August 2002                                                                                                                         Stephen A. Bugno

 

Welcome to Turkey.  Istanbul- where Europe meets Asia.  The Black Sea and the Bosperous mingle.  But I’m stuck in the airport for six hours.  Just looking out the window.  Turkey out.  Me in.  No wander, no wonder.  Maybe drink water, maybe not.  It says it’s 13:30, but I’m not so sure about that.

                So somebody, somehow managed to get us into the VIP business class lounge for Turkish Airlines.  Sitting on the massage chair my thoughts of west were mixed with dreams of east.  One last taste of luxury before the new world.  The Old World.  In and out of sleep, always a half-delirious flight.  I still gaze out the wall-sized glass pane.  So this is Turkey…But I can’t have it.  Plane next goes to Tashkent- round three.  The last leg of the journey.  But this is the big one.  This takes me to the heart of the world.  Lost from oceans.  Lost in sand.  Night has just fallen but I’m sure the Black Sea remains underneath me and then the Caspian.

 

 

***

 

 

I finally sit relaxed in Uzbekistan after a long and tiring two-day journey.  From Washington to Frankfort, Germany to east meets west Istanbul to the heart of central Asia- Tashkent.  Our plane arrived at 1:30 am to pleasant temperatures and we collected our luggage, went through customs and boarded a bus.   It took us outside Tashkent to a small town.  Driving through a dark Tashkent my first impression was “Russia with a twist”  Huge apartment buildings lined the streets but the concrete façade had its central asian décor.  At 3:30am we arrived at the “Sanatorium.”  This area we will spend the next two-weeks is a little fertility health clinic.  It’s enclosed with gardens all around and includes a dining room, auditorium and discoteka.  After I unpacked and showered, I sat down in a tired, half-delirious state on the couch and with loud roosters and birds doing their routine far outside my window I wrote this:

It’s five am.  My roommate just went to bed.  I just took a cold shower and now I’m writing.  Nothing quite like this.  I’m at a sanatorium.  Coming off the longest plane ride ever- over a day.  Now I feel okay, but tomorrow I’ll be tired.  I think I’ll go to bed.  Made it this far safe.  Finally in Uzbekistan…

 

 

***

 

 

Yesterday we had our big trip into Tashkent.  It’s a very pleasant city.  Not overwhelming at all- but very spread out.  There are so many trees and parks everywhere.  I think it helps to regulate the intense heat they get here.  They tell me we came just after the hottest part of the summer.  It had reached as high as about 49 degrees Celsius.  Tashkent is the center and by far the leading city of all the central Asian republics with two million people.

 

 

***

 

An Uzbek life.  I get stared at.  But Russians tell me I resemble an Uzbek.  Qibray neighborhoods give new meaning to free-range chickens.  Pomegranates are on some corners, old men on others.  More people wear shorts now, but I still think it looks funny.  Old women are always sweeping, sweeping, sweeping; sometimes throwing water on the sidewalk.  It’s uneven most of the time but I walk with my head down so I can stay walking.

 

               We are quite a spectacle at the bazaar, but I think the true spectacle lies in the half-goats hanging in store fronts.  Bulldogs lie sleeping so still they look dead- on leash.  But when I return he is awake, as is the community after the heat of the day is over.  And I’m still chasing over something.  They tell me jet lag is on but I haven’t been tired before this.  

 

 

***

 

Sunday morning.  We walked to center Qibray to catch a marshruka to Tashkent.  Then the metro took us to Chorsu station.  This is near old town and is home to one of the largest bazaars in all of central Asia- Chorsu bazaar. 

Up out of metro stairs we immediately spill into the bazaar.  Under white tents we fight our way through, pushing past tables of clothing- men’s, women’s and children’s; then to shoes and school notebooks and pens.  Our winding path leads us through almost impatient crowds constantly bumping.  It’s hot, so are the other bodies.  I’m touching everyone.  I don’t want to lose my friends.  Most people are talking, hands link some, and others are just following.  I’m losing my companions.  I smell body odors.  We meet by the stairs.  The stairs lead up to the food.  Grills of shashlik are only the beginning to the enormous section of fruits and vegetables.  We order a pomegranate with our new vocabulary skills.  And then we pass cheeses and milk, but still ahead there’s onions.  But not just a few.  Several onion sellers sit and stand, with piles and mounds of onions.  The crowd is more manageable now but still heavy.  Finally we reach the dome; not even knowing it existed as part of the bazaar.  So we enter.  This huge building was filled with venders.  Before I even completely entered, I was overwhelmed.  My senses were overloaded.  And she inconspicuously whispers to me, “This is central Asia.” 

So we walk slowly in and inspect the first bags of spices.  We touch and smell and walk further.  And more vendors offer their spices to our noses.  The colors fight for attention.  The dome is filled with voices.  Then we turn towards the Korean woman.  Their specialty is Korean salads: carrot, noodles, and eggplant all delicious.  And they’re always offering a twirled fork full of their salad for anyone that passes.  Then an older woman walks past with burning incense.  We didn’t know until after that she was offering a blessing.  And we also didn’t know she was expecting money for this service.  Then we walk up stairs to the upper story around the circumference of the dome.  There we are offered nuts, dried fruit, and other snacks.  Try before you buy, we are warned.  A young salesmen calls out to me in Uzbek.  “Germany, Italy, France, Turkey.”  After each one I smile and say no, but he keeps guessing.  After he says “Brazil” I give up and tell him I’m from America.  Then he says in his best English “Rambo, Rambo, Mike Tyson.”  Now my cover is blown so I sneak to the edge and take a few pictures of the chaos below.    

We leave the dome and eat lunch.  I have lagmon.  It is a soup dish with noodles.  Then we leave the bazaar to visit a nearby madrasah.  A madrasah is a place where learning takes place among Muslims.  After a brief visit we left and soon found our shoes off, inside of a mosque.  It was totally empty inside except for carpeting on the floor.  The walls were painted white.  A few people were inside praying on their knees, all in a row.  They didn’t notice us coming in.  So we kept standing there for a few minutes.   Soon we left and made our way back home.