December 2002 Stephen A. Bugno
04 November 2002
Ramadan starts tomorrow at
09 November 2002
Ramadan—day four. I’m getting
moody. I’m getting
worked up over things I shouldn’t. It
could be the hunger. People eat in the
streets here. They drink too.
But there’s no chaos here. Life goes on as normal. When I refused breakfast the first morning of
Ramadan, my host mother said the fasting was only for them, Muslims. But I said no; I
would do it to. So
she said they ate at
They say it cleans your system out. The stomach gets
totally emptied and then filled after sundown.
This happens everyday for the month. Today the sun rose at
The month of Ramadan moves throughout the course of the
year. Its beginning is
determined by the appearance of the new moon and may last from
twenty-eight to thirty days. During its
thirty-year cycle, the month may even coincide with the longest day of the
year. The month ends with a feast
lasting three days. My host family is
going to
14 November 2002
Fourteenth of November. Thursday. Day nine of Ramadan. Sunset at
Then around
After we ate a bit, the father left the room and John and I
lingered at the table for long time drinking tea. Then his host mother brought in two huge
plates of
21 November 2002
I am getting weaker and tired faster. I still try to walk a lot. Fasting is taking its toll. I missed walnut breakfast this morning. I wonder what I have to do to start hallucinating. Maybe 36 hours without food— we’ll try that. Siddhartha could do it. Will that bring me closer to God? Can I talk with the angles then?
It’s 1425 and I don’t feel that
old. Mohammed would. I’m only one of a
billion people celebrating Ramadan. Or supposed to be. I
wonder how many actually fast. The sick,
traveling, and pregnant may fast for the same number of days in another
month. I’m not
any one of those, but I drank some water in the morning. My alarm never went off. What I mean is, I
never set my alarm.
27 November, 2002
I finished my last letter and was out the door at
So I arrived at his house. I wanted to be quick there so his family wouldn’t invite me to stay for dinner. It’s nearly impossible to refuse an invitation here—especially during Ramadan when the fast is to be broken immediately at sundown. I love to eat with them, and I do often, but this evening I felt like I should be home with my family. So I quickly made my calls and was about to leave when his host brother came in the room. He invited me to go to his Aunt’s house for a big dinner to break the fast. He said there would be lots of guests. I thought about it for a second—hesitated, then agreed to go. How could I say no? I just knew I was hesitating because I expected to go home to eat. But in this country you can’t leave the house without expecting your plans to change. You can’t leave the house without expecting to get invited into somebody’s home to eat
So together we walked over to his
aunt’s house. At the front door we took off our coats and shoes. Then over a basin we
held our hands as a man poured water from a metal jug. We rinsed and dried. There was one man there that we greeted
before we sat around the table on mats on the floor. Then one by one men
came in and sat. We greeted each one
with a handshake and sat back down. For
each new person that sat down we held our hands in front of us, said a prayer,
and then wiped our hands down over our face.
This is called an omen. It is also done
after the meal. They were all men that came.
So we sat there and began to eat. Non, somsa, walnuts, cream, honey and lots of other food were on
the table. Then, like always, the
The night before had been freezing. The house was even cold. So cold I couldn’t prepare the next day’s lessons. My only concern was staying warm. When you’re trying to survive, you can't thrive. So the lessons weren’t prepared.
Morning came. I didn’t want to leave my warm bed. I could see my breath in the room. Under all those covers was one of only two
warm places. The other was the shower—so
I went there. When I woke up at
I put on lots of layers and walked to school. The wind was ruthless, but I never turned my head. My hat and hood kept my vision strait ahead. I decided it was too cold for a shirt and tie. This executive decision came from the fact that my students keep there hats and coats on for the entire day at school. So do I. At third period, my seventh graders came in the classroom and remained standing for some reason. So I started jumping up and down in place and saying, “jump, jump, jump.” The lesson was to add er to verbs. So I wrote jumper on the chalkboard. A student pointed to himself and called out “jumper!” My day was made right there. After that point I was happy I came to school. We followed with a list of every er word we could think of and before we knew it our lesson was over.
By this time my toes were becoming
numb. Two more lessons followed and then
Madina Opa came in and said
our day was done. She asked me if I had
any plans for the weekend. I thought for
a minute and couldn’t think of anything. She asked if I wouldn’t
come to Nurabod. She said everyone would
be there. Without any further hesitation I said I would.
My host family was going to Kazahkstan.
This was a holiday weekend.
Tomorrow would be Hiatt—the feast to end Ramadan. I remember reading in my book about Islam
that “one should not avoid the company of others on this holiday.” If she hadn’t asked
me, I would have been sitting alone in a cold room for this holiday—not what
Muhammad had intended. She said I should
go home and gather what I needed and then we could go. You have to be ready for anything around
here. You have to be flexible. So after thirty
minutes I returned and we left school. Out of work at
We had one stop before going to Nurabod—the bazaar. As we were walking there my mind was moving much faster than my feet. Where was it I was going? Nurabod? Where is that? Somewhere up the valley? Who is everybody that is going to be there? Is this her home? Is it a flat or a house? She said we’d stay there until Sunday. That’s all I knew. This feeling of the unknown is the only thing that gets me excited anymore. I need to be going somewhere I’ve never been before. I need to be going somewhere I’ve never heard of. I need to be going. Always going. This time it was Nurabod.
At the bazaar we filled up three huge bags with meat, rice, carrots, sweets, pomegranates, persimmons, and nuts. We must have been there for an hour—me following her around like a like an obedient son at the supermarket pushing the cart.
With hands full we made our way to the bus stop. A light snow started falling. This just complicated the freezing air filled with holiday traffic. Sidewalks and roads filled. Weather doesn’t make things any easier. Everyone’s trying to get where they’re going—just as soon as they buy what they need.
We watched the small mob push and shove to get in three vans
in a row. We were cold, but
patient. Soon we tried more aggressively
to get on one as well. After a few unsuccessful
attempts we managed to get one. In fifteen minutes
we were in Akhangaran. We got out.
The day before a holiday, like in
In fifteen minute we passed the Nurabod sign on the roadside and got
out. It’s a
town of 5,000. About
70 apartment buildings. 2 schools, 1 hospital, a bazaar, and a few shops. Everybody knows each other. Across the road, standing a few hundred
meters away is the plant. It produces
electricity for the whole valley—Angren, Almalyk, Piskent, and so on, all the
way down to
We walked a ways, weaving in between apartment buildings. The sun was setting; hanging even with gray block apartments. Opposite the sun were snow-capped mountains illuminated in shining orange. They say to turn around 180 degrees in times of sunrise and sunset. The lighting is always best then. While everyone is watching the sun, you can watch what the sun’s watching. I stopped and I watched, sneaking peeks in every direction. I set my bazaar bags down. I looked at the mountains. I looked at the sunset. I had a good feeling about this place.
We finally arrived at her apartment. I took off my shoes and found a seat. Her oldest son came in. He introduced himself and sat down. It was Jasur. I was warned about him, but had forgotten. He had never been the same since the Tajik civil war, she told me weeks ago. He had seen people being killed. So this is why she warned me about her own son. He’s a talker. I sat and listened. I understood his Russian. His clear deliberate style looked me in the eyes. He was interested. I answered all his questions, the last one being if I wanted any beer. I did want some, so I said ok.
We walked out to the store saying hi to almost everyone we
passed. One was a Korean girl, and she
answered positively to an inquiry about whether or not she had salad at home
for sale. Another was a Russian in her
late twenties. He introduced her to me
as his lady friend, whatever that meant. Next we stopped at
the tandor to see what was
happening—but we didn’t need any bread.
Then over to the store we moved and got what we needed. He bought me a beer. He wouldn’t drink
any though. He said he was sickly and
held his liver. (That’s
the only excuse around here in order to avoid drinking, besides saying that you
are an alcoholic.) He told the
shopkeeper I was from
Then I followed him out into the early evening air. It was even colder now and I was holding a cold beer. I was drinking it quickly. My hand was freezing. The sooner it was finished, the sooner my hand could be warm again. He tried to buy me vodka. He said just a little bit. I told him it wasn’t necessary. I hadn’t eaten all day and consequently my stomach was empty. At the time I didn’t realize, but this was the last day of fasting. I had thought that fasting continued until sundown on Hiatt, but I was mistaken. How ironic that I opened fast on the final day of Ramadan with a beer. I hadn’t planned it that way. I hadn’t drank for the month. (Many fasters avoid alcohol for the entire month of Ramadan, even though Islamic law prohibits consumption anytime.) I gave it up for Ramadan. So I finished the beer in my hand and was already talking nonsense.
Next stop was the Korean family to get the salad. Usually you buy Korean salad at the bazaar. But when you live in Nurabod, you just go to their house. So we went in. I sat down. Jasur bought three bags: carrot, cabbage, and cucumber salads. We chatted a bit. The man there sat and read the paper almost unflinchingly. The back of his hand was tattooed. An older woman watched television. Their apartment was simply decorated. Then we left. On the way back we started to jog. Night had fallen about Nurabod.
The next morning I
slept until
Soon the apartment buildings stopped and across the road the Solvhos began. There were all houses there, with large yards
fenced in. Most people have animals and
gardens. We got to Sobit’s
house. His granny was by the door and we
greeted her and then went in the house.
We sat down and he showed me some pictures. Then his mom came in. She was surprised, but happy. There was a foreigner sitting in her
home. We explained to her what I was
doing in her country and her home. I was
working with his mother-in-law in School 19 in Almalyk as an English
teacher. They brought tea in to the
table. There was also homemade non and jam. We
talked while they heated up some
The following morning I found myself once again strolling, this time with Jasur. He is quite a character—a strange fellow to say the least. Madina Opa says he’s either totally berserk or totally normal. The week before he had been held at the police station for three straight days. He told the police he had information about a crime that was committed. They thought he had done it but he only knew of the person. The sun was out and the sky was clear so I wanted to photograph the surrounding mountains and Jasur decided he’d come with me. And he began talking the second we left the apartment. He pointed to a vacant-looking apartment building. There are lots theses half-filled apartments in town. Out-migration has been the story since 1992. Russians and Kazahks have left. Independence came. There’s mostly Uzbeks left here now. Others have gone to where life is better. Or at least where they think life is better. The problem is— when the Russians go back to Russia, they are Russians from Uzbekistan and Russian Russians don’t let them fit in like they could. And if they stay here, they’re Russians in Uzbekistan. Russians in a giant sea of Uzbeks in a newly Uzbek land.
We passed a bathhouse building. It’s half built. On the day the Soviet Union ended, everything halted. They were always building back then, Jasur said. Then there was money. Then the working class had decent salaries. Now construction has stopped and salaries are a fraction of what they used to be. Today many of these half-built buildings can be seen all over. We reached school No. 2 and entered. He used to work there and his mom too. But she reached fifty and was eligible for pension, so she switched schools, moving to Almalyk. Jasur taught military education. He showed me his old room and the museum like wall hangings in the hallway. We chatted with some teachers. They couldn’t believe an American was standing in their classroom. A kid said “hello.” We walked back outside. It finally warmed up. The sun was shinning clear. The snow on the walks was melting. But the kids were out all over expecting the snow to never disappear. They pulled the younger ones around on metal runner sleds. They found a hill and the snow was so packed it was almost ice. Kids like the snow—they always have. It doesn’t matter where you are. I was still glancing over at the mountains every few minutes. They are phenomenal. Jasur said there are wolves and other animals there. Over those mountains is Tajikistan. He knows about Tajikistan—he grew up there. But he’s Uzbek. And he speaks Russian to me. He tried going to University there and then to Russia, and then back to Tajikistan. It wasn’t for him. He just wanted to be a worker. He asked how much a workingman earned in America. I told him. He joked—I could go home, earn some money, and then send it back to him so he could buy a plane ticket to America. We laughed.
I snapped a few more pictures and then we headed back. At the entrance to the building I told him I wanted to stroll a bit more. I convinced him that I’d be fine alone—I could recognize the apartment and not get lost. I just wanted to be alone for a bit. To see how people were living about Nurabod. I walked slowly away. I had dressed too warmly and I didn’t want to sweat, so I stayed slow. I walked out to the roadside where the sign that stood: Nurabod. I turned around and repeated my steps back, this time facing the mountains. I liked this place. I had a good feeling about it from the beginning. But the thought occurs to me. What if I lived here? Would I grow tired of the small town or still love it. It’s calm here. I like that. I found it difficult to think I wouldn’t like it here. Soon I arrived back at the flat. Madina Opa was there. We sat on the couch and talked for a while. Like with most people older than you, you do more listening than talking. This was the case here. Older people are wise because they’ve seen a lot and younger people are wise for listening to them.
She met her husband at university—he was in the English
faculty as well. They got along well but she used to tease him because he was a
dark skinned Uzbek. In retaliation he would say she was part Kyrgis. Their institute was in
But today they seem to like mustakalik
(independence). Or at
least that’s what all the large public roadway signs say. “