Stephen A. Bugno
We can start with sunsets. The ones in which the sun doubles in size, and the lower half turns red, and the upper half turns orange. It makes the pollution-filled horizon look glorious. It can be a leafless tree. The silhouette of our savior is incredible. It makes me stop and stare every time. Looking out the window can be included here—especially from the second story. It puts you just above everybody, just out of sight. I like to watch. Every morning the milk seller’s voice echoes off the apartment in front. It fills this space of a neighborhood where I am living—two apartment buildings, situated with our fronts towards one another. Everyone faces the inside. Everyone watches everything.
Puddles grow wider and deeper and begin to
cut off walkways. They are so deep I
wonder if fish will begin to multiply.
They have no tongues, so my mind is at ease. They won’t tell the neighbors I’m standing
alone thinking about their multiplication.
The doorbell rang unexpectedly. It was the neighbor from upstairs. He did a little wink wink, “Wanna go eat?” So I said, “Ahh…sure. Where?” And he answered, “The neighbors.” So I went out the door with him.
The wives were just sitting there. The kids were running around in the living
room. The three husbands and I were the
only ones drinking—vodka shots every ten minutes or so, chased with food and
more conversation. But as time passed,
the ladies seemed to be getting giddy.
Maybe they were drinking in the other room, so their husbands couldn’t
see. Woman shouldn’t drink, especially
in front of their husbands. But I knew
they were drinking. Soon enough when our
two vodka bottles ran out, they brought in a third that was almost empty. I thought that was funny. They were taking care of that bottle while we
were drinking and smoking on the porch.
We had already finished the
Soon the three 30 something-year-old men, my neighbors, who all grew up together in the village near Piskent, saw that I was getting tired. They went to school together since the first grade and now all live on the same block of the same city. They’re all married and have kids of their own, who have gone to school together since the first grade.
The next day they asked me if my head hurt in the morning. They’re my neighbors.
Back on the balcony, but I forgot what I was doing. It’s so easy to get sidetracked. I was in the middle of something. Dish washing, music playing, grocery storing, clothes straightening, book stacking, desk cleaning, dusting. Where was I? Right, dinner. These things are important. But I keep looking out the window. There isn’t too much going on out there.
Thirty minutes ringing my doorbell—that’s no way to make friends. I’m the neighbor, not a caged animal. I was preparing, then eating, then just too fed up to deal with over-eager teens. Is sitting for tea dealing? That’s all they wanted to do. After a day dealing with school, foot traffic, and public transportation, it is. These dealings are enough for me.
People don’t seem to know how to make friends anymore. Did they ever? It’s such an unnatural thing.
Why have I been avoiding interactions? Why do I slither into my apartment day after
day so no one sees me? Why do I leave
the lights off? So the neighbor who
brings me food won’t bring food because I’m not home? But I am home. I have run out of American snacks to send
back with her. She isn’t really
expecting snacks. How do I repay
her? She isn’t really interested in
getting repaid. But when she came with a
bowl of
A week later she came over to clean. My host father told her I wasn’t doing a good enough job. That was irritating; I try hard to keep the place clean. But she came anyway, and her kids too. It would be a scandal if she were over here with just me. I cleaned with her; she went over all the places I had already done. I hate when people do that. It’s like it wasn’t good enough or something. The kids watched television and messed with my guitar. We dusted and threw out a lot and reorganized my spices. At the end she wouldn’t take any money. She said if she did, then she wouldn’t come back any more. So I gave her an American chocolate bar.
Witnessing my first traffic accident in
Good neighbors are not an accident. And I’ve been waiting for another one. Twenty-one years is a long time to have a neighbor. It’s even longer if it’s a good one. I’ve had one. His name was Charles, but no one ever called him that. At home, around town, he was “brother” or “cousin” to those who didn’t know him. Here, I’m “brother” to the bread sellers at the bazaar. So is everyone else. Sometimes it’s Uzbek brother and sometimes it’s Russian brother, but either way it’s two strangers showing respect.
We weren’t brothers, but sometimes I felt as if I was growing up with him as he told me the stories of his childhood. He sounded something like those hooligans that I’ve already talked about but even worse. Those kids haven’t run away from home. They aren’t working yet. They haven’t quit school. Those times were different, so I can’t really compare.
Good neighbors don’t need to call before visiting, but my
mother always told me I should. In
I didn’t drink tea with Chick, but he did feed me. I wasn’t a guest, but he still took care of
me. When I got older, I could even serve
myself. He taught me what breakfasts
should be. Milkmen need a good
breakfast. But
The old men here stand together in the street to talk. When it rains I’m not sure where they go. But Chick used to sit in his garage and watch the rain. I never really understood why. I was too young then. I was too young to understand a lot of the things he told me. Like when he told me to stay single. Maybe he was only joking. Why should I stay single? I miss him. It hurts right now. He always said it would get better before I got married. Will this get better? How will it ever get better if I stay single?
Only looking back now, at this moment, do I realize my best buddy, the most consistent friend of my childhood, was an old man. And I cry to myself now, upstairs out from the neighborhood elements, in the just darkened room after sundown, wondering whether I miss my childhood, my friend, or both. But I’m not worried—no one from outside can see through the opaqueness of the rain-smeared balcony window. Not even my neighbors.
We were talking more about
Soviet times—the direction in which I usually lead our conversations. I was inquiring about her travels to the town
of
And when they were
creating the republics of central Asia and the borders were being drawn, there
was a little disagreement in what exactly each republic should include. Naturally, Uzbekistan wanted Samarqand
because they think it is historically theirs, but many Tajiks
live there. So before the Soviets made a
decision, the leaders of Samarqand had all the Tajik people’s passports changed
to say they were Uzbeks. Internal
passports here are listed with a person’s nationality. So unlike America, where every citizen has
U.S. citizenship and nationality, Uzbek citizens will have Uzbek, Russian,
Tajik, Tatar, Kyrgiz, Uegur,
nationalities. So this way the lines
were drawn to include Samarqand in Uzbekistan.
This is a very difficult task because of the sheer unnaturality
of the concept. You simply can't draw
lines around these ethnic groups; they overlap too much. But it was done for a reason. Before the 19th century, today’s
five republics of central Asia together were known as Turkestan. But if this Turkestan
was divided up it could no longer be so powerful. These peoples of central Asia have similar
cultures and do not have any natural tendencies to quarrel amongst
themselves. In 1992-3, just after
independence, President K. of Uzbekistan initiated an attempt to unite the five
central Asian Republics in what would have been a new Turkestan. But people say that influence from the West
spoiled any dreams to unite these republics.
The West was afraid that these countries united had the potential to be
quite powerful.
Then we moved on to religion, the second of the two
touchiest subjects to talk about. But we
were more interested in history than in arguing. I was explaining to her the
differences between Catholics and Protestants, and how they are all Christians
in general. I told her the split could
very loosely be compared to that of the Sunni and Shiite Muslims. Then she started telling me about religion in
the Soviet Union. She was taught in
school that there is no God. I told her
that at home we don’t mix God and school, whether there is a God or not. She told me how Muslims had to hide their
practices from the state. Madrassas were closed.
All the Islamic learning had to be transferred into the homes. If you were caught studying Islam they would
send you to Siberia. There you would die,
she continued, if you weren’t accustomed to the severe cold. All of Bukhara
learning was underground. Bukhara was always a center. Now it’s a living museum—a working maze of
back streets and Islamic architecture.
But back then it was all indoors. Bukhara lived, not
in the street, but out of sight.
She recalled that all her
books used to have; and she kept repeating, “Leninism, communism, Marxism,
communism.” All the religious books and
even the literature of Alisher Novoi
was burned by Soviets. It was replaced
with Leninism, communism, Marxism, communism types. Ironically, she told me earlier when
Uzbekistan gained independence, all Soviet books were burned whether they had
these words or not.
It is in the middle of conversations like these when I freeze up inside and realize that this single conversation may have justified my whole purpose for traveling to central Asia. It sounds extreme, but I really value these moments. It’s five o’clock and we really should be going our separate ways home. So we leave school, and today I am satisfied. I walk home a much happier person.
Freedom
Sometimes you’re in the mood to argue. You just want to fight. If fact, you’ll disagree with people even if you agree with them. Today is one of those days.
There’s a war going on in
a nearby country right now. You probably
know which one I’m talking about without me even naming any names. One thing I’ll tell you is my country is doing
the attacking. American is my
citizenship and my nationality. It’s funny how our “defense” can turn into
offense so easily. You wouldn’t believe
it, but I feel safer here than you do at home.
But after the lessons I still come home to hide away. Sometimes I watch the news. It’s Russian news. But I’m critical of any news source. They tell me I’m paranoid. I won’t eat anything with MSG either. And my political party is anti-Republican. Why are we at war again? Something about freeing the people? Operation
Iraqi freedom.
What about those weapons? Are
they as much of a threat as freedom fries? Did those fries ask for their freedom? Why should we free them? I haven’t had Cheerios in months.
Someone asked me if I was
at home, would I be protesting. Probably
not. I can’t make any decisions. I saw Stanley Kubrick’s
Full Metal Jacket yesterday. I’m glad I wasn’t around in the sixties. Then someone snapped back, “You’re glad
you’re alive now?” Leave me alone. I’m stuck in the middle just like my father
was. Not for the war, but not burning my
draft card either. Am I afraid of
standing up for what I believe in or am I just confused on what it is I
believe? There has to be something in
the middle. Good thing they’re trying to
do away with the draft. An army full of unpassionate soldiers doesn’t do much killing. (And good
thing I’m not at home right now.) Did I
even register? You have to do that when
you’re eighteen, don’t you? My friend’s uncle
had a friend in the Peace Corps who was drafted and called home to serve in
I was told once to “thank
a veteran.” “This country is the way it
is today because of our veterans,” an old man said in an old man accent. To you veterans, unpassionate
or not: Thank you.
I hope I didn’t offend anyone here. Then again, I hope I did. I forgot, that’s just the mood I’m in today. But to those of you boycotting French goods—grow up. Let’s learn to respect others opinions. Let’s all get along. Let’s start eating French toast again. I’d do anything for my father’s secret recipe. He never wrote it down. Some things you just get a feel for and never write them down. So let’s pull out while we can and get back in the space race. The Olympics really are more productive than war. And maybe tomorrow I won’t be looking for a fight.
There are 400 seasons in 100
years. It may seem foolish to think of
it that way. It’s just simple math
though. And anyway, we use years because
that’s what we’re used to. When our
birthday comes, aren’t we just four seasons older?
Here we are in the best month in Uzbekistan. It’s not too hot; it’s not too dry—perfect for being outside. And that’s what everybody is doing. They’re sitting, playing, talking, walking outside. I paid Pavel for the guitar and walked all the way home from his place in Telegraph, probably four miles in all.
As I was walking home, everybody was out. It was warm. The side streets were filled with children playing, whether they had a playground or not. Men sat on street corners. Benches were filled. Women walked with arms linked. The few sidewalk sellers had their tables set up in random spots. On their tables sat white sunflower seeds, chewing gum, cigarettes, and lots of candy and chocolate. I passed through Telegraph, Cosmos, and then Raduga—all the sections on my way home. I was sure to go past the entrance of Oiden Bazaar. The gates were closed by 6:30pm, so the venders that remained were right out front. “Brother, brother, hot bread!” They raised their voice at me when I walked by. The streets were filled. Why not be outside during the nicest month? It’s perfect, so everyone lingers even after dark.
On the way home, as always, I was wondering about my place in society. Not just this Uzbek society, but any society. I can never quite fit my place in anywhere. I always seem to remove myself from everything and just look down and watch how everything is moving. How everything’s flowing. They all seem to be working together, and I’m watching just fine. I enjoy watching everything. But I don’t belong. I slip through crowds, hoping no one will notice. I try to dress like them. But I can't really walk like them. Even after the sun had set, a schoolboy still recognized me and said, “Good morning.” Without flinching I said, “Good morning,” smiled, and continued home.
Each time a season rolls around, we don’t really know what to expect, and that makes it hard in a way. We know the days will change their hours of daylight, and the trees will lose their leaves and gain them back again. We know the streets will flood and fields will dry. But we don’t really know if the springtime will lift peoples’ spirits once again, like it always has in the never-ending cycle. And we’ll never be able to predict how much snow will still be around on the hillsides by March 21st.
“We are afraid of water,” they tell me. It’s not easy being one of only two doubly landlocked countries in all of Asia. “Not lakes and rivers, but the ocean. We wouldn’t know what to if we were there.” I’m afraid of being doubly landlocked but never told anyone. What would I do if I needed an ocean?
It’s been raining since just
after I got home. At 9 o’clock, the
power went out. Now I’m on the computer
using the battery. Immediately after the
lights went off, just before I lit some candles, I walked to the balcony window
to watch the dim candlelight slowly appear in each apartment. It was silent except for the noisy pouring
rain. I waited for awhile as with
everything I do. How many other people
were watching all the windows?
It’s finally stopped raining, and although I’ve lost track of the days, they’ve become more important than ever. I’ve got responsibilities and duties beyond my control. The warm sun makes me forget it all. What was planned for tomorrow? Which lessons have I not prepared for? I’m so distracted. The sun seems to dry up everything that’s important in my life.
International development
is not important. That’s a big thing for
a sunny day. But it has me
depressed. Why did I come here? My employer better not read this. Am I helping these people, or are they
helping me? It’s not safe to assume they
need help. I’m the one who’s lost. Can you help me? Feed me just a little bit, I’ll talk to you
in English. But I don’t have time to
tutor your kids. Really, you don’t want
me teaching them. I teach like an
ex-Soviet Uzbek. Methodology? Memorize this. Memorization is the mother of learning.
I know I’m changing much more than the people I traveled so far to meet. It’s only natural that that should happen. I’m no missionary. I’m a reverse missionary. Sixty-six percent of my job is making friends. So I’m still all right.
Putting the news on for background noise will only make you depressed.
I took a stroll down to Bobur Park for some sanity. It’s Seattle Park too—named after Tashkent’s American sister city. As I entered, I immediately slowed my steps past the tiles around flowerbeds with messages from what had to have been done by Seattle school kids. On the ceramic tiles were simple inscriptions. They pleaded for peace with very simple words and pictures. A dolphin. Let’s be friends. Peace. Peace. And more Peace. USA and USSR. There isn’t really any need to be enemies. I guess it all worked. We never fought the Soviets after all.
Now I sit on an embankment in this post-Cold War park—this post-Cold War world. It’s a peaceful day. The sun isn’t too hot, and it will set soon. Small rental boats are out on the little pond. I don’t really feel like I’m in Uzbekistan. Everything is in bloom, everybody is out. Just a few more weeks until it will be too hot to be outside in a park.
This past Thursday my neighborhood was in bloom with the spring holiday. I’ve never felt more like I’ve been in Uzbekistan. They have been cleaning up the block for the whole week. Then on Wednesday as I was returning from school, Gulya stopped and told me there would be a holiday the next day. I told her I could be there, but I would have to leave early to go to Tashkent. I could stay until the last taxi, which would probably leave at six or seven. So Thursday came, and I returned home from school at about 12:30, and they were still outside cleaning. They had been sweeping and picking up trash the whole week, and now I knew why. Somebody brought in a large cauldron on the back of a truck that would be used to make osh. Creating an open space in between, they aligned picnic tables in two long parallel rows. This space would later be used for dancing in the evening, but I didn’t know that yet. The men were out in the sun peeling carrots and slicing onions. So I went out there with my knife and cutting board and asked them if they needed help. If I was going to eat tonight, I was going to help cook. And I was also curious as to how to make osh for a whole neighborhood. Anyway, I was sick of hiding in my house; it was time to meet people. So the guys said to sit down and start. One of them said something in Uzbek to me a couple of times and I didn’t catch everything. Then he asked me in Russian what my nationality was, and I told him I was an American. He was surprised. He didn’t realize an American was living in his neighborhood. I told him why I was here and he said “molodyetz” for helping to peel the carrots. And so I sat there and peeled carrots, and when the 15 kilos of carrots were cut we started on the five kilos of onions. This would be huge. A couple liters of cottonseed oil were standing next to the table. I wanted to stay for every step of the way, but I had to go to English club at school №18.
English Club was rather uneventful. I returned home with two other volunteers that live in town. The festivities had already begun when we arrived. The osh was still cooking. People were still standing around. It was still light out. Soon more people came outside. Someone brought huge speakers on the back of a truck. Lights were strung up. Somsas and bread were placed on the table, then Korean salad, cookies, chocolate, and soda. Tea came later as the sun went down. Lights turned on. Vodka bottles were opened and the music came on. It was loud. I sat next to Otkir, my neighbor from upstairs. We had a shot together. I was then asked if I would say my wishes. So in front of maybe 60 people I got up and said my best wishes in Russian and Uzbek in front of the Uzbeks, Russians, Turks, Korean, and Kazahks that all live in my neighborhood. After the wishes they said I had to dance for the next song. So I did. And then I sat back down and finished my osh, drank another shot and said I needed to get going, about half an hour after I should have left. Then, fifteen minutes later, we finally left. It was 8:15 p.m., and a fifteen minute walk to get the taxi to Tashkent. By the time I got there all the taxis had left except for a minivan. Two Uzbek guys were sitting in there just talking. I asked them if they were going to Tashkent. They weren’t so they told me some ridiculous price. I wasn’t going either at this point. But I was too drunk to come to that realization. So for the next forty-five minutes this slurring foreigner entertained his new friends with American humor in half Uzbek and half Russian. That was the last think they expected that evening. Finally, the driver said he’d give me a free ride home. He was going to Tashkent tomorrow and said to be at the stop at 5:30 a.m. the next morning. So he drove me down the long straight main street, let me out, we shook hands and I entered my apartment, set my alarm, and fell asleep.
Sitting
up on the second story. Have I taken out
my book just to fill it to the end? Just
so I can remember what I was thinking on the 12th of April
2003? So I won’t forget?
This right here is just a place of withdrawals.
At the last stop a boy and his mom sold the conductor a cock. Its feet were tied together as they passed it from the side of the tracks below. The boy placed some corn kernels on the uneven metal floor of the train car for the remainder of the journey. The cock had no idea where it would end up in the morning. I needed some air, so I walked the end of the wagon between the cars and witnessed these events. I have no use for a cock—I have no hens.
The railroad makes travel easier. Especially when you’re riding to the last stop. That way you can sleep more completely. You don’t have to worry about sleeping through your stop. There’s also room to stand up. There’s room to buy birds. In the morning I’ll be in Tashkent—a city. The city here. Italian storyteller Italo Calvino says that cities consist of “relationships between the measurements of its space and the events of its past.” So the city can’t be described today without its past. He would even say that the city is nothing without it’s past. Every day changes a city. The sunflower seed seller has a pile of split shells at her side by nightfall; the joints of the river trestle are weaker; the school boy teases his beloved a bit more cleverly; the poor man winds up a bit richer and the rich man a bit poorer; the cars’ exhaust makes the city’s air a bit more particle-filled by day’s end. And the city wouldn’t know where to go this week without last week’s end.
So Tashkent lives today because it existed yesterday. Men meet in streets. They exchange words. They help the city grow—not in population, not in economics, not in filth, but in experience. Because today’s encounter makes the city wiser, older. And the city makes the men older. We grow with our city. Outsiders notice how our cities change and describe them accordingly. But only all the relationships together can begin to tell the tale of the city. So I won’t begin to tell you about Tashkent. But I’ll be there when the morning comes, and I’ll step off the train and pass those early faces that dawn has spit out like the split shells of roasted sunflowers. And the city will push out those buses and trams yet another time to fill the air with the only particles it knows. And the sun will rise like the rich man who’s spent himself one day closer to bankruptcy. And I’ll walk through a most experienced Tashkent ever. And I won’t be wasting my time.
They were from Bukhoro—two cell phone-calling 33 year olds. Christ died when he was 33, they reminded me as they held up their hands in unison. Did He? How did He factor into all this—leather coats, hair gel, and polished shoes?
It was along the ancient Silk Road, but somehow it didn’t seem as magical as it sounded. I’ve been on this route before, and these aren’t ancient times. These twins reminded me of that fact. Those times weren’t magical either. Though a man of today, placed in that society would probably argue. But I’m not here to argue. I’m just worried this has turned into an endless cycle of trips down this same silk trading route, this time only in a different cabin of a different carriage, of a different evening, with different people sharing the same round teacups. Something strangely familiar came to me as I loaded my baggage to the top bunk, which made me think about my eyelids again. Where was it that was changing? Who was I sitting next to? What happens if I close them?
So this Christ couple still sat beside me—with telephone dealings and constant interruptions. Into themselves in the most unholy fashion, I wondered why they were sent to this earth. To save me from dreaded train silence? They didn’t like my silence. They didn’t like my conversation either. All Americans are lefty, they thought. I wasn’t using either hand. But if I were to crucify them both—right there on that train—I would have used both hands.
In Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities the Great Khan, seated on the steps of his palace, asks Polo, “You return from lands equally distant and you can tell me only the thoughts that come to a man who sits on his doorstep at evening to enjoy the cool air. What is the use, then, of all your traveling?”
Polo avoided telling the Khan any useful information. He was a storyteller, and ironically, stories were all the Khan really wanted to hear. He wanted to hear how far and wide his empire was. He wanted to hear how great it had become. But most of all, without really admitting it, he wanted someone to put him to sleep. He was truly concerned with what was out there. It was his after all, and instead of a drunken poet, he had Polo sit beside him. That was the more responsible thing to do, he thought. Poets can be entertaining, but Polo had a resume. The skinny Venetian was the most qualified for the job. He had made it all the way from the great Italian port but somehow managed to avoid ever describing it to the Khan. Only in the end Polo realized a description of Venice is all he was truly after. Perhaps Polo was afraid to tell him too many details. Two Venice’s would decrease the value of his original. Or could he just have forgotten? It had been 22 years.
Even though Polo was a poet in his own right, he still wouldn’t have been able to story-tell so freely into the evening without all those years of passing hospitable yak herders and dealing with so many shady spice traders along his travels. All that time on the road dulled his senses, which calmed his sense of consciousness. It tweaked his idea of reality. Everything he saw along the road, in the distance, and those that passed him all seemed to be of superior importance. The same scenes would most likely grow dull to a person, but I, as Polo, anxiously await every horse that passes, every roadside honey seller, every sign welcoming the traveler to sleep and eat, every city wall that funnels the traffic through it’s gates, every evening that marks cloudy skies behind and unseen hills on the horizon. This ambiguous infrastructure is what sustains the traveler, and ironically is also the reason behind the existence of every horseman, honey salesman, roadside inn, city wall, and every day’s end.
Speeds change with time—communication and transportation. Slowly, since Polo’s time, our world has gotten smaller. The traveler of long ago treated distances with greater respect. He traveled slowly and made decisions carefully as he went. Distances weren’t simply distance in those days. Miscalculations and bad fortune had to be calculated and included into the distance. A trip of seven days was perhaps eleven away, fourteen was twenty, and so on.
Today’s traveler has an elevated expectation of distance to be covered in a day’s time. He simply expects to be further along the road by nightfall. He treats distance as an actual measurement, and he respects that calculation. Nothing is as sacred as the number of markers between the points in which he is traveling. Due to advances in technology, he knows he can move faster and farther through harsher terrain, therefore concluding he’ll be further than he would have been in a similar situation just a year earlier. This continues year after year, and more and more emphasis and faith are instilled in numbers.
What today’s traveler does know is that past empires have failed. They thrived first—well before their
decline. They rose, conquered,
established rule and feasted. Some
sought truth and killed for anything but.
Some sat organized, collected, and strict on the throne. Others ragged for glory on the battlefield
steppes. And yet some merely sat in the cool evening air with faint breezes,
listening, fading in and out of sleep until sunrise.
Past
empires have shared the same territory.
Today’s empires run through us.
And future empires are already failures.