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
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
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
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
Monday, June 23, 2008
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
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
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Russians, Orthodoxy, and Hagia Sophia
Dear Devoted Readers,
I'm writing from the unexpectedly free internet-equipped Ataturk airport in Istanbul. What bountiful duty free.
It's amazing how the longest journeys start with the first step, and sometimes that first step is full of the pungent aroma of what's to come.
Great flight out from Detroit to Wash, DC. Sat next to a 14 year old Albanian kid in the "Albanian families only" section of the plane. The group was full of laughter in this mix of Italian and Slavic that is Albanian. I asked one of the fathers what languages Albanian was related to. He said there were none.
Anyway, this kid was a huge fan of flying, and in this innocent way would tell me about running around the house in flight and how airtravel was better than rollercosters. He's also a varsity soccer player at Troy high school and a geography bowl state finalist. Needless to say we hit it off. He had this typical adolescent balance of innocence with the guilty grin coming from his pimply face that said "i"m going to drink and smoke and have sex on the Adriatic all summer." All Albanians prssed their noses to the windows all flight long. He told me he loved history and I said I was a history teacher a few years ago. He then told me some sort of bastardized Albanian epic history tradition of great conquerors who beat back the Turks time and time again. A good kid.
DC to Frankfurt saw me get sandwiched, this time in a group of fifty "young leaders" from teh former Soviet Union who had spent the academic years in podunk locations throughout the US, like hickville Toledo outskirts, and some West Virginia town that wasn't Morgantown or Charleston. So there I was, in a sea of sixteen-seventeen year old Russian speakers, all wearing teal blue teeshirts testifying to their nascent leadership abilities. I was fortunate to land between Olga and Lyulya, from Irkutsk and Tiumen respectively.
Olga had spent the year in a small Ohio town at a high school with 400 kids, made it to Columbus for a Swedish heavy metal show but other than that never traveled anywhere; not Cleveland, not Detroit. But she was a sweet girl and very curious, and had that wise-beyond-her-years way of speaking a second language, in perfectly formed, dense yet wooden sentences, such as "I do not believe you can choose your path" or "religion is only a foundation for moral behaviors." The girls spoke wonderful English, said how idiotic American high schools were, hwo their English grammar declined through the year, and, in response to my question, assured me that Russian teenagers think reading is cool. On the whole my line was: yeah but, you didn't see cosmopolitan, liberal, well-educated America. And hers was: yeah, but I saw American America. Ouch.
Olga is inclined towards Druidism and religions without too much doctrine. She thinks the mentally handicapped should be separated from the rest of society. She loves sloppy joes and salad dressings (not together) and is a fan of graffiti art. In fact, she think she was stuck with a lousy host family because on her application to the program she meant this interest, which may have scared away a lot of small town families.
We didn't get a proper goodbye or exchange of emails since I was off to make a connection, but I assure you Vladimir Putin himself couldn't have chosen such intelligent and curious young leaders. The future of Russia is in good hands.
Random and unexpected trip to the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul during my layover. I bought a quick visa, saluted Senor Ataturk, and hopped on the light rail. Within 45 minutes I was staring at the blue mosque on one side and the Hagia Sophia on the other, meanwhile I tried to avoid the rail cars, taxis, and teh souvenir hawkers. I'll seee if I have what it takes to attach photos to this thing. In short, it's the grandest interior space I've ever been in. It's like being in the Yosemite valley of holy spaces. the pictures don't really do it justice, but they do prove it is for real, which is what the blog is all about.
Isn't it amazing how body odor worldwide smells more or less the same? After a while it's not a reek, but just a pungent sort of coating, like an extra protective layer. I smelled a bit of Central Aisa in teh rail car and will hopefully get some of the real thing soon. I also intent to return home with a bit of my own odor-armor as well, be warned.
I didn't take any photos of me, so you'll have to trust it was in fact my camerawork.
My next entry will hopefully be from the Dushe.
See you,
Charles
I'm writing from the unexpectedly free internet-equipped Ataturk airport in Istanbul. What bountiful duty free.
It's amazing how the longest journeys start with the first step, and sometimes that first step is full of the pungent aroma of what's to come.
Great flight out from Detroit to Wash, DC. Sat next to a 14 year old Albanian kid in the "Albanian families only" section of the plane. The group was full of laughter in this mix of Italian and Slavic that is Albanian. I asked one of the fathers what languages Albanian was related to. He said there were none.
Anyway, this kid was a huge fan of flying, and in this innocent way would tell me about running around the house in flight and how airtravel was better than rollercosters. He's also a varsity soccer player at Troy high school and a geography bowl state finalist. Needless to say we hit it off. He had this typical adolescent balance of innocence with the guilty grin coming from his pimply face that said "i"m going to drink and smoke and have sex on the Adriatic all summer." All Albanians prssed their noses to the windows all flight long. He told me he loved history and I said I was a history teacher a few years ago. He then told me some sort of bastardized Albanian epic history tradition of great conquerors who beat back the Turks time and time again. A good kid.
DC to Frankfurt saw me get sandwiched, this time in a group of fifty "young leaders" from teh former Soviet Union who had spent the academic years in podunk locations throughout the US, like hickville Toledo outskirts, and some West Virginia town that wasn't Morgantown or Charleston. So there I was, in a sea of sixteen-seventeen year old Russian speakers, all wearing teal blue teeshirts testifying to their nascent leadership abilities. I was fortunate to land between Olga and Lyulya, from Irkutsk and Tiumen respectively.
Olga had spent the year in a small Ohio town at a high school with 400 kids, made it to Columbus for a Swedish heavy metal show but other than that never traveled anywhere; not Cleveland, not Detroit. But she was a sweet girl and very curious, and had that wise-beyond-her-years way of speaking a second language, in perfectly formed, dense yet wooden sentences, such as "I do not believe you can choose your path" or "religion is only a foundation for moral behaviors." The girls spoke wonderful English, said how idiotic American high schools were, hwo their English grammar declined through the year, and, in response to my question, assured me that Russian teenagers think reading is cool. On the whole my line was: yeah but, you didn't see cosmopolitan, liberal, well-educated America. And hers was: yeah, but I saw American America. Ouch.
Olga is inclined towards Druidism and religions without too much doctrine. She thinks the mentally handicapped should be separated from the rest of society. She loves sloppy joes and salad dressings (not together) and is a fan of graffiti art. In fact, she think she was stuck with a lousy host family because on her application to the program she meant this interest, which may have scared away a lot of small town families.
We didn't get a proper goodbye or exchange of emails since I was off to make a connection, but I assure you Vladimir Putin himself couldn't have chosen such intelligent and curious young leaders. The future of Russia is in good hands.
Random and unexpected trip to the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul during my layover. I bought a quick visa, saluted Senor Ataturk, and hopped on the light rail. Within 45 minutes I was staring at the blue mosque on one side and the Hagia Sophia on the other, meanwhile I tried to avoid the rail cars, taxis, and teh souvenir hawkers. I'll seee if I have what it takes to attach photos to this thing. In short, it's the grandest interior space I've ever been in. It's like being in the Yosemite valley of holy spaces. the pictures don't really do it justice, but they do prove it is for real, which is what the blog is all about.
Isn't it amazing how body odor worldwide smells more or less the same? After a while it's not a reek, but just a pungent sort of coating, like an extra protective layer. I smelled a bit of Central Aisa in teh rail car and will hopefully get some of the real thing soon. I also intent to return home with a bit of my own odor-armor as well, be warned.
I didn't take any photos of me, so you'll have to trust it was in fact my camerawork.
My next entry will hopefully be from the Dushe.
See you,
Charles
Monday, June 16, 2008
Welcome to the Tajiki-diki
Dear Friends,
Welcome to the underwhelming trial balloon of a first post. I leave for Dushanbe tomorrow morning and look forward to providing you with edge-of-your-seat adventure, scintillating analysis, and maybe a few photos of me wedged into local wedding ceremonies.
I'll be in Tajikistan for about two months, making a full frontal assault on the Uzbek language with the ACTR program. I'll be hosted by a local family and their host cat and am hoping for some mild summer weather (i.e. sub 100 degree days).
Updates soon,
Charles
Welcome to the underwhelming trial balloon of a first post. I leave for Dushanbe tomorrow morning and look forward to providing you with edge-of-your-seat adventure, scintillating analysis, and maybe a few photos of me wedged into local wedding ceremonies.
I'll be in Tajikistan for about two months, making a full frontal assault on the Uzbek language with the ACTR program. I'll be hosted by a local family and their host cat and am hoping for some mild summer weather (i.e. sub 100 degree days).
Updates soon,
Charles
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