October – November 2002 Stephen
A. Bugno
One
fine Saturday a group of us decided to take a mini vacation into Tashkent. We were fed up with our day to day business
and just needed some time to ourselves.
So the seven of us each told respective lies to our families of where we
would be staying that evening. My story
was that I was going to Tashkent with Dan and would be staying with my friend
in Tashkent that evening. One of the
problems is it isn’t possible to have a late night in Tashkent and then get
home to our village. Six o’clock is the
latest we could stay out, and my family gets very nervous soon after dark. That comes at about seven p.m. They say, “You don’t know our village.” The truth is I knew their village on the second day I lived there.
So
the seven of us met at noon in Chirchik and rode a white marshrut into the
first metro station of Tashkent. From
there we had no agenda whatsoever, so we just walked. We found a hotel to check into and showed
them our documents, and paid for two rooms.
Only four of us were at the front desk.
The other three waited outside.
We knew that later we would have to get these three in the hotel and
into our rooms somehow without the hotel staff knowing. We figured it would be difficult, but didn’t
know exactly how difficult yet. We would
worry about that later.
At
this time we rode the metro to Amir Timur (Tamerlane) Square. He rides atop a horse with his right hand
pointing to the sky. His serious face
is what you would expect from a tribal prince who conquered that much
land. But we walked right past him on
our way to an Arabian café where we ate lunch.
We feasted on humus, baba ganush, and falafel, spending much more than
our meager stipend allowed. Then we went
to an outdoor café located right next to an Internet club. The outdoor café isn’t really a café-- it’s
just some tables underneath a permanent tent.
What makes it so great is they’ve got beer on tap for 250 sums. That’s like 25 cents. But when you’re getting just over a dollar a
day, every beer counts. So those that
wanted Internet, used the Internet; and those that wanted beer sat under the
big top. And those that wanted both, got
both.
Just
after dark we left for the hotel. Now
would come the tricky part—more so than we ever could have imagined. I knew it would be a challenge to get the
three extra people into the two rooms we had gotten. In America it wouldn’t be such a problem to
get some extra friends into your room without paying for them. But this is the former Soviet Union. Everyone that walks into the hotel must be
registered.
So
our extras non-chalantly walked in the door, past the front desk, and into the
elevator. Well, the front desk noticed
and came over to the elevator. The two
girls got stopped but the 6’4” German-looking American managed to get into the
elevator before the man stopped us. The
girls had to relinquish their documents and were then allowed to go up to our
room as guests.
We
spent the evening watching Russian Survivor (literally it’s called: Last Hero) and drinking vodka and Fanta
and talking about anything and everything as loudly as we wanted to. Then, at about eleven p.m., we got a
visitor. A women hardly dressed in white
knocked lightly on our door and came right in before we could tell her to do
so. She informed us that there were
“doctor massages” down the hall. Seeing
that that the room was filled with many more than just the two gentleman that
had gotten the room for the evening, the woman began to chuckle as she
explained her rehabilitation service.
After a bit of vodka it didn’t exactly register with me as quickly as it
should have, as to what was going on here.
We were talking to a Russian prostitute.
Then in her best Russian, Sofia asked, “How much?” The woman replied, “7,000 sum…for one
time.” Then in her best English she said, “room 317” and fingered the numbers on
the door to aid her speech. By this time
we were all smiling and on the verge of bursting out into laughter. Then she walked out smiling, practically
laughing herself. As soon as she was out
the door we roared.
Things remained uneventful for next two hours or so, then
got another knock at the door. Something
told me this wasn’t the knock of a Russian hooker. The knock came again. So I got up to get it. It was a member of hotel staff and he came up
to tell us it was time for our guest’s to go home. Well we knew our guests weren’t going home,
but we didn’t exactly know how to tell him that.
So our best two negotiators stepped into the
hallway. He was holding the girls’
documents so there was no point in trying to hide them. Dan however, I told to lie out on the porch
under some blankets. We told the man
they couldn’t go home. And after twenty
minutes of alternating Russian and Uzbek, the man was still convinced we had
two more people in the room. We did have
one more, but we had gone too far with this lie to change our story now. The man said he would be back and walked
downstairs. We closed the door and
regrouped. Meanwhile, Dan remained
oblivious under blankets on the balcony.
The rest of us nervously anticipated the next meeting with the hotel
staff.
Sure enough, after fifteen minutes the knock we were
expecting came. Sofia and I went to the
door once again. It was two men, the
same Uzbek, now with his Russian friend.
We discussed the situation again.
The same things were repeated in this conversation as in the last. They were still convinced there existed two
more people that were unregistered that were in our room. They said that they must give a report of all
the hotel’s occupants every night to the militsia (police). Hearing this made us even more nervous; all
we really wanted was for them to leave us alone so we could go to bed. Then they asked us what time we would be
leaving in the morning. I quickly
responded with a time that I knew we could be out an hour earlier than. Finally after another ten minutes, they
allowed the girls to get their own room.
So they moved over to the new room and we all went to sleep with uneasy
thoughts of how we would escape with big Dan unnoticed in the morning.
The next morning came and we gathered our
belongings. We decided it would be
better to leave in two shifts, as it would make less of a scene. We prepared for the worst. Before the first group left we agreed to
meet at a café down the street. I left
with the second group fifteen minutes later.
Nothing happened.
They didn’t notice a thing at the front desk. We slipped right outside. The security men were not around. Then we were out in the October Tashkent
air. Walking coolly, without looking
back we crossed the street.
Interestingly, the following week, the same hotel hosted
our Peace Corps counterpart teacher conference.
But somehow they didn’t remember us.
21
October 2002
Tuesday night. Took the long bus home without realizing it. It’s getting colder now. I’m finally seeing the preparations for
winter. The grape leaves are being
pulled off the vines. The cows are
getting hairy. It’s not so hot in the
mid-day sun anymore. The corn is being
harvested. The cucumbers are being
pickled. The topjons are being moved
inside.
29
October 2002
The days are still warm- sometimes
hot, but the nights get cold. So cold
that it’s still cold in the morning. I
think fall is here but I’m not really sure.
I’ve never seen a fall away from home.
The leaves seem to be dying, but I don’t see many colors. There are some yellow ones though. The wind is blowing lately and it’s not
always a clear sky. Does that mean it’s
fall?
Nature
has its way of warning us. We might not
know what to do without it. And with its
warnings come the warnings from all the people out there. I see them change their dress. Perhaps they feel the need to show they’re
prepared. They are ready. But I refuse to admit to changes. I wear sandals late into fall. I’m told I’ll get sick. My toes are cold but I don’t tell
anyone. I always tell them I like the
cold weather.
I
don’t know what to expect from winter.
Colder I suppose, and some snow.
04
November 2002
I
was told to be home at 11am. We would be eating osh some place as guests. That is all I was told. So I got up early, ate breakfast, took a
walk, relaxed, and was home ready to go at eleven.
My
father pulled up in front of the house and I got in. My eleven-year-old brother stayed home. Mom was not with us. We drove off to a café he had taken me to
weeks earlier for an evening shashlik and vodka marathon. But this was mid-day. There were probably a hundred people
gathered, sitting at long tables under the roof of this outdoor café. Lots of people, but only men. We shook some hands and approached a man with
a jug. He poured hot water over our
hands and after drying them we entered.
We sat down and some non was broken up and distributed. Behind me, inside, old men sat on the floor
around a topjon and were eating. They
were all wearing doppas on their heads.
Tea was poured and passed.
I
sat there confused, wondering what this function could be. It wasn’t a wedding. There was no bride, groom, or dancing. But Uzbek music was playing loudly. It didn’t seem like a birthday party because
there was no important individual. But
there were lots of well dressed men, being served food cooked by men and served
by men. I couldn’t figure it out. So I just ate. Fruit, pastries, nuts, and melon sat on the
table. Next the osh came.
A
huge plate of osh was placed between people sitting across from one
another. A chunk of meat and fat sat on
top of the yellow rice dish. The man
across from me began to rip the meat into smaller chewable pieces. Then we ate.
Most men ate the osh with their right hand; that’s tradition. The most traditional dish eaten the most
traditional way. Someone brought me a
spoon but I didn’t use it. My father
taught me to cup my hand and smush the osh to deliver it to my mouth the best
way. He stressed to take a piece of meat
with it every time. The meat is sheep
along with what looked like horsemeat. I
had horse a few nights agosame manor as before, and
drove home. Later that evening my father
explained to me what the occasion was.
He said it was a new café. And so
the owner invited all these people to eat without paying. He says it’s tradition after building a new
place to invite lots of guests and eat osh.
Then he told me the story of when they moved into their house and they
invited all their friends and neighbors to eat a huge feast.
14
November 2002
The
rain has finally stopped. It rained more
in every hour yesterday than it has all together in the last two and a half
months. The streets get filled with
water. There are puddles
everywhere. I have to dodge them on the
way to school. School is five minutes
down the street.
There and Here
Things really aren’t much
different here.
People still gossip.
The rich marry the rich.
Roofs leak when it rains.
I think I need to go catch a
bus
23
November 2002
A
mirror was dropped the other day. There
isn’t one in the shower so I had to bring one myself. It didn’t just drop; I dropped it though I
didn’t want to take the blame. It was a
small hand-sized one. It was taken from
my Grandmother’s house, upon its closing.
It could have been hers. The
green sticker star still remained in the corner of the mirror. That meant it was selling for ten cents at
the garage sale. It was my mother’s
color coordinating system. This
eliminated number-pricing every item.
You could look at the chart on the wall and that told you the
price. The gold sticker was a dollar and
the silver fifty cents. This mirror was
ten cents. I took it off the table
before any one could buy it.
We
all have things from our grandparents.
Compared to war prizes like Nazi Germany coins and a hand stamped
leather pouch dated 1941 from Oran, North Africa, this mirror didn’t really
mean much. But still, when I held it to
shave in the morning, I knew where it came from. I remembered how I could have had a dime
instead. I remembered the house. I remembered my Grandmother. I remembered the huge mirror on the wall of
my Grandfather’s barbershop where he shaved people much easier than I did
myself that morning.
But
when I dropped the mirror it didn’t shatter entirely-- it split in half and
only one half smashed. Before, there
were two sides stuck together, so either side could be used. I picked up those pieces and made a small
pile. I wasn’t happy. They say breaking a mirror brings seven years
of bad luck. The other side however,
remained in one piece. I now use that to
shave.
Uzbek
superstition says whistling indoors or at night is bad luck. When I’m alone in my room I whistle as much
as I can-- especially at night. I’m
always whistling and they can’t hear.
They can’t do anything about it.
I’m usually not like this but sometimes it’s necessary to keep my
sanity.
They
seem to be keeping their sanity. Why is
it always me verses them? They squat
awkwardly on street corners and talk.
They talk for hours. About what I
don’t know-- I don’t speak their language.
I walk past them. I’m always
walking past. Past some, then others,
then even more. Wherever I walk, I pass
more people. Every street I turn down
there are more people. Every new town I
go to, I see people I’ve never seen before.
I see people I’ll never see again.
I see cars, apartment buildings, and even more people in them.
Annie
Dillard says, “To get a feel for what this means, simply take yourself—in all
your singularity, importance, complexity, and love—and multiply it.” Multiple it by everyone you see. Then multiply it by everyone you don’t see. Mine is only one small city of many in this
country of Uzbekistan. What about your
city at home? What about this country as
a whole? What about all of Asia? Multiply it by every streetwalker, sunflower
seed seller, tram driver, school pupil, and cotton picker you see. Multiply.
So I
do the math. I’m always doing the
math. Is anybody else doing the
math? Their squat looks awkward to
me. I’ve tried it. Squatting is for other times, only when it’s
needed, but not to talk with friends. So
I don’t squat. I’m not afraid to sit on
the ground. If you look closely, only
Americans will sit on the ground. Every
other culture considers the ground dirty except Americans. We will sit anywhere. We aren’t afraid of going infertile after
fifteen minutes on a cold step. And most
of us don’t believe colds are contracted that way either. But why me versus them again? I’m not in a fight here.
25
November 2002
Home
The
night sky is usually clear-- no clouds or distraction. It stays that way until the morning. Just before sunrise the hills are outlined
before a light blue dawn. The sun can’t
be seen yet. On my way to school I can
see snow capped peaks to the north, behind the school. Then the sky is a clear blue, except for two
narrow streams of smoke in opposite directions.
One stream goes across the full view of my vision. The other goes up further and then
across. They meet. By noon the horizon is no longer
visible. I can’t make out the specific
tracks of smoke anymore. It all seems to
be one. Everything has become one.
Even
on the streets, everything has merged.
The scattered bits of traffic all fit together—all stretch. We can walk through them. We can see through them. But they all run as moving. People are constantly moving. Going from one place to another. But when they get to their destination, they
still don’t stay. They move about their
destination. What good is a destination,
if we don’t stay?
They
are always making metal at the factory.
I can tell because I see the smoke.
Smoke out the top means money to the workers. Most people don’t like the smoke, but
everybody likes to eat-- especially the metalworkers’ kids. If the smoke stops, the money stops too. The smoke always blows out a different
way. Sometimes it goes high and then
spreads; sometimes it stays narrow. But
it always seems to make a cloud. The
cloud is the smoke’s destination. But
where is the cloud going?
29 November 2002
Some news…
It’s
late November here and a lot has happened over the last two months. The big news is we have officially become
Peace Corps Volunteers and moved to our permanent sites. I am now living in Olmaliq with the Sharipov
family and I started teaching at school No.19.
In
October, fall finally came to the Tashkent region of Uzbekistan. That means it wasn’t 100 degrees
everyday. And the nights got cold. No longer were the skies clear every day. The rains never really came, but they did
tease us occasionally. The highlight of
October was a trip to the mountains above Gazalkent. Two other volunteers, Nate and Shari, as well
as a German girl we met in town came. We
hiked high up a hillside and camped out overlooking the Chirchiq
river valley. It was an amazing night
and the full moon illuminated the earth enough for a short night hike. The views were great. (You can see some
pictures from that trip up under the miscellaneous section.)
October
finished with an end to the eleven-week training period. On November 2nd 48 of us were sworn in as Peace Corps
volunteers. The first couple of weeks in
Olmaliq have been good. There are two
other volunteers in town as well that teach at different schools here. We are still getting aquatinted with our
school and our community. Although I’ve
been going to my school for three weeks now, I still don’t have a
schedule. But it looks like I’ll be
teaching fifth, sixth, seventh, and eight grade. I’ll be sure to learn them kids some really
good English. J
Currently
we are well into the month of Ramadan and there is much to tell about this month
of daytime fasting for Muslims in which I am participating in…but I will have a
special section coming in December when it’s all over called Notes from Ramadan.
More pictures coming
soon. Thanks for all the letters! Happy Thanksgiving!
-Sirojiddin