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.