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