Welcome, Hazel Gregg Barker!

My sister had her baby today and I'm a new aunt! I called my Dad for the news as soon as I woke-up and was very pleased to hear about it, but it still didn't feel real. Then, as I was telling my host-mother about the new baby over breakfast, I suddenly burst into tears.

Emotion is a strange thing.

Three weddings and a circumsion party

Wedding 1 (Saturday): It wasn't the actual wedding; rather, it was the "Kelin Salam." That's when the new daughter-in-law greets her mother-in-law's friends by dressing in 20 different outfits and bowing, slowly and solemnly. While the daughter-in-law bows, the mother-in-law's friends eat, chat, listen to music, and dance. I stuffed myself with cookies and juice (am I 5?), then only had room for one bite of plov. It was fun to see all the women dancing together, especially my host-mom. She can really shake her thang and I pleased her mightily by shaking mine. The new daughter-in-law greets her mother-in-law's guests in a variety of outfits, given to her by her new husband. The wealthier the family, the more outfits the daughter-in-law gets and, thus, has to change into.

My host-mom in her party dress, serving food (she wasn't the host she's just cool). She also made sure that my friend, Caitlyn, and I got all the freshest food. She's pretty much awesome.

Weddings 2 and 3 (Sunday): I didn't go to two weddings - I went to one and it ended up being two. My first real-life double wedding! I thought such things only happened in movies, but I was wrong. The brides and grooms entered the restaurant with much banging of drums and blowing of horns. Seriously. None of that staid 'wedding march' for Uzbeks! They made their way to the head table - a dais with flashing lights behind it - and sat with serious faces. The brides had to look especially grim to show their sadness at leaving their families. This is meant to be a show, of course, but one of the brides really did look grim. My Uzbek friend even said, "She's either a very good actor, or she's VERY unhappy."

After the wedding party was seated, the band played and people danced. At this wedding, the band played and only the men danced. With each other. They were awesome dancers, with wild waving arms and one-legged hops across the dance floor. The way I've described it makes it sound like a monkey moon-walking, but it's really impressive. The best dancers also make dramatic facial expressions, like in a Bollywood movie. I love seeing men dance, but I especially love seeing men dance well! I'm convinced that this is a lost art in the US, especially on the West Coast. The men I know (except for my Dad and brothers) can only be coaxed to dance after consuming lots of booze. Dancing is for everyone, people!

Circumsion Party (Sunday): Okay, okay . . . the circumsion party was also the double wedding party. When you're short on cash, it's wise to roll them all into one. The little boy's parents carried him in on their shoulders, while the guests cheered. He was dressed like a prince, with a red velvet robe embroidered with gold thread and a four-cornered red velvet hat. They sat him at his own table in the middle of the room, until he started to cry (I think he was about 3 or 4) and carried him around.

In Uzbek culture, they usually do the actual circumsion at a hospital after the party. In Kyrgyzstan, they did the party AFTER the circumsion. They also circumsize boys as old as 5 or 7. When I went to a circumsion party with my Kyryz teacher there, his 5 year old nephew had just been circumsized. I asked if he would be able to enjoy the party and he said, "He's walking, isn't he?" That' good enough!

Me in a half Uzbek, half Russian dress with my host-mom and her friends. I didn't take any pictures at the other party, so this is all you get! Notice how tall and blond I am compared to the other ladies. I fit right in here . . .

The tale of the fly-swatter

I was just finishing my morning coffee when the scream came from the table:

"GRANDMAAAAAAAAAAA!!! Aziz hit me with the fly-swatter!" Medina could barely say the words because she was crying so hard. I doubt that the hit with the swatter was that painful, but she's three and she likes to cry. Aziz is four (almost five), the tsar of our house, and he also likes to cry. He also likes to hit people.

My host-mom hoisted herself up from her chair and ran to the table (I've never seen an old woman move so quickly!). She grabbed the fly-swatter from where Aziz had discarded it on the ground. Aziz, guessing her intentions, ran to the other side of the table. From there a complex game of 'chase the kid around the table' began. My host-mom, in traditional Uzbek dress with hair covered, chased Aziz around and around the table as he fled and proceeded to cry harder and harder.

The commotion upset the baby, who started screaming. Nigina, who is seven and above it all, sat on the swing and laughed. My host-sister didn't bother to interrupt her breakfast and mechanically kept eating. The only thing that could have added to the commotion would be a barking dog. Luckily, we don't have one, but I'm tired of children and retreated to my room. After I shut the door, I heard my most-mom yell,

"You see, Aziz! Ailey is so tired of you, she had to go to her room! Ailey will not like you if you act like this!"

This is pretty much the truth.

Welcome to my house!

According to the text that I have to translate:

"Uzbeks of modest means are also extremely generous toward their guests. When a stranger arrives at an Uzbek household, he is first invited inside and offered tea and other refreshments. Only then does the host ask who the guest is and why he has come."

This statement isn't necessarily true. At my house, the big brown gate (see above) is almost always bolted and, before my family opens the door, they yell, "KIIIIIIIIIIIIIMM?!!" I think a direct translation might be, "Who the hell is it?!" After that, though, they're extremely friendly.

Above you see our courtyard. We have a lot of fruit trees, including peach, apple, a fruit I'm unfamiliar with, and grapevines. The white table is on a raised platform where we eat every meal unless the flies are too bad. When they swarm, we eat inside which is far less pleasant. In the background, you see a stone wall. Behind this wall, our cow and goat stand all day. They're tied in place, so I guess they'll be tender when they're finally eaten.

This is my living room. As you can see, I'm kind of a messy person. I have more furniture in my rooms than my host-family has in theirs. From what I've experienced, Central Asian culture doesn't value clutter as much as American culture does. For example, my host-family has a large living room with only a TV in the corner and a couch against the far wall.

Here's another view of my living room. I have my own TV! Unfortunately, I only get three channels - Tajik, Tajik, and Russian. The Tajik channels are often overtaken by the president, who gives long addresses to his Viziers that I don't understand. The Russian television has been playing the EuroCup and, for that, I'm thankful. That said, I haven't been watching much TV. You're probably surprised that I can tear myself away from Tajik speeches and the Russian news, but I've been cultivating a willpower that's second to none.

My bedroom! I have a full-sized bed that is actually two singles pushed together. It's a nice room, which my host-family painted pink before I arrived. I love my pink room. The best part of my pink room, though, is the killer fan. I love the killer fan. Just this morning, my host-father said, "Did you know that if you sleep with the fan on . . ." But before he could finish, my host-mother yelled from the kitchen:

"I already told her, you old man! She sleeps with it on anyway!"

And there you have my house.

Iskander Kul

The sketchy driver locked our luggage in his trunk. Curran had shaken on a not-so-good deal - 500 somoni for five people in a sedan, meaning four people would squeeze into three seats with our extra baggage. We protested and begged for a larger car. The driver was unmoved, so Curran slipped him 20 som and we transferred our things to the Jeep that could comfortably fit all of us, as well as transport us safely along bumpy mountain roads. We were on our way to Iskander Kul, sans sketchy driver!

If your nervous about driving, this trip is not for you. The road hugs sheer mountainsides with no guardrails. Drivers honk when turning corners to warn oncoming traffic of their approach. On our trip, our driver told us tragic stories: The mountain pass is closed because two cars careened over the edge, killing everyone inside. In the winter, an avalanche trapped 90 people on the road. Benevolent Iranian truckers gave them each an egg a day. However, the tunnel is scariest of all.

Finished a few years ago, the tunnel is poorly designed. Water collects on the inside and stands at 2 or 3 feet in places. Side tunnels lead to nowhere, abandoned machinery rusts in the darkness and mist, single lightbulbs hanging from wires light the way. I took a picture, but it was obscured by the gases that had collected. Another tragic story: During an accident and subsequent pile-up in the tunnel, drivers kept their motors running and several people died of carbon monoxide poisoning. I felt like I was close to being the next victim as we drove through; my lips were tingling and I felt lightheaded.

The tunnel of doom.

Coming out the other side was exhilerating. Life was mine again! Also, the view wasn't bad. Here there are mountains upon mountains.

The trip also gave me some perspective on how people live outside of Dushanbe. In many of the towns that we passed, people lived in mud or stone huts with no greenery in sight.

After being stopped at a roadblock for three hours (three Tajik men shared their vodka and vegetables with us on the riverside), we finally made it to Iskander Kul. The picture below doesn't do it justice. The lake is truly amazing.

Iskander Kul has only one resort - a crumbling Soviet construction that was once picturesque and quaint. While overgrown, it still held some charm. However, we stayed in tents. I felt safer there (fewer fleas) and it was nice to sleep in the outdoors again.

On Saturday, we hiked to a waterfall and then, because the hike to the waterfall wasn't enough, we climbed a mountain. The climb up was tough - loose rocks and boulders slipped and fell on those below and I twisted my ankle, but my legs were happy for the exercise. And I was happy for the view from the top.

I'm not quite sure how the legend about Iskander Kul goes. Something about Alexander's horse walking into the water and never coming out? In any case, I felt that I could have stayed for a lot longer. Up the road, a trail leads into the Fan Mountains where there are more glacial lakes and a path to the Uzbek border. Maybe next time, assuming I could survive the tunnel again.

I Should Have Known or It's All Part of the Experience

As soon as the first bite of qo'rtab (sauteed onions and bread pieces in yogurt) hit my stomach, I knew the outcome would be bad. Something just didn't feel right.

I went to class and, after four hours, I had pretty bad indigestion. But that could just be from sitting in Uzbek class for four hours, couldn't it?

I went home and my stomach was in an uproar. When my host-mother asked me what I'd eaten, I ran to the bathroom to throw-up, but nothing happened. Instead, I went to bed and tossed and turned for two hours; the pain was horrible. Of course, my evil mind kept sending me pictures of qo'rtab - the chunkiness of the yorgurt, the sour taste, the soggy pieces of bread. Every thought brought another wave of nausea.

Finally, the sickness hit. I ran back and forth between my bedroom and the bathroom. My thoughtless host-father decided to take a shower in the midst of this, so I had to resort to the 'other' toilet. The squat toilet. Needless to say, it was horrible. Needless to say, I'll never eat at that cafe again and I will NEVER again eat qo'rtab (unless I'm starving and it's the only thing available).

I feel a little better today, but very tired and weak. My host-mother made me drink hot water that had been mixed with a bitter root - I don't know what it was, but it was so disgusting that it actually made me throw-up the first time I drank it. Maybe that was the point? My host-sister, a doctor, gave me a natural medicine that would 'replace the good bacterias' and provided me extremely sweet black tea, which I was required to drink an entire pot of.

I slept through most of my class this morning, but, as my friend Jarrett said, "I'm growing a strong stomach." However, we'll see how true this is after my next visit to a local restaurant.

Fan Death! Tajikistan-style.

When I get sick in the US, I usually look to the most likely culprits - germs, exhaustion, dehydration, or a combination of all three. Here, however, everything can be blamed on cool air and cold water! It's so much easier. The recipe for good health is to sleep in a stifling room and drink nothing but hot tea. At least, this is what my host-mother tells me.

When I developed a bad allergy to dust, my excessive mucus could be blamed on the fact that I slept with a fan on. When the dust made my chest hurt, this was because I had been drinking cold water. This morning, I could hardly speak because my throat and chest were so raw. My host-mother looked at me menacingly and said, "I told you! No fan! But I heard you watching TV last night with the fan on. This is why you can't speak today."

After classes, we went to the Turkish cafe for lunch, which gave me a bad stomach. When I came home to use the toilet, she said, "This is because you drink cold water. " An unfair accusation! The water that I drink is almost never cold. If it happens to be cold when I buy it, it doesn't stay in that condition long. However, they won't even let the children touch my water! It's too cold for children! I told my host-mother:

"I never drink cold water."

"I see you drinking it all the time," she said. "You use the fan and you drink cold water and this is why you're sick."

At this point, I will share a truth: sometimes I drink cold(ish) water with the fan on. I let the fan blow RIGHT on me as I drink the water! It feels good to live in a dangerous way, but I'm suffering the consequences: a cough, intestinal cramps, and sleepless nights. Obviously, my water is too cold and my fan is too blow-y. Aren't the most pleasant things in life always this way?

The heat is consistent. The electricity is not.

Yesterday, in the middle of my last class, the electricity went out. I thrive on the electricity in our classrooms. When it turns off, so does my soul. It was 4:00 p.m. and the heat was intense. I started sweating. My teacher and I decided to open a window, but it was hotter outside than it was in the room. I made a quick pros and cons list in my head: cooler (but still hot) and stuffy versus hotter and fresher. They were both losers.

Today I was eating lunch in the Turkish cafe and got the gut-wrenching cramps that come only with bad food on an empty stomach. I ran to the bathroom, but the lights went out in the middle of my stint. Afterward, I realized that I had been standing in the wrong direction on the squat toilet.

Tajikistan has "energy problems." Hence, mid-day blackouts and winters without heat or running water. I'm not an expert on the country's natural resources, but I do know that they have a lot of hydropower. The problem is, they sold most of it to Afghanistan. Oh, the wonders that truly great leadership can achieve.

I don't really mind going to the bathroom in the dark. In fact, sometimes it can be an exciting adventure (only for the very bored). I don't even really mind sitting in a hot classroom. I'm just glad that I don't have to be here in the winter.

Dushanbe: Day 2 (the not happy part of the day)

Uzbek placement test!

I failed it. It was awful. They wanted me to translate sentences like: “Please tell Yorik that I intended to call him last night at 7p.m.; unfortunately, I fell ill and could not reach a phone.” After staring at the paper and feeling the tears gather in the back of my throat, I finally handed my test to the teacher. “Ko’p bilmayman,” I said – I don’t know a lot. She nodded, looked at my test and nodded again.

Just this morning I had a glorious conversation with my host-mom about how much work she had to do before she got her very own ‘kelin’ (daughter-in-law) and, also, how to work the bath. She also showed me how to flush the toilet (unnecessary). I was feeling very competent.

These are sentences that I know how to say:

“It’s hot this morning.”
“What time do you usually eat breakfast?”
“I like this movie.”

Anything with a complex sentence structure is out of my reach. In addition, PLEASE do not ask me to read from a text. I might be able to converse (awkwardly) but I have a really hard time reading from a text. I blame this on my Uzbek professor, the notorious Cirtautas, who would pass out articles or stories, ask us to translate them, but then actually read and translate them herself. Not exactly the perfect way to learn a language.

So, I’ll be in the novice class and that’s alright. Maybe I can actually learn how to buy something or even barter. Stupid UW Uzbek class.

Dushanbe: Day 2 (the happy part of the day)

It’s 6:30 and I’m awake, but I’m tired. I could lay in bed and listen to the birds chirping and the goat randomly bleeping for hours, I think. Especially because it’s still cool outside and it’s QUIET. The city sounds that I’m accustomed to in Seattle are non-existant here. On my second day in Tajikistan, I find it extremely relaxing.

In fact, I find the entire experience relaxing. True, struggling through learning a language with a host-family that you don’t know can be a tough experience, but I’m excited for the slow days. After my Uzbek placement test this morning, I hope to sit under the grape arbor and just read while drinking tea and thinking about nothing. A year of graduate school has made me hungry for quiet and long, lazy days. I feel like I’m on a retreat.

But first, I’m going to go running. It might not be a long distance, but it will get my legs moving and, hopefully, I’ll finally have time to get back in shape. Let’s pray for no rabid dogs or children with rocks. Though, to be honest, Dushanbe doesn’t seem like that kind of city.

Dushanbe: Day 1

This morning, our flight from Istanbul arrived at around 3p.m. By the time we unloaded and found our luggage (Jen’s never came – poor Jen) it was light outside. I expected it to be steaming, but the air was pleasantly cool and everything looked and smelled fresh. I had a feeling that it would be a good summer.

Our resident director, Curran, met us at the airport. We all loaded into a van and drove to our respective host-families. My host-family has a single-story house built around a courtyard, in which they grow grapes and tomatoes and apricots and some other delicious things that I don't know the words for. When I arrived, they sat me on the platform and fed me flat, round bread with homemade jam and kashi.

Finally, I asked if I could sleep. It was 7:30 a.m. by this point, so the showed me to my room – two rooms actually – I laid my things on the ground, and fell into bed fully dressed. My host-mother woke me at twenty to 11 a.m., I got dressed, and we went to the American Councils office.

The office is new and welcoming; plus, it has air-conditioning. This is important because, today, the low was 108 degrees and it’s mid-June. Needless to say, it was hot. Curran gave us a quick run-through of what to expect living in Tajikistan. It’s a very safe place, but be wary of police officers. Don’t flash your wealth around. Don’t wear revealing clothing. After that, we started talking about the exciting stuff – excursions. Curran has three potential excursions planned for us this summer. The first, I can’t remember. The second, I can’t remember. The third, though, is to the Pamirs and I can’t wait.

For five or six days, we are meant to drive the Pamiri Highway in rented vehicles of mass destruction (SUVs). Along the border with Afghanistan, you can often see nomadic Afghans with llamas. Also, from certain points along the highway, you can see the mountains stretching all the way to Pakistan. The Wakhan Corridor is mostly peopled with Kyrgyz tribesman who still live a nomadic lifestyle and have maintained their Kyrgyz language and culture despite being separated from their kindred by mountains and years and national boundaries. Needless to say, I'm stoked.

After our meeting at the office, we got a tour of the main part of the city, which is far more developed (at least along the main street) and scenic than I’d expected. Many of the buildings are painted eggshell blue with white trim, others are salmon pink. Most are built in the Russian style, which makes them very picturesque and there are fountains EVERYWHERE. It was about 108 degrees, so I sweated profusely and tried to stick to the shade. However, it was hard not to let the heat drag me down, as well as the jet lag. I felt like the walking dead.


I finally got back to my host-family’s house around 5:30 where they fed me clear broth with a chicken leg in it, vinegared vegetables, and osh (plov) with beef chunks. After I helped clear the table, my host-mother called me in to their section of the house to watch an Indian movie dubbed into Uzbek. “I just love this,” she said. Every time a house would catch on fire or a love would get stabbed, she would gasp. “I LOVE this!” I think we’ll get along.

At 9 p.m., I’d had it for the day and said my goodnights and passed out within seconds of putting my head on the pillow. And thus ended day one in Tajikistan.

I'm out of practice (and I'm going back to Central Asia)!

It's been a while since my last post (a long while), but mainly because my life has been consumed by reading papers, writing papers, and going to work. That isn't of interest to anyone, not even me. But hope is in sight! Summer break beckons and it's only one month away. Summer promises long days, lazy evenings, and time for jogging. Interestingly, this summer promises that Ill be doing those things in Dushanbe, Tajikistan.

Make that one hot, dry summer, indeed.

Dushanbe might not be good for beaches, cheeseburgers, or off-trail hiking (land mines and all that), but it is good for mountains, Baltikas, and . . . some other things that have yet to be discovered by me. Finally, something to write about! Adventure is so refreshing.

Just in case you need a refresher:

Just in case you were wondering . . .

The results are in!

Ritchie and I ran in the Love 'Em or Leave 'Em race at Greenlake on Sunday. Our team, Blimey (he chose the name, obviously) came in 22nd out of the 127 in our division! That means that we were faster than over 100 other teams! I probably ran past those people. Ha! I'm totally kidding, though I did run past a few five-year-olds and some dogs on leashes.

Also, I ran alone. Why? Because Ritchie is way faster than me. I finished the race in a sad 25:33, while Ritchie finished in a jaunty 21:33. That's pretty good for a guy who never trains. He met me near the finish line and yelled encouraging words. I thought this was sweet - until he told me that it was because I looked like I was 'struggling.'

Lovely.

How to stay sane in Statistics

Statistics is a necessary science, but it will suck your soul if you let it. My professor is young and eager and, as some might say, genki, but even he can't make those probabilities pique my interest. No, this is something that I have to do myself.

When in Statistics, I've found that I can best stay sane by devising inane stories for the symbols we're taught. I try to keep these to myself, but sometimes I like to bother my desk-mate. For example, yesterday we learned about P hat (yes, that is a technical term) and had the following, VERY exciting conversation:

Me: What kind of hat do you think that P is wearing?

J (Rapidly taking notes): Um . . .

Me: I mean, is it a beret? Or a sombrero? Or one of those hats that people picking rice in China wear? I think it's a beret.

J (no longer taking notes): Oh, definitely a beret. For sure. P-hat also kind of looks like he's carrying a baguette.

Me: Hoh-hoh! Is he riding a moped?

J: Oui-oui! And smoking a cigarette!

Me (disapointed): Actually, Monsieur P chooses not to smoke. It was a good try on your part, though.

Unfortunately, this whispered conversation caused me to miss the explanation of what P hat means. So, while I remember his name and shall hereafter fondly think of him as Monsieur P, in Statistical notation he means nothing to me.

The fragility of life

This is not going to be a post about how short life is and how we need to value every moment of it, though that is true.

Rather, this is about how fragile life really is. I'm thinking about this today because, in the past two years, two good friends of mine have fallen very, very ill. In short, two good friends of mine have almost died.

These are not girls who lead unhealthy lives. Quite the opposite, actually. These are girls who exercise regularly (one is even an ultra-marathoner), eat well, don't use drugs, and generally respect their bodies. However, these healthy habits weren't enough to keep their bodies from acting up - one suffered a brain tumor and the other went into cardiac arrest while running.

I've never believed in the 'invincibility of youth,' but I still find myself stunned when these kinds of things happen. You hear stories about how strong the body can be - a man surviving a forty-story fall or a person with two prosthetic legs competing in an Iron Man - but stories of how precarious life is rarely make headlines.

I know that my two girlfriends are strong enough to make their lives into great comeback stories, but for now I find myself wondering, 'Why them?'

Why are we so fragile?

Yesterday, some people played football. Do you really care?

Yesterday was Super Bowl Sunday and I didn't care.

The Super Bowl is good for eating fried food and drinking beer, but other than that it's boring. I've kept my silence for so long, but even when the Seahawks played it was boring! The half-time show is somewhat interesting, but that doesn't involve men in pads, so the point is moot.

You know who else doesn't care about the Super Bowl? The rest of the world, that's who. They have a different sport that also happens to be called football. The main difference is that it's fast and fun and the game doesn't stop every thirty seconds.

It's amusing when, at the end of the Super Bowl, they pronounce the winners the "World Champions of Football." Somewhere out there, a lone Englishman is cheering.

Right name, wrong sport. I think I'll go skiing next year.