also demands that I eat more food.

random facts:
- waterpressure is set to 1983 levels. People keep illegally tapping the lines, and so the pressure is down to a trickle. For instance, I shower by letting the drips accumulate in a basin and poor it over my head. Then I repeat. The government could technically raise the pressure, but to punish all the illegal buildings, the rest of us suffer.
- an Iranian "peer tutor" for the Farsi kids is married to a filmmaker. He's doing a series on Tajik culture and she says that they aren't friends with most of the local Iranians, who all work for the Iranian government, spreading the good word (inshallah).
- technically, proselytizers of all religions are to be deported or jailed. I guess I live in a neighborhood that is known to have a Lutheran church. So I've been warned not to go there or risk potential deporting. Not to worry.
- there are a number of Afghan refugees here but I haven't figured out where they live yet. Later in the summer I hope to attend the US embassy run day camp for Tajik and Afghan kids. Essentially it's indoctrination camp. I'll report all the worst I see.

My apologies for the list format of this email; florridness will come.

And so dear readers, till next time......

Will Charles finally be introduced to Sherzoda?
Will he find the Afghan kids?
And will the kids ever be able to understand his Uzbek?

Stay tuned.

Charles