final final

All settled back in at home with my cats, dog and my own bed…always nice to come back to. In past trips, when I’ve returned, it has been difficult to write the last few letters from a trip. It’s as if I get brain freeze as soon as I get home. After our Canada trip last year, I had several messages from friends wanting to know what happened because the letters just stopped abruptly with no indication that we hadn’t been swooped up and carried off to some distant planet in Andromeda. But not so with this trip. Although I’ve been back for two week, visions of people and activities keep coming back with vivid imagery, so I wanted to finish up the letters and tell you that Andromeda is a cool place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. Writing these letters has been a very different, and often difficult, experience. I usually look forward to writing my impressions of what we see and do, and it is more often than not, they are just casual observations of “things/places/events. But with this trip, I struggled with how to portray the people with whom I interacted so intimately on a daily basis. How to be honest in my observations, yet sensitive to the fact that I was talking about people’s lives who I cared about, and who would read the words and would take them very personally? It caused me some hesitation in my writing. As I’ve stated before, Uzbekistan is an incredible place. Filled with wondrous images of the past and inhabited by people as warm, friendly, and hospitable as any on this earth. And yet, it is a land of deep pockets of corruption, inequality for many of its citizens, and some very thorny human rights issues. The contrast of society is enormous, with some haves and a lot of have nots. I guess because this was so much a “people trip,” I felt very differently about describing some of those experiences and the individuals that are represented in those experiences. I returned home with deep affection for the people I met and an appreciation for the glimpse into their lives that went far beyond what I had ever experienced in past trips. Here are some random and final observations. Safety…. The first reaction we often got when we told people that we were going to Uzbekistan and Kazakstan was “What,” “Where,” and that bewildered look was followed by: “Is it safe.”…Americans think that anything that ends in “Stan,” has to be a dangerous and inhospitable place. But nothing could be further from the truth. With the exceptions of taxi rides, we never felt in any danger at all. Can’t remember a rude incident, a hostile glare, or a time/place where I felt I had to be looking over my shoulder to ensure that we were not in any danger. On our last night in Tashkent, we had dinner with a couple of 20 year old females and at the end of the evening when we said our good byes at the hotel, the girls started to walk to catch their buses. So Carol walked with one, and I with the other. After a while, the bus didn’t come, so she flagged down a taxi..there were two men in the car, and she climbed in. I asked her if she would be okay, and she just laughed and said: “Of course.” I was cautious after the spate of news stories out of India about females being assaulted. That’s not a problem in Uzbekistan. I remember two years ago half expecting somber, withdrawn unfriendly people. Nothing could be further from the truth…Uzbeks are amongst the warmest people you could find anywhere. We were constantly invited to homes, often by people we had just met. When we were able to visit homes we were always presented with a spread of food that would make a gourmand’s mouth water, both in quantity and quality of food. The buildings may look terrible on the outside, Block buildings from the Soviet times which look make you feel that it must be a terrible place to live. , Nine stories high with the doors leading to the outside world bent and nonfunctioning. The stairs may be crumbling and darkly lit, but when you enter the individual flat, the families have created a beautiful and cozy home for themselves. It’s literally like entering a different world. Uzbeks take great pride in their homes, and in the city most live in apartments (flats as they call them) and while small by American standards there is a feeling of warmth and conviviality as you enter into their world. Again, I had to learn to check my preconceived notions at the door. Literally. Bread… Bread is called the staff of life, but you ‘ain’t seen nothin’ until you go to Uzbekistan…they eat bread with every meal, and we’re not taking vapid Rainbow white bread here…we’re talking some industrial strength bread…baked in circles about a foot in diameter, you could run your car for many miles on one of them if you have a flat tire. They sell it on the streets or in the bazaars or alongside of the road where it sits in the hot sun for hours with little damage or further hardening. When our train stopped in Samarkand for 15 minutes, my compatriots in the compartment went tearing off. Not one to be left in the dark, I went with them only to find them buying bread through the fence from women who know when the train comes and that people are going to want their bread. We were told many times that Samarkand bread is the best in the nation..It’s a hard bread and not particularly tasty to my taste buds, but you are never without bread at an Uzbek table. They are a healthy people. The freshness of the food that is prepared is amazing…you don’t run to the freezer and pull out one of the 22 precooked, prepackaged, presugared, salted, chemicaled foods from the Costco line. Rather you go to the bazaar each day and buy the food you need to prepare dinner that night…Carol mentioned that she felt like she was going through a de-tox session and her body felt so much healthier…Tomatoes like we haven’t seen since we left California were a staple of almost all meals. Yes, tomatoes for breakfast. Waiting in line is not an Uzbek attribute…Just as they drive looking for any advantage in traffic for themselves, so do they use the same techniques anytime there is some form of waiting. They are totally oblivious to anyone else other than to see them as obstacles to getting to the front of the “line.” I see it as being of the same national ethos…part of their DNA…Nobody gets upset about it, it just happens that way and everybody understands the rules. The same behavior could easily be attributed to them as well. It can get frustrating for a westerner, but it’s really just something to laugh off and joke about as it’s happening all around you. It’s really very interesting to watch as people maneuver their way to the front. You just have to be vigilant and hold your ground. Family. The bonds and extent of “family” in Uzbekistan is remarkable. Families are forever. I used to get very confused by the terminology that my friends used about their “sisters.” The term is used liberally and can extend to cousins and good friends. Brides take on a new and just as significant family when they marry. Whereas we clarify our familial relationships with specificity, Uzbeks work in generalities. A bride doesn’t have a new sister-in-law, she has a new sister. We had dinner at one house where the table was set for 14-16 people. I expected that we’d all sit down together and eat, but instead with about five people at the table we heard the familiar refrain: “Eat, eat, eat.” During the course of the next hour and a half, aunts, cousins, and various other family members drifted in, others drifted out, and the dinner was this running family congregation where greetings took place every time some entered the room and the conversation groups were an ever-changing mix. One lasting impression by Carol was the lack of female drivers…We only rode with one female in our time in Uzbekistan. Carol noted that she had not seen any on the road prior to that time…We did see more after we were looking to see how valid that was, and there were some, but very few…with a subway system covering the city, the cheapness of taxis, $1 will take you for a long cab ride, and a criss-crossing bus system that seemingly goes everywhere for twenty cents (US), there seems to be little need for that..Kids of all ages travel alone safely and efficiently around all the cities. I left Uzbekistan two years ago with two facebook friends…over the course of the next two years, that number grew to about 70 as people as people sent “friend” requests…I always asked the same two questions: “How did you find me?” and “Why do you want to be friends with some old man on the other side of the world?” Some people never responded and I didn’t confirm, but others had interesting reasons for wanting to be friends, and after confirming we developed real friendships, not just cyber numbers….now with this last trip, those numbers have grown considerably. As my neighbor Kim said: “I see you have added 57 new friends, I can’t even imagine.” It is a fabulous place and I encourage any and all intrepid travelers to visit…food is great, hotels are western quality, sites are incomparable, and then there are the people…the best part of it all. We already have some young friends who are planning visits to “Grandpa and Granny.” We will welcome them with the same open hearts that they accepted us. Happy trails my friends…..looks like New Zealand or Eastern Europe next yea….. Life is good. Carol and Jim

It's Uzbekistan

t’s Uzbekistan….I heard that phrase often when trying to find out about how things work and asked various people questions . As it turns out, there are no easy answers in Uzbekistan. Everything is complicated and sometimes it’s just easiest to break it down to a phrase which captures the essence of the situation. “It’s Uzbekistan.” The motor fuel issue illustrates this concept well....From all the taxis perpetually trolling the streets of any Uzbek city, you would think that fuel was readily available. But driving to Fergana and also in the Bukhara area, we noticed lines at “gas” stations that were so long it made the energy crunch of the U.S. in the 70’s pale by comparison….we saw lines of 30-40 cars at unopened stations.“Why,” I asked, and was told several times, “It’s Uzbekistan.” Bukhara itself has a population of around 300,000 people and the province contains 1,500,000. Yet, in the entire province, there are two stations serving Methane fuel. There used to be four, but there was some unsavory aspects of some sort and two of them were closed, when I asked why they were shut down, with rolling eyeballs, I was told: “It’s Uzbekistan.” I’m assuming it had to do with greasing palms or the lack thereofThere are four main fuels in Uzbekistan…Diesel, gasoline (benzene), Methane and Propane. The latter two are the desired fuels because of the price, but cars have to be adapted to run on Methane/propane as well as gasoline..It’s expensive to adapt them, about $1,000, a significant expense for an Uzbek, but most cars are so equipped…Diesel is out, except for trucks and buses…It used to be popular when it was cheap, but now it is too expensive now since the price has risen 6 fold. And even though there are numerous “gas” stations selling gasoline, that doesn’t mean that fuel will be any more available. The two aforementioned methane stations only open on a very sporadic basis. Hence the long line of vehicles waiting to get in. People park in the line and then leave their car there overnight….kind of an Uzbek version of the rock concert ticket line. They may wait days before it opens. They go back to their homes at night, and maybe to their jobs in the day, or maybe back to the line to wait. Everybody in this country has a cell phone, I swear, from Muslim, hijab wearing grandmothers to7 year olds, so they may get calls from others in line when fuel is availbalbe. These are government run stations, as I understand it. One man had spent the last five days driving around looking for a gasoline station that was open and hadn’t found one..If he didn’t find one soon, he would have to do the “It’s Uzbekistan,” shuffle…which means paying the black market price which is 33% higher, so everybody tries to avoid that if possible. The point is that there is fuel available, but you have to work the system. Taxi drivers ply their trade for two days, then have to wait a day or so in line to get back into the action. And action it is. Taxis are everywhere. This whole dance that people have to do concerning fuel pervades Uzbek society. The fuel issue is simply typical of many aspects of Uzbek life and runs throughout the Uzbek private and public sectors. In spite of this fact, I found little discontent. There is a grudging acknowledgement that this is just how it works, and so you function in it. A peripheral issue is the automobile itself. It’s actually easier and cheaper to buy a used car than a new one….To purchase a new car which is actually produced in Uzbekistan, you have to pay 85% of the money up front and then wait up to six months to delivery. If the price has risen, I was told by a man with a smile on his face, you pay more. Therefore, used cars actually sell for more than a new one…immediate delivery. With the new cars you are at the mercy of others and you have no consumer protection whatsoever. Of course, you can get a new car faster, if you take care of the right people, but if you are trying to buck the system and do things the right way, you often have to pay with your pocketbooks and your time. Theh educational system is another aspect that requires a through understanding of Uzbek culture. Over the past two years, I have been bombarded with comments from my friends about how the educational system is not a level playing field…As I’ve noted in previous letters, the pressure on these kids is enormous. They get one shot, and no guarantee of a second. Hence, the results are critical. If your results aren’t quite up to snuff? Well, “It’s Uzbekistan.” Teachers change grades, results are doctored, decisions of refusal are reversed, and things taken care of. I don’t mean to indict the whole system, I know that there are some excellent institutions, mostly run by foreign universities (the Brits are big in this area) , and the best kids still get in no matter what, but when you’re on the bubble, the bubble can swing in different directions, depending…..and there seems to be great frustration amongst the young people about how this works. But, Students have no basic rights in Uzbekistan…they are totally at the beck and call of the institutionalized institution. Teachers may schedule and exam at 10:00 and then send word that it’s not convenient for him/her, so the test is rescheduled for 2:00 that afternoon. With the long list of those clamoring to get in, there is little rocking the boat by those already in the system, or even by those trying to get in…so it basically comes down to two choices, you can play the game, or you can take your chances. I know several really good, smart kids that haven’t been accepted yet. They have been preparing for two years to take the entrance exams. It’s expensive, but they can’t afford to miss the first time. It’s that critical Islam Karimov is vilified in the west, and many in the west consider Uzbekistan to be pretty high up on the list of human rights violations…(right up there with George Bush and the Neocons) but he is generally popular with the people. They may not like everything he does, but the country borders on Afghanistan and they don’t want that kind of turmoil. Uzbeks don’t want to rock the boat…the only discerning comment I heard was in the Fergana/Andijon area where I was told to be careful what I said because, “The walls could be listening.” It was said to me to be cautious. But Uzbekistan is peaceful and calm. There is a police presence everywhere, but it’s not intrusive. They’re just there. They wear dark green uniforms and are referred to with the Uzbek word for “cucumbers,” You’re always just reminded that they are there, but they mostly seem to talk to themselves rather than scanning the crowds or being intrusive. . It must take a huge chunk of the national pelf to keep that number of policemen on the streets. Most don’t wear guns. I never saw one that did, but was told that some do. Military presence on the road was again, not intrusive, but present. Document checks are common, both in rural and urban areas. And yet, there is no air of despondency or morose behavior on the streets. On the contrary, the streets are filled with laughing, joyful people, young and old, enjoying life. They love their country, are very proud of its history, and very optimistic about its future. Family units are well intact, there is national pride, and young people see bright times ahead. I’m torn between my cynicism and my hope for their future. It’s a great place…I love Uzbekistan and I have been treated with kindness, friendliness and generosity of spirit where ever I’ve gone in the country….They all love America…certainly a lot more than I do, and I want them to succeed. I’m rooting for them.

Uzbek weddings

Of all the aspects of Uzbekistan culture that I have discovered in the two years between the trips, it is the whole love and marriage thing that has been the most informative. Most of these kids are either entering marriage age, or are already there. They are in the process of experiencing one of the tried and true aspects of their culture. How men and women get together. In the two years since I was last there many of my facebook friends have married and now are mothers and mothers-to-be. Others are going through the whole “sovchi” thing where the parents of the boy in question visit the parents of the girl and things get decided or at least proposed. Even when two people find themselves, the tradition of the visitation is very much ingrained in the culture. There seems to be a lot more young people who are making their own decisions than in the past, but certainly parents maintain a very heavy presence in the process, and if either set of parents objects to the match, almost always the match is off. Period. No questions asked….We heard that repeated continually. But we also heard of many cases where the parents made the proposal, but left it up to the brides to be, to see if it was what they wanted….In the several cases which I was aware of they all accepted. Once the match is made, phase two of the process begins, and here is where things are done as close to the tried and true as financially possible. It’s not a cheap process, but it is so much a part of the culture, that people help make it happen for brides. People are very generous to contribute where necessary to give the bride the ceremony/party they all dream of from little girls, and have watched countless times as they grew up, and it was almost exactly the same each time they saw it. I must also say that what follows is the tradition in The Tajik area of Bukhara…I’ve been told that there are differences in the process, depending upon the area, but the core remains the same. First of all, there isn’t a ceremony as such, but rather a long series of events spread out over three days and nights. Technically, they get blood tests and sign the papers one month early, but they are not officially married in their passports. But when that has all been processed, they start the good stuff. On the morning of the first day, guests come along with the groom’s family to present gifts to the bride-to-be at her home. Since they all come at the same time, the procession has a festive air to it. Performers surround and intermingle with the group dancing and frolicking as they make their way to the house. With the men in one room and the women in another, they will pray for the happiness and success of the union. The bride’s family will organize a party for luncheon for men and women at a restaurant, while the bride and her friends remain at her house. They will eat separately since the meal is just for guests. That evening the groom and his family come with the groom to the bride’s house. His friends form a circle around him and act the role of people trying to prevent him from proceeding. His advance is announced by the blowing of long horns, similar to the shofars of Tibet…they blare as the happy procession proceeds along its pate…there is a fire which is built along the path and the groom and his friends must dance around and circle it three times. The groom is all dressed in his very best traditional finery, lots of sparkly beads and ribbons to highlight the festive nature. Upon their arrival, the groom and the other men go to one room and the bride and the other women are in another room. After all the preliminaries, the first night together begins, but it is unlike any first night of a marriage I’ve ever heard about, because a curtain is draped from the ceiling and in a corner of the room, and this curtain, the chimildiq, is folded in one corner so that there is visual contact with the females in the room…Only women will observe the first night, and there is one simple rule, no hanky panky…no kissing, no snuggling, no nada…touching is kept to an absolute minimum.

When the bride enters behind the curtain, she has an aunt place two loaves of round bread over her head, symbolizing preciousness, since bread is the food of life. Two candles are brought, with the bride carrying one lit candle with her as she enter, and the groom will bring the other lit candle. It is a symbol of their love burning. The bride is dressed entirely in traditional clothes with a cloak, or veil, covering everything from head to foot and she wears black soft-leather boots on her feet…the veil can be lifted for the purposes of ceremonial tea and sweets which are brought to the room for the couple…Hard boiled eggs are eaten for fertility, dried apricots and fruits are also placed for the couple… The husband comes to meet his wife again with two breads over his head, carrying the other lit candle. they sit on cushions for the entire night, vigilantly watched by the females in the room….. there will be a bowl of honey in the little cubicle and the husband dips his little finger in the honey and offers it to his wife. After she accepts the honey, she will reciprocate and do the same for him. Licking little fingers dipped in honey doesn’t violate any rules. Tea is offered by the new bride in a very ancient, ceremonial manner. There will also be sweetened water and tea and walnuts for the couple to snack on during the night. A woman reads from a book offering blessings in song form, yor-yor, ,as it is called. She offers prayers and positive words in singing form. The couple will spend several hours just talking and eating the snacks. Later that evening, the guests will leave, and the groom will return to his home. Before he leaves, he will tie up much of the leftover food in a waistband that he wears…he will take that outside where his male friends have been waiting…He will turn his back to them and throw the tied shawl, full of food, to the waiting crowd. Whoever catches it will be the next to marry…apparently, it can be quite a mad scramble for it….this is the Uzbek male’s counterpart to the bride throwing the bouquet over her shoulder in America. The following morning there will be a breakfast for men only at a restaurant while the exhausted, (I would think) couple go off for their wedding photo sessions…The bride changes from the traditional Uzbek/Tajik clothing to the big, puffy, cotton ball wedding dress that girls in the west wear as well….Hair is styled elaborately, and the couple will have their photos taken at ceremonial locals…historical, religious, or cultural sites for greater emphasis.

That night the wedding party takes place, and now is when everything cuts loose, well almost everything. There will be way too much food, a lot of music and dancing and it is a party like only Uzbeks/Tajiks can throw. There will be hundreds upon hundreds of people there…People with even the remotest contact with either family will be invited and there are several large restaurants/ party halls in all towns devoted to just wedding parties….I said that almost everything cuts loose, because at the end of this party, the bride still goes home to her house, and the groom to his…

Finally, on the morning of the third day, the bride’s family will accompany her to her new home, the groom’s family residence…there they will live for several years…depending upon the new mother-in-law, this can be both a blessing and a curse for the new bride…lots of stories about how helpful this is, and how the new wife is treated like a new daughter, but I also heard how the new bride is treated poorly by the mother-in-law, who she can be jealous of a new woman in her house, but still in almost all cases the couple will live with the grooms family. After passports are officially changed to represent the marriage, things are all complete and the new couple begin their life together.

I had hoped that we would be able to experience the above process, but the wedding we were going to see was postponed, so this was the process told to us by a bride to be. Steeped in historical and cultural traditions, it is a central part of Uzbek/Tajik life. Every girl awaits the same ceremony as she grows up and it is often the highlight of their life.

Bukhara Days

We traipsed across Uzbekistan and made four separate trips to Tashkent, but it was to Bukhara where we had our longest sojourn….nine days. There was a block of friends/granddaughters there and we wanted to be able to concentrate our time there without running in and out of town on our way to some place else. It was an easy three hour train ride, made easier by the fact that our six person cabin was occupied by two sleeping women who managed to occupy all six seats…they waved Carol away as she tried to enter the compartment…they had no intention of sharing…luckily there was a three person compartment which was unoccupied and so we were relocated to it and had a quiet ride with plenty of room. The ride was a microcosm of Uzbekistan….we passed rural villages seemingly totally constructed of adobe with small gardens located within the walls of a compound. Uzbeks relish their gardens where they grow a variety of vegetables and fruits….men and women worked on their haunches weeding, watering, and maintaining the field of cotton, white gold as it is referred to in Uzbekistan, fields which seemed too large to work by hand, yet there was rarely a tractor to be seen…small herds of cattle or sheep and goats were tended by young boys who sat under whatever shade could be had, while donkeys grazed tethered to their carts waiting to do their tasks of ferrying goods or people from field to home or market…..the topography was mainly flat, but varied from lush to desert as streams worked their way across the landscape…. At the station we were met by the brother and father of our main hosts, the Akramovs….Xafiza Akramova is one of my dearest friends in the entire country…the “a” at the end of her name is an appellation given to all female members of a family, whether it is the first or last name….Aziz for a male, Aziza for a female, as an example of first name usage. “Hafi” as she is called (the “X” is pronounced like “H”) was busy at home helping mom prepare the wonderful dinner that we were served that night….We were supposed to stay in their home for our duration, but Uzbek laws being what they are, we were prevented from doing so, but we still made that home our base and were guests in their home several times over the next nine days. As we had found in Tashkent, when Uzbeks invite you for dinner, it is an absolute feast. We had commented to ourselves about how small the plates are that Uzbeks eat from…they are more like coffee saucers than dinner plates…the reason we concluded was that because of all the food on the table, there would not be any room for large plates…fruits, nuts, cold cuts, cheeses, salads and other individual dishes are placed on the table and eaten in any random order chosen. Once you have filled up on these items and can’t possibly eat any more, the main course comes out. In this case It was large platters of Palov, the main dish in Uzbek cuisine. It is fixed differently in all regions, but is a rice base with beef and vegetables added…raisins, carrots and other foods and spices are added depending upon the region. As Carol and I looked at each other and said with our eyes: “How can we put any more food in our bodies,” we were exhorted by Hafi to “eat, eat, eat.”…it became our running joke the next three days. The table was set for the entire family, grandmother, cousins, aunts and Hafi’s immediate family as well. They all live within a few houses of each other and the 14 cousins have all grown up together and are friends as well as family. The following morning we made a journey outside of Bukhara to visit a friend’s home in Gi’jduvan, a market center, where the traditional market was in super size with the same vibrancy and life emanating from every corner. It is famous throughout Uzbekistan. People come from all over the country to buy and sell because of its size and scope. Prices are lower and the variety of goods and services available are so varied that it is held every day, whereas most large market towns hold theirs once a week. Our trip by taxi was typical…I was the guest, and wasn’t allowed to pay for anything….the four females were crammed into the back seat while, as normal, I enjoyed the front seat along with the driver…a front seat witness to the possible mayhem that could have occurred as we bobbed and wove our way down the road for 45 minutes. When we arrived Yuli, Mari, and Dili went off t buy something to take to the family. It is considered impolite to show up with nothing when invited to a house…Carol always had scarves and doilies to give to the mother of the house. It gave us the opportunity to see another interesting town and a great market, as well as another hospitable Uzbek home….Nasi, who’s home we had come to visit was a perfect hostess….Uzbeks girls get a lot of practice growing up watching mom. Another friend, Yulduz, arranged for us to see the rehearsal for the big university games that were upcoming in the near future…near future, I say, because the games are another example of how things can be delayed and/or postponed by some whim of an official…It was to be held on the 26-28th of Maym but it was postponed, since it was delayed, we never saw the real deal, but the rehearsal was pretty spectacular…5,000 school aged girls aged 14 to 22 all practicing, sort of, their drills, while a thousand males carried flags for the opening ceremonies….they practice twice a day, early morning and late afternoon, and the girls told me they were pretty tired of practicing….hence about 2,000 of the girls were talking on their cell phone, another 500 were running around hugging and laughing with friends, who they hadn’t seen for probably two hours, although they had probably talked to them on their phones… fully another 1,000 were sitting on the ground not doing anything, while the remainder practiced…all to the shrill shouts of the director into the over-amped loudspeakers screaming at them to pay attention….how anybody thinks that that many teenage and above girls can be congregated in one place and get anything accomplished outside of China, perhaps, is beyond me….we watched for a couple hours and then left…as we did so, friends came running to give us hugs and greetings, we were hijacked by a TV crew and asked what we thought of the whole deal…diplomatic answers full of praise were warmly received, and over a week later while back in Tashkent, many friends said that they giggled with delight as they saw us on TV…such is the life of celebrities…..LOL Hafi’s father acted as taxi driver and we went on excursions to holy as well as historical sights over the next few days….other friends called our room and invited us to meet and have tea, juice, lunch or whatever was appropriate for the time frame involved. We fled back to the cool of our room and its wi-fi as the temperature soared to over 100 degrees in the afternoon, but in the early evening everything changes…families come out and stroll the plaza known as Lyabi Hauz where a tree planted in 1477 stands under state protection to demonstrate that this is an ancient place. It is no longer alive, but has become a symbol of Bukhara. Little children sit in robot-controlled cars while their mothers/fathers steer them slowly around the plaza while balloon salesmen, cotton candy makers, and other hawkers of kid’s goodies ply their trade. We enjoyed our evenings sitting there with our friends chatting and taking in the whole colorful scene. Ice cream vendors dispensed soft ice cream from machines and the ever present green tea was always served…Uzbeks love their tea hot at all times of the year… while I, the pampered westerner, longed for an ice cube, which, of course, was nowhere to be had. The tourist season will soon come to an end with the temperatures continuing to rise as summer approaches, but still large groups of westerners speaking European tongues were seen and heard throughout Bukhara…very few Americans venture this far…those who do are pretty savvy travelers because most people in the states haven’t even heard of Uzbekistan. Those who do venture this far into Central Asia find a land steeped in tradition and proud of their history…Amir Temur, or Tammerlane, as previously noted, may be considered a scourge and a butt kicker to other people’s of the area, but he is revered here. He is their unifier of culture. They also find a people who are among the most hospitable and friendly to outside cultures. Foreigners are also buoyed by the fact that so many different languages are taught in Uzbekistan..Students may learn many different languages, there are several universities devoted strictly to the teaching of the great languages of the world..English, of course, is the most predominant with the new laws, but French, German, Chinese, Japanese, to name a few are well represented, and Korean is huge here. We had enough varied activities with my friends to keep our interests alive and we didn’t feel that we just sat around and talked….everybody wanted to show us their favorite spots…whether it was visiting holy sites outside of Bukhara which gave us glimpses of the different villages and terrains while mixing in lots of conversation time as well. So our time was, again, well spent here… There were two main knots of friends here and more or less split our time between the two. the first came from my friend Marhabo, who we had met two years ago and from whom maybe a dozen friends sprung, while a second came to be known as the 4 amigas to me because their friendship was as close as it could be…a kinship that would be envied by any culture…they are going their own way now that they are getting married and their lives take on a very different influence than before. The husband’s family becomes the new focus. Two of the amigas are married now, one is to be a mother, and another to be married this summer, but there is a closeness that nothing can diminish. It is wonderful to see these ties. We in the west move about so much it is hard to maintain old friendships, but Uzbeks tend to stay in one place all their lives….the government encourages this by restricting movement to the Capital Tashkent…if you are not born in the city you must get a new registration paper every six months to remain in the capital…students, businessmen, and anyone else wanting to stay in the capital must re-apply for the new “passport” to stay…it’s their own form of a “green card.” Carol had brought a stash of scarves which she had made over the last year and some crocheted doilies as well, and she doled them out to friends and mothers to whose houses we were invited…over 25 of them now reside within the various cities of Uzbekistan…they were, naturally received with great pleasure, and it was her way to help return the gift of hospitality and friendship that was continually offered to us. It’s a special place with very special people.

A tree grew in Bukhara

Bukhara, The holy city as they call it, is a wonderful, albeit hot, place to wind up our trip…the old city dating back a thousand years maintains the characteristics it has had for that length of time…there is a tree that was planted in 1477 still standing although not alive. The madrassas are still standing with their high gates similar in structure, though lacking in size, to the ones in Samarkand, and the old walls of the Ark, or citadel, still stand though rebuilt to give them the appearance of how imposing they must have seemed to invaders. This, then, is our last stop on our journey to meet people who have become part of my life over the last two years….and it has proven to be a great way to end the trip…two years ago we stayed in a 12 story hotel away from the old city and were shuttled here and there with no real sense of where we were. All we knew was that we weren’t near anything resembling the old city…so this time I booked a little boutique hotel, cheap at $50 a night, but it is delightful with everything I need/want….AC, Wi-fi in my room ( I’m such a geek) a very helpful staff, comfortable beds and is situated right on the edge of the ancient walls…Each morning, while it is cool, we venture out and watch things come alive…it is the center of the tourist trade and nearly every corner is filled with people selling exactly the same things on every other corner. I’m still amazed at the fact that these people can make a living when you have 50 places to choose from….I guess it says something about the markup….LOL. Much of the area of the old city with the madrassas and the bazaar (market) area is blocked off from traffic so it makes for relaxed ambling. It is a place you walk in the mornings because the heat is on at this time of the year…not like it will be in blistering July and August where temperatures will reach over 110 degrees on a regular basis, but still we’re doing triple digits here on the Fahrenheit scale. That makes for a hasty retreat to the hotel room in the early afternoon, waiting for the cool of the evening to kick in. But around 7 p.m. everybody ventures forth from their homes and heads for the old city…it’s a hive of activity and wonderful to see and watch…. Flea markets in the States are weekly events where people gather to see other people trying to sell things they no longer want or need to people who for some unknown reason suddenly think they want and/or need them. But markets here in Central Asia, as in Latin America are gathering places for people who really do find what they really do want and need. There are no malls here, no glitzy shopping centers selling upscale goods at exaggerated prices…here the markets are jammed with thousands of people pouring over blankets spread on the ground with tee shirts, sandals, bras, and everything in between all spread out on the blanket. The food area is a conglomeration of fresh food…vegetables, fruits, breads, and meats are all purchased on a daily basis by the majority of people here…there are no freezers full of things to be pulled out and whipped into dinner. This spontaneity of life is both a blessing and a curse to a westerner trying to organize schedules to make sure he sees all the people he wants to see…but more about that later…..the bazaars here are such a hodge-podge of people from all classes of society…shoppers are almost entirely made up of women….it is after all, their job….LOL…while the majority of sellers also are women, but with scatterings of men as well. Small stalls selling kebobs and other food stuffs give the air a richness of different spices and herbs wafting across our faces as we carefully walk trying not to step on anybody or anything other than the uneven, pitted sidewalk beneath our feet. Wealthy women in finery and poorer women in clothes that needed to be washed weeks ago stand side by side buying tomatoes for tonight’s dinner without either taking notice of anything unusual about that juxtaposition of society. Hand carts are pushed through the crowd with appropriate shouts to get out of the way even though there seems to be no place to go to avoid them…somehow, it all works. I mentioned the “live by the minute” aspect of life here…in the west, we are so organized, super scheduled, and plan it all ahead types, but here it just happens as it happens…We were supposed to go to a birthday party in Tashkent on the 14th, but it got rescheduled that morning to the 16th, and then on the afternoon of the16th it was again rescheduled to the 18th..unfortunately, our schedule had us in Fergana on the 18th and people were disappointed that we didn’t come…Same thing here, we were to attend a wedding on the 1st of June, but it too was postponed, someone is planning a get together for us, but it is such a surprise that we don’t even know when it is…it makes for some standing around waiting for calls and some frustration when people don’t understand why we have made other plans with other people. And in an extreme example, there were some big university games planned for Bukhara for the 26-29 of May…Advertisements are everywhere, people have been practicing for months and the sports competitions are a huge thing here…but……somebody decided they weren’t ready, so it’s been postponed…at this point, no one is quite sure when it will take place, but everybody assures it will happen. At home, parents would have booked travel, made hotel reservations, arranged for the neighbors to take care of the dog and water the plants, and a huge uproar would have occurred had some official just decided they weren’t ready and postponed it to some future date, to be announced when he felt that things were in order…but here, it’s just how things work, and nobody gets too upset about it…. A friend here, who has studied in Korea, led a group of Korean businessmen around for a few days at a festival they have each year, and she said they almost went nuts over the ever-changing schedule and delays and cancellations….Korean businessmen are uber-organized. In the end, it’s just travel…roll with it or get run over by it. I have a large bloc of friends here in Bukhara with whom we have been spending time. It is so gratifying how we are taken into homes and hearts…Uzbeks are such a generous people…they share everything with you….when you are their guests, you are not allowed to do anything or pay for anything. I’ve had to be VERY assertive at times when we invite people for dinner, but they don’t want us to pay the bill….I’m not trying to be some fat cat American throwing money around…I’m basically a stingy bastard, but I know that these people struggle to make ends meet and it seems ridiculous that they spend their meager resources while we sit back and let them take care of us… When I suggest that we do something that costs money, I don’t expect that others will suffer for my desire to do that….I’m throwing a birthday party for a few friends here and I’ve already had some conversation with those involved that I want to do this. I’m not making much headway. Carol understands both sides, and while I do as well, I’m just not comfortable knowing that they will suffer while I’m just saving money. There is a fine line here, just another one with which I’m struggling to find the balance. We had dinner the other night at one of the girls’ house…It was her husband and father’s birthday…It was in the old residential section of town…She had told me before we came that she didn’t invite her friends to her home because she was embarrassed by it…her friends are more financially secure…so I took it as a matter of significance that she wanted us to come. we were picked up by an uncle who had a car and traversing the maze of small streets and near alleys with the vehicle was difficult…cars are parked in the already too narrow street and getting by had to be carefully negotiated as the driver was not there to move the car, of course…the street was a series of ruts, pits, and huge mounds of dirt…no pavement, of course, just dry, dusty streets…there were piles of rubble, looked like old building materials, combinations of brick, rock, and dirt which were not taken away when the job was finished, but rather just left there to sit and wait for who knows what….people walked through unlit streets with little children at their sides as dust swirled around them kicked up by the cars inching their way through the street and the night breeze. At 10 p.m. there were still small tables where people sold band aids, string, and other little items which somebody might need at some non-traditional shop hours, and I couldn’t help wonder what it must be like in the rainy season, when the dust and dirt turns to mushy slime where people must literally slip and slide their way down the streets….Snow must be a blessing, at least for walking purposes. But the amazing thing to me was that it was clean…I say that knowing that it sounds paradoxical, but there was no trash scattered about…no litter blowing in the breeze. No graffiti marking the walls of the brick and adobe houses…it is the poor part of town, but that doesn’t mean that the people have to be uncaring about their surroundings. There is a personal pride that the people maintain…there is a dignity that comes from taking charge of their limited resources and making it as good as possible…there is honor here…and it seemed very safe as young children and young women walked in the knowledge that they were safe on the dark, unlit streets. I was very impressed. The home was behind a large metal door and down an alley past other houses….We didn’t see the whole house as such, only three rooms… it is a traditional home…the men eat in one room and the women eat in another….both rooms were devoid of furniture save rugs and pads on the floor where food was displayed on a long ribbon of cloth. As in most of the Muslim homes we have been in, the meal was begun with thanks to Allah with palms upraised, and then the prayers are brought inside the body by “washing” the hands over the face. It is a simple, yet dignified process. We started off in the men’s room, Carol and I with our friend who acted as interpreter, but we later moved to our own small room where we could talk and laugh as the men had their privacy to do their thing…I understood that the Vodka flowed after we left…. There was an ancient gas heater with pipes coming down from the walls in one corner of the room and a TV in another, while mats and quilts were piled up in another corner of the room. I presumed that they slept on these….they brought in a fan which cooled the air somewhat……laughter emanated from all rooms, ours, men’s, and women’s. Two families intertwined by marriage celebrating a birthday on each side….there is a unity to family life here…once joined by marriage, there is little distinction…sisters-in-law become sisters, and a bride’s new family becomes her own, while retaining her attachment to her blood family. It was a wonderful evening full of gracious people who again shared their lives with us…they were honored to have us in their home and their kind faces told us all that we needed to know….they are fine people, and it is I who am honored that we were allowed to see this part of life.

Friends

Friends When we left Uzbekistan two years ago, I had two young friends. One a lyceum girl I had met in Tashkent, and the other a shop girl in Bukhara….Over the intervening time, I would make comments on their photos or their posts and would then receive facebook “friend” requests from people I didn’t know. I always asked the same two questions to those requests: “How did you find me,” and “Why do you want to be friends with some old man half way around the world.” Sometimes I didn’t receive any answer, but when I did, I usually accepted….I told them that I was not interested in having thousands of “friends,” as so many people seem to have, but, rather, would be interested in being real friends where we could communicate and exchange ideas about life, culture, traditions, etc…..I was very interested in learning more about the fascinating land I had just visited. And I found my new “friends” delightful people….Most of them were female…guys were not as interested in communicating….they just wanted numbers, it seemed…I never requested “friendship,” with these females….didn’t seem right for an old man to request friendship with beautiful young ladies…my hang up. But as time passed, the number grew and grew, until I had over 70 friends in Uzbekistan..more actually than I could count outside of family members in the US…. They range in age from 17 to 26…most of them university students working on language skills…they sent me papers they were submitting for their courses, which I would help correct and suggest different ways of expressing their thoughts…sometimes they told me intimate problems they were facing and I tried to be a voice of hope and optimism about their future…..sometimes they just wanted to know about my life and America….and a dozen other reasons as well for communication. It has been delightful for me, and I shared the messages with Carol and I wanted to return to Uzbekistan and actually meet these people I could now truly call “friends.” We were invited to stay in homes, but were unable to do so, with the exception of Zazrafshon, because of Uzbek laws preventing such things, but we did visit many homes and schools and actually spent time with over 30 of the “kids,” as I like to call them. It has been everything I had hoped it would be and Carol has flourished by meeting them as well…They have called me Bobojon or Dodajon, Grandpa in Uzbek, Grampy, Grand pa, and Grandfather. Carol is now Bovijon, Granny, etc…naturally, they all love her and she has enmeshed herself into their lives smoothly and graciously. Some were busy with exams and couldn’t see us, some didn’t make any effort to do so, but all those who did proved to be as delightful in reality as they were in cyber space…they were generous of their hearts and spirits and were so happy to share with us their homes and lives…it was truly the trip I wanted to have…Carol has commented that it was a very different trip….so people-oriented, not focused on places or things….I have always told my friends back home that the thing I liked about Uzbek young people is that they know nothing of the Soviet times…they were all born at, or just after, independence. Hence they do not carry any baggage from those days, but rather are filled with the enthusiasm and optimism of youth and believe that their future is a bright one…. They see their future tied to the west and believe this will provide them with many more opportunities to branch out from a traditional Central Asian nation to one that takes its place amongst the progressive nations o`f the world, where talent and ability take the place of privilege and status. They want a better education system for their country because they believe it still represents the old system where intelligence is not necessarily rewarded, but rather favoritism and corruption often determine who gets ahead. In the west, Islam Karimov has a reputation of being a continuance of the Soviet system, but he remains very popular with most aspects of society, particularly with the young people. The only negative thing we heard was in Andijon, where we were told to watch what we said because “The walls have ears,”….the cotton season where young people are forced to pick cotton for six weeks is seen as a modified form of slavery in the west, but the young people see it as a way to demonstrate national pride, albeit a difficult experience…so all of these things give the young people of Uzbekistan a sense that their lives are full of hope and promise, and I am proud to call them true friends. It’s been a memorable trip as we head into the home stretch.

The Ghosts of Centuries Past

Of all the places I’ve been in my life, nothing moves my spirit like Samarkand and the Registan. It’s a magical, mystical place for me. It is easy to get caught up in the hustle and bustle of tourists in baseball caps turned backward, European tongues competing for attention in the madrassas , and the honking of horns as cars jockey for space. But for me, Samarkand takes me back and, like a baseball pitcher blocking out all the external incursions into his psyche, I can block out all that periphery and feel the ancient caravans and the ambiance that goes along with it. The modern bazaars and food markets, help because there is a cacophony of noise as there would be in the olden days, not French nor German nor English…just Uzbek, Takik and Russian..all tongues literally foreign to my ear and my brain. The clothes are modern fabrics but are still traditional and feel ancient with their colors and brilliant displays of patterns. And so, I can envision fires burning at nighttime with tents pitched while camels loll lazily tethered to some restriction to their movements…I can smell the air with all the good and bad odors which emanate from a place where thousands of humans and have congregated. In my mind, there is mystery and intrigue at every corner and danger is not very far away….I was not a reader in my youth, and so I don’t know exactly from where these images came to me. I like to say, I remember them because I was here before, but maybe that’s just my wild imagination again…But for me, it’s not important where the genesis of these feelings began in my brain, all I know is that when I was here two years ago, I felt it, didn’t get enough time here then, and it was the one “Place/thing” I wanted to see again on this trip that is so filled with people. Since we were on a tour two years ago I didn’t have control of my time…hurry up to go here, only to jump quickly back on the bus and head for the next spot…I so wanted to just linger at the Registan..to be the giant sponge and just soak it all up…to sit and watch. Well, this time, that is exactly what I did…several trips back to the Registan, sometimes with our friends, sometimes just Carol and I…sometimes in the morning light, sometimes after dark when artificial lights lit the towering gateways, but still cast a wonderful aura over the entire huge square… Groups of elderly ladies in colorful dresses and head scarves and fabulous faces filled with lines from years of hard work and difficult lives plod their way through the square as if on some personal hadj, not to Mecca, but to their glorious past…I love these old faces. They never fail to smile and show their kind, generous natures…They are never scornful of us for intruding upon “their” place, they always seem delighted to share it with us…..Young moderns in boutique clothes….school kids in their uniforms….old men with their beards and long tunics…and the ever present tourists like myself give the Registan an air that is totally unique to my mind…I love it here. We didn’t do a whole bunch of other things in Samarkand…we spent most of our times with our three flatmate friends, Zulfiya, Madina, and Yulduz, but that was time well spent and it was an opportunity to see all the little quirks of personalities which give people the real character. I’ve chatted with them for so long on facebook that it was nice to see them as people and not just words on the page. Samarkand is a busy, bustling place…an early morning walk was full of honking horns, billowing bursts of diesel exhaust belching into the air as school kids walked by with their white shirts and black skirts or pants. Women swept the sidewalks with short brooms of some kind of thatch about 2-3 feet in length which force them to bend over to clean the leaves which have fallen during the night. The city is very clean and women swept even where I couldn’t see any reason for them to do so. Madi and Zuzu wanted to show us their institute and when we went to Madi’s where she works on her masters degree in Spanish, Carol was absolutely besieged by students who wanted to speak with a real Spanish speaker…She was surrounded by delighted students eager to get their sentences heard. They hung on every word and didn’t want her to leave. Madi and Zuzu have been facebook friends for over a year, so I had some knowledge of them, but their third “flatmate,” Yulduz, was an absolute delight…when we got to the flat, she was just leaving, but prepared tea for us before she departed…wearing the traditional long tunic with matching pants and a head scarf, she seemed to be a conservative young Muslim woman…getting to know her, I found a wonderfully, sweet, intelligent woman who is full of life and energy and still remains true to her very devout Muslim faith…she can laugh, joke, and poke fun at life and her surroundings…she opened up more as our time together progressed, and the serenity of her face was so calming to watch….she lives in a village about an hour away from Samarkand…has a 5 year old son who lives with her mother while she works on her Korean Masters degree. Her husband works in Russia to support the family and so she must be strong to keep everything in balance and still progress towards her goals in life. I admired her strength, courage, and gentility. She is a fine young woman who remains true to herself, her family, and her faith. Taxi rides continue to be an adrenalin rush as we race across town…they are cheap, fast, (very) and convenient…you never have to wait for more than a few seconds before one shows up…stand by the side of the road and a yellow taxi, (official) or white (the color of choice of almost all cars) unofficial taxi will roll up flashing its lights to let you know it is available…move your hand out from your body, and they will swerve across several lanes of traffic to beat the others just behind them all vying for that fare…We rarely paid more than $2 for any taxi ride across any of the cities. One amusing occasion was when we were picked up by a man who, in his broken English told us that he was an ex-policeman of 20 years, we chatted about America….he has relatives there, and in the end refused any payment for the trip across town. When people ask us where we are from and we tell them “America,” they all grin and so very often say: “Ah….America….I have family there….New York…..Brooklyn.” It must be a very Uzbek place because we now know of hundreds of families who live there from all over Uzbekistgan. In a move towards the west, there is a new law which mandates that English is to be the official 2nd language of the country…replacing Russian…English teachers are to be paid more than other teachers, and all teachers are being required to speak English….it is a sign of how far the country is moving from its Soviet past to a more western pattern… Language patterns are very diverse…Samarkand and Bukhara are Tajik cities…They were once part of Tajikistan, but soviet map makers and policy makers being what they were, carved up Tajikistan and made part of it Uzbek territory…The “Stan” part of all these names means “land of,” so Uzbekistan is the land of Uzbeks, Kyrygzstan is the land of the Kyrygz…etc…well, definitions of territory mean nothing to the people…here in Samarkand and in Bukhara, the signs are in Uzbek, people speak Tajik, and people at home often speak Russian….One friend Speaks Russian to her Father, Tajik to her mother, and English to her friends…when her father speaks to her mother, he speaks in Russian…when she answers, she speaks Tajik….my friend didn’t even speak Uzbek until she began school…such is the nation. So, I was able to achieve my goals in Samarkand…combining time at the registan while getting to know Zulfiya, Madina, and Yulduz…to Quote my favorite wordsmiths, Yogi Berra and George Bush…. “Déjà vu all over again,” and “Mission Accomplished”

out of order letter

this letter is out of order...I just realized that it never got sent following our return from Zarafshon...it should be before the Fergana letter. But i was in a cyber black hole for a while and things just get confused...Oh well, such are the vagaries of travel and intermittent internet connections. Our return to Tashkent was a long one…we arose at four a.m. so that we could leave the house at five for our desert crossing to Navoi and the train back to the capital…Although the train didn’t leave until 10:00 and the trans-Kyzylkum was a two and a half hour journey, Sisi and Ashraf strongly suggested that we give ourselves lots of leeway. There are no sure bets in the crossing and if we were to have some mishap, blown tire, overheating, etc. we could be derailed, literally and figuratively. As we sped across the seemingly unchanging desert, I had time alone with my thoughts, just as when I walked the Camino, the opportunity to reflect on my days in Zarafshon without distractions. As I wrote to my cousin Bill, who spent years working in the Sinai with Palestinians and understands better than anyone else what I see and feel, “I'm often embarrassed/ashamed/disconcerted by the time it takes me to kick back into a "this is real life," mentality when I have spent my time in places like Tashkent sitting in my four star hotel with wi-fi at my finger tips. But I am never sorry once I am able to walk across that bridge from my fantasy world to the real world in which people exist. I continually find that throughout the world I am treated better by people who have less than I am by the people who seemingly have more...In fact, the people with less have more honesty, are more giving of spirit and have a willingness to share what little they possess of the "things" of the world.” It has been a common thread throughout the world…not governed by politics nor geographic region nor religion…If I/we could only understand that the “Things” are only things, we would have a richer, fuller life and our world would be the better for the transition. It’s hard for me to admit that “poor” people are far richer than I. But all went well on our trans-Kyzylkum (I love that word) jaunt, and, as such, we had a couple of hours to spin our wheels at the train station and had an interesting with a young woman whose family has lived in Zarafshon generations, works in London, and speaks no Uzbek….The Russian presence in the “republics” is still very strong. The 6 hour ride back to Tashkent was uneventful and upon our arrival, we said our grateful thanks to Sisi for inviting us to her home. It was the type of experience that we really wanted to have this time in Uzbekistan, and she and her family were delightful, gracious and very hospitable…It couldn’t have been more enjoyable…everybody involved went out of their way to ensure that our visit was perfect. It is difficult to use superlatives about our following day, because it sounds silly in my mind when I say the next day was very special, because they have all been special….how do you say that things get specialer and specialer and the people be more and more memorable without denigrating the earlier events and people…this trip has been everything I had hoped it to be…my friends are even more delightful in person than they have been in cyber connections…Carol is having a great time and everybody loves “granny.”…the personal connections we have had has made her understand why all these kids are so special to me….with that being said….the following day was very special to us both. Two very good friends, Dilafruz and Feruza, who affectionately call me “bobojon,” and “dodajon,” grandfather in Uzbek, met us and took us to the museum of Applied Arts because they knew that “bovijon,” grandmother worked with fiber..Dili said that they would pick us up at the hotel because the museum was a little difficult to find…sure enough, the taxi driver headed in the direction she gave him, and then seemed lost…He asked a person where it was exactly and was told to continue on…after a while, it didn’t seem right to him, so he asked again and was told we had gone too far, so we reversed directions, after asking directions again, we reversed directions, and each time we shortened our reversal..After four such changes in directions we found the side street that led to the museum. In the end, even the taxi driver found the situation amusing. After all of that, the museum was all that Dili had promised it would be. It was very interesting and Carol thoroughly enjoyed seeing all the fabric which came down through the ages and history of this land. We then headed, dare I say it, to a very special event. Feruza’s father is a very famous artist in Uzbekistan and has held exhibitions in many parts of the world, including the big apple itself. His work is amazing. His historical portrayals of Amir Temur (Tamerlane, to the west) are epic in size and scope, yet hit his individual portraits are exquisite. He is extremely fond of horses and Carol has always told me that depicting horses is very difficult. Yet Aliser captures them perfectly…You just feel the movement of horse and rider in action or simply standing still. I was totally agog with wonder and that is an understatement as he brought out picture after picture for us to see…He was so generous with his time and spirit…I will post his website at the bottom of this letter for you to see if you so choose…It will be worth the time to see his work. Right now he is preparing for an exhibition in Ankara, Turkey, and he has some unfinished work, and that was particularly interesting to see his approach…He explained his process and it was fascinating to get a glimpse of how he sees the world and how he tries to capture that on canvas. Simply an amazing man. Feruza and Dili have been great friends, and just another example of how facebook has enriched my life through contacts with worlds that would otherwise be hidden to me. Another visit to a school, this one to Shakhlo’s mothers school made me feel like Ghandi getting off the train in India…I’m such an insignificant being, yet I’m made to feel so very important when we visit…We speak to students…Carol is more than willing to have me take the forefront and most of the questions are directed to me…however, when one question was asked and I was saying how Carol reacted to a situation, one female student interrupted and said: “Let her speak for herself.” It was a great moment, and one in which we all took great pleasure. And Carol did answer for herself. After an hour of such banter, which has been very well received by students and appreciated by teachers we took our leave and headed for the next encounter of the day…one interesting fact that really struck us was when we were leaving one “Lyceum,” high school, three English teachers told us it was very special because it was the first time any of them had spoken to a native English speaker. Amazing. Off for lunch with Guli, one of the sweet ladies of this or any other world…She is also one of my sad friends…very intelligent and hard working, her family has gone to Germany where her father is a doctor…he could attain residency because of his medical skills, but Guli was left behind in the care of her grandmother in far off Urgench a very provincial and traditional town in the western part of Uzbekistan…She has come to Tashkent for her university work which she has now finished. She desperately misses her parents and she has a little five year old brother whom she has never seen. She has tried several times to get a visa to visit them in Berlin, but has been denied each time…she is 20 years old, single and beautiful…all adding up to making the Germans believe that she simply wants to come and get married…They give her no reason for the denial, but that is how she interprets the situation… Her grandmother wants her to return to Urgench and she will arrange a marriage for her, but this is not for Guli. She wants to find her own way in the world….But she lives by herself and feels very much alone in the world. She feels things very deeply and the tears well up in her eyes when she speaks of coping with her difficulty…her latest, and maybe last, hope is that she will be accepted into a university in Berlin and be able to receive a visa to study there…she feels confident about being accepted but is very fearful that another visa rejection will simply break her spirit and heart…It is so hard for me to see such struggles in a wonderful young lady who is such a good friend….these are real people living real lives that we’ve come to meet, not just cyber entities existing on my laptop. Dinner at Shah’s house topped off the day…another insight to family life…the buildings where so many friends live seem so drab on the outside, but inside each family has created their own little world that is beautiful and comfortable…small, by our western standards, these people do not see it that way…they are rightfully proud of their homes….their furnishings and accoutrements of life belie the exteriors of the buildings….Shah’s mom, whose school we had visited earlier that day, again put out a spread that was fit for royalty…food was everywhere on the table and we ate till we could not eat any more, and then the main dish, Palov, came out…we were so stuffed…Shah’s father who imports and exports tires to western Europe is a jovial man of great warmth and he exudes joy from every pore of his body…Out came the vodka, of course, and although I tried to decline, he poured two glasses and gave me one…we toasted each other and I slammed mine home. However, he did not drink his, and I wondered if I had committed some social faux pas by drinking too soon…his glass remained untouched until it was explained that he stopped drinking six years earlier…therefore, I had to finish his as well… Malika, Shah’s best friend and giggle-mate came to dinner, of course. These two are rarely separated and as dinner got later and later with all the food, conversation, piano playing, Mali’s mom called numerous times…we finally begged off the evening and food at 10:30 that night so we could be driven back home and Mali’s mother could relax…the girls had lyceum the next morning and we hoped that her mom would not be too upset over the lateness of the evening. We finished off our second stay in Tashkent with another visit to another school…this one a college as opposed to a Lyceum…same age of kids, but in this case many of the students were vocationally trained whereas in a Lyceum, they are all trained for university entry…the college had programs in cooking and sewing amongst others….most of the students in Shah and Mali’s lyceum were girls because it was a school specializing in foreign languages, and the college was mostly boys, the most popular course for training being cooking. The remainder of the day was spent with a family very different from any that we had visited…Nasiba’s mother wears the romol, or head scarf when visitors are in the home, and the hajib – think of a divers head piece covering head, neck and hair line, but made of fine silk, leaving the face exposed…her earrings and jewelry and make-up gave her a very striking appearance and her eyes twinkled all the time…Nasi was held up at language class, and so we communicated in a limited manner until her brother showed up. He is a very gifted architect with limited training and has worked for a firm designing mosques, businesses and homes, all of which have been built already…an incredible one for a Tashkent soccer player was mind boggling in its conception. But he wants to get a university degree so he can understand the mathematics and physics of construction…very interesting, and then sweet Nasi came home with her ever present smile and gentle nature…we talked and chatted for the afternoon and, of course, mom insisted on fixing dinner which was whipped up in an hour, a grape leaf dish that was delicious and filling. The hospitality and conviviality of home life is heartwarming and wonderful to see. Now we’re off to Fergana and Andijon…places we’ve never been unlike most of the cities on our agenda…who knows what lies ahead, but the promise of wondrous times tweaks our imagination, and I have no doubt that it will be rewarding and gratifying. Stay tuned, Carol and Jim http://alikulov-alisher.narod.ru/indexen.htm

The Fly on the wall

There is a certain advantage to being an observer to life rather than a participant…You can sit back, watch, make your snarky, sarcastic, cynical statements about people’ s lives and the concomitant silliness therein…but it is a hollow observation because it never gets below the surface…I scratch the surface and make judgments based on the veneer , conveniently ignoring that there are so many different layers beneath which give the surface the color and texture that we observe…what we see on the surface has its own truth, but is rarely the real truth, the reality of the totality. In the past, my letters have been of the observer…. Blowing into town for a few days, pontificating as if I had some knowledge of reality and truth and my understanding had some insigh tand getting out of Dodge …and so, now I come to Uzbekistan…not to observe, but to participate…be be involved with people’s lives and it is a very disconcerting place to be, for as much as I am having an incredible trip, I am struggling as to how to describe it because some really good and true spirits are involved here…people who have opened up their lives to me with a graciousness and honesty that is astounding to me, who often plays it so close to the vest with people….My words are no longer just for readers back home wanting to know what crazy things Carol and Jim are up to this time, but they are read by the people who have given of themselves honestly and forthrightly, and they don’t deserve to be treated as some academic dissertation of life in distant, remote places of the world. Carol has always been an extra voice in my head, letting me know when she thinks I have stepped over the line…She can offer suggestions that I won’t take from anybody else. I’ve been asked many times over the years to put these letters into book form, and I have steadfastly refused because my line has been: “I write these for myself…I share them with others, but they are really for me to remember what I see and do.” I’ve felt that if I published, I would be wounded by criticism and my ego would suffer if it was not well received and therefore, it would change how and what I wrote…but by writing for myself, I can say what I wish and the rest of the world be damned…If they don’t like it, well, screw them, don’t read it. But the world is not June Cleaver in but “burbs” with three kids and a dog…it is gritty, harsh, incomplete and often uncomfortable. The people I meet here on this trip are not abstract people eking out a life, they are living entities and I care a great deal about them…I love these kids…they bring me joy, insight, and introspection about my life and to the planet we all share. So the words I use have real impact and I’m struggling how to explain, to be truthful l and still be true to them. Since these letters go out to over a hundred people and are further forwarded many times over to people I don’t even know exist in the world, I feel an obligation to my lovely friends to be kind and gentle as well as being honest…It is a balance that I have been struggling with since the first letter….The kids read these words; they are proud of their country and their parents and their homes….my words have an impact that I am not used to them having, and I’m not comfortable with my new, self-imposed limitations. Nothing more to say really than this…I just have been stewing about this for some days now, and I needed to let it out….I talk to about it Carol and my daughter, but this is my real vent. Carol calls this my “soul searching” letter…maybe it is…I’m still looking for answers to life.

35th anniversary dinner and original wedding photo

We spent our 35th wedding anniversary in a relaxed way….lazy morning, and then walking around independence square, with it monuments and large park area, where so many people congregate, just watching and soaking up the scene. We invited two of our granddaughters, Shakhlo and Malika to join us for our dinner and went to a nice restaurant to top off the evening. These two 17 year olds, who I call the giggle mates, are so full of life and joy that it is just so much fun to be around them….Our university students, as noted above, are under a lot of stress, and while that is true to a degree with the lyceum students, they still have time to simply enjoy being alive. Like me, they find so many things to laugh at….everything is funny, including themselves….we enjoy them so much….the girls ordered our food for us and we laughed our way through dinner on a variety of topics…they had flowers for Carol and gifts for each of us as anniversary presents….we’ve spent more time with them on this trip than any others, due both to logistical and logical reasons…Shah’s brother has been our designated driver chauffeuring us around all the time, and they just make the time because it is as important to them as it is to us. We have had dinner at Shah’s home, visited her mother’s school, their lyceum, went to bazaars together and topped it all off with our anniversary dinner. We are Granny and Grandpa, and they really do feel like our granddaughters. Since we were back in Tashkent a day earlier than expected, we arranged a hurried dinner with Guli, our friend whose family lives in Germany upon our return…so many of my facebook friends are university students and this is exam time for them…very serious stuff for Uzbek students….there is a log jam of people looking to enter universities and unlike American kids who can fart around for four years of high school and then attend Junior college, or work for years until they decide to get their act together, Uzbek kids are under constant pressure for good marks beginning at age 13 when they enter lyceum or college, as their high schools are called. The pressure to succeed is enormous because this is their only path to success…there are no entry level jobs for promising young people who then have the opportunity to work their way up through the system….My son-in-law Rich graduated from University with a music degree and took a job with Autodesk working in the warehouse, worked his way up and is now a project manager pulling down a six figure salary. These sorts of opportunities just don’t exist here…so many of my friends wanted to see us, but it was simply impossible they because spend enormous amounts of time preparing for these critical exams. First things first. I have friends who have spent two years of time and large amounts of the family largesse paying for extra lessons to pass exams to enter university…families put so many things on hold to help their children achieve success….I have enormous respect for these people who know that their education is truly their only key to success….even in marriage, without university training, future prospects are limited for girls because the males’ families will view the potential match in large part based upon the girls education. There continues to be a wide gulf between Uzbek society. The few haves, and the many have nots….The middle class is growing particularly in the cities, but the villages and distant towns continue to show the disparity of society. As in the Soviet Union, the break-up of the bloc meant a vacuum was created and the opportunists and “in-crowd” of the system were more than happy to fill the breach…there was little change for the vast majority of the society which continued as if there was no change…and in fact, there was no difference for them.…the provinces are traditional and storied in their historical ways of conduct, whereas Tashkent, a three million plus population center of business and government, is upscale and modern in almost every sense. Females have many more opportunities for success in the work force than in the provinces and much more freedom to exercise their individuality. Guli, who as mentioned above, is alone in Tashkent and has become a thoroughly modern Millie. She grew up in Urgench off in the hinterlands, and grandma who still lives there wants her to return to her roots and get married, naturally in the traditional way of families making the match….It would be disaster for her to do so, negating all that she has become and made of herself. Arranged marriages are still common practice. Most of my young female friends here who are married met their husbands through the process called “Sovche.” The two sets of parents get together and propose that their children meet and see if a match can be made. Sometimes it is dictated by the parents, but that, as I understand is getting less common. Usually, parents want good matches, but let the young couple decide if it is a good match or not. One such friend had several parents of young men approach her parents but she rejected them all…finally, one was interesting and they met a few times and decided that it would, indeed, be a good match and were married some months later. Another 21 year old friend’s father worked with her future husband’s father, and they decided to make the possible match. The future in-laws came calling with their son to meet the daughter. While the parents sat and talked and drank tea, the young couple took the traditional walk together as they met for the first time. The usual practice is for the couple to be gone about 15 minutes, but these two were gone an hour….upon their return, the parents were furious with them, but as she said, it was love at first sight, and they didn’t want to part. They subsequently talked by phone, texted each other, met occasionally and were married a year later. They now have a 5 year old son and are very happy together. Even when the couple meet in University or other such fertile watering holes where young people congregate, the parents will still meet and decide. I asked one friend who is gaga over a guy and hopes to marry him what she will do if the parents do not agree…she said then she could not marry him. Such are the bonds of family tradition and loyalty in this Central Asian nation. Whether the marriage is arranged by sovchi or by the couple falling in love, the life of the bride is pretty much the same for all classes of society. Following the marriage, the wife will go to live in the home of her husband. Once ensconced in the home, she really is second banana….she basically becomes the family servant, cooking, cleaning, shopping, and as a new bride told me, don’t forget washing clothes for the family…all under the watchful and, usually, very critical eye of the mother-in-law.. When I think of all the mother-in-law jokes at home, this situation would simply be intolerable in the U.S. But here, it seems to be a given and is accepted practice…when asked at the school we visited about the differences in how young people view life in America, I talked about how young people live together in their own apartment/home but in Uzbekistan as I understood the process, the new wives would live in the new husbands homes, and they all nodded in agreement without any sense of injustice, fear, or uncertainty. It’s just how things work here. Some of the time it works out well, however, and I don’t want to simply paint a black picture for the new brides..one girl told us it was a blessing, because her mother-in-law would get up with the baby in the middle of the night allowing her to get a little extra sleep before heading to university classes the next morning. But, as you might suspect, there are many tales citing the servant position of the new daughter-in-law. We’ve heard many tales where the son is the be all-end all in their mother’s eyes, and even though the match was agreed to, there is a jealousy that the mother has been replaced, and hence, the new wife never measures up..it is a theme in many Uzbek movies as well. Still, the society is being pulled in two directions…parents and grandparents who try to keep things as they have been and where they feel most comfortable, young people are connected to the world and ideas of love and marriage and the differences between how the things are done, particularly in the west, are making a marked change in how these young people view their own society…I wonder how much stress that puts on the entire fabric of society, and it will be interesting to watch. One drastic change that I believe will make a huge impact is the push to English in this society…the new law mandates that English is to be the second language beginning in 1st grade replacing Russian…One school we visited has a new rule where all teachers must be English speakers, and a young girl where we had dinner last night with a family said that she wants to be an English teachers are going to be paid more than other teachers…. They’re even showing cartoons now with English subtitles. these changes will pull the society even more into the western concept of how things like love and marriage are dealt with in the society, in my opinion…There is a clamor amongst young people for information about the west. Tourists from France, Germany, and the rest of Europe are flocking to Uzbekistan…It is no further from Paris to Tashkent as it is from NYC to San Francisco…a six hour flight and a three hour time change. Uzbekistan continues to fascinate me…my young friends are as modern and erudite as anywhere and their bright, happy, optimistic, and enthusiastic nature is a joy to see.

Into the Valley

We traveled to the lush area of Uzbekistan The Fergana Valley to see one of the last Silk factories in the world where the process started by worms becomes the most precious fabric in the ancient world, a process so treasured that the ancient Chinese kept it secret for centuries, and, as legend has it, the cocoons were smuggled out in the beehive hairdo of a woman. Nowadays modern factories literally spin out miles of the stuff in high speed centers. But in a town in Uzbekistan, women still toil over hot vats and make the spun silk one thread at a time. The end product is used for a special process which takes place in only two places, Italy and Uzbekistan where it is done in the traditional way…silk velvet weaving…Carol has been interested in seeing this since our last visit to Uzbekistan two years ago, and it turned out that I had some facebook friends from the area, so we doubled up on our motives and made a quick journey five hours drive from Tashkent. The entire Fergana “valley” is not like any valley we have known…it is a wide swath of arable land between two mountain chains, the Pamirs and the Tian Shan….this wide alluvial fan extends literally hundreds of miles long and wide enough to not be able to see from side to side…It is the San Joaquin Valley of Uzbekistan, providing the majority of fruit and produce for the entire country. Because of the fertility of the land, it has become the most densely populated area in all of Central Asia, with cities over 100,000 population dotting the area…It is also a very hot one climatically speaking….no problem growing tomatoes here, sweet, wonderful tomatoes like we haven’t had since we moved from California. We arrived in Fergana, the city, and immediately headed for Andijon where I have three friends studying in universities….two in medical school, and another studying languages. Andijon was a center of Islamic activity a decade or so ago, and so as we traveled east, the police and military presence was noticeable, but not oppressive as it was in the Uighur area of China…stops for passport checks, armed soldiers guarding entrances and exits to tunnels, and security checks made us realize that the Uzbek government maintains a very visible presence for all to see. Andijon and Fergana both are experiencing a building boom and workers are seen everywhere constructing in brick, the building material of choice out of necessity. Wood is used for ceiling joists and rafters but we saw no houses made of wood…Maybe in the forested areas of the mountains it might be, but basically, the entire country appears to be brick and block construction. Long rows of small houses dot the drive. All looking alike, same design, same color, same floor plan. Felt like a long line of row houses we might see at home…but still quite a change from the standard 9 story rectangular apartment flats which have no distinguishing features from the outside. The entire region is such a contrast from the upscale, fashionable, and modern Tashkent….Here in the valley traditional Uzbek and Islamic culture are far more prevalent…a sizeable proportion of the women wear the head scarf and quite a few do not venture out of doors without the hijab….The streets are a cacophony of noise since the streets are narrower than the broad avenues of Tashkent. Our taxi driver who was called by the hotel nodded his head when he was told which part of Andijon, an hour away, we wanted to be taken…I assumed that he knew exactly what he was doing. However, upon arriving in the city, he asked someone on the street how to get there, was pointed in the right direction, then stopped to ask further directions…this continued for 6-7 times until we reached our appointed spot…no doubt, the potential of a $50 round trip fare he was earning for the trip would totally make his day, and he wasn’t going to miss out on that puppy. It felt like how I get from points A to B…Get pointed in the right direction, confirm with another person as soon as the first person is out of view, and continue reconfirming, each time adding a new piece of information to the map that is developing in my head..Hard to blame him for doing the same. Sardorxon, my facebook friend, was there by the side of the street as we arrived and he took us to meet Gulira’no and Dildora who were waiting for us….we walked around the bustling streets of the old city, visited a museum which overlooked the city, and up a long street filled with iron workers…I’m always amazed at the similarities of the world…In so many cities, in so many varied countries of the world, we see the same thing…It may be fabric, glassware, or souvenir shops…but dozens upon dozens of people selling exactly the same things, seemingly undistinguishable to my eye, at least, from all the others. I always ask myself the same question. “How do they make a living when everybody does the same thing in the same place?” Amongst the row of shops selling hoes and shovels and other implements, we stopped to see a blacksmith working in an open air forge, and with Sardorxon working as interpreter, we talked about blacksmithing in the old west and how it is a dying art only practiced at showcase events now. The blacksmith and I exchanged ages, we’re both 72, and agreed to meet at his shop when we are 100…something to which I can look forward…they’ll have to wheel me around the broken, rutted streets, but, hey, I’m in. The whole area seemed very much like Kashgar, that western outpost in China which is, shall we say, definitely not a “Chinese” area…more of the old “semi-autonomous” regions the Chinese are so fond of creating. Andijon seemed a long way from Tashkent in many ways more than physical distance. In contrast to the narrow alleys and winding streets of the old city, there is a long broad avenue which was built from scratch called Uzbekistan Street. Islam Karimov, the president in permanence, it seems, came to dedicate the street, but given the past troubles, it was a ceremony not open to the public lest some “unpleasantness,” as the Chinese euphemistically call , might give the wrong impression…the street is lined on both sides by upscale shops which, while filled with goods and products, had few visitors while we were there…In contrast, the narrow streets working their way out from the bazaar like spokes on a wheel were filled with humanity all looking for the that perfect loaf of bread amongst the dozens of bread sellers. The old city was alive with humanity and life, whereas Uzbekistan Street had a very sterile, antiseptic feel to it. I’ll take the old city, thank you very much. The five of us had a pleasant afternoon, and then we walked back where our cabbie was dutifully waiting as he had promised to be…not giving him his cab fare before returning to Fergana certainly added to the incentive of his stay…I don’t mean to imply that he would not have been there, but money is never exchanged before the end of the transaction here….or as Carol heard once, “trust in Allah, but tie up your camel.” The following day we headed for Margilon, about 15 minutes north of Fergana. We got directions from a different hotel, ours was no help, on how to take a taxi to the place where the shared taxis ply the short run between the two cities of 100,000 people. The woman at the hotel wanted to know why we just didn’t take a taxi, period, it was quicker and easier….I told her we wanted the shared taxi, and she said, “Ah, the cheapest way.” I told her that money wasn’t the issue, the difference in the two is $2 per person as opposed to $0.50, but that we always like to see how local people do things, not how the tourists do them. She was very pleased at that and was more than happy to help. It was suggested instead of the shared taxi, we take the local bus…even cheaper, $0.40, and was filled with the sights, sounds, and smells of real people living real lives…two middle aged women replete in traditional dress and gold teeth kept looking at us and smiling and through hand signals and good old iphone photos stored on my phone we passed the time “talking” about our families and lives…it’s always amazing to me how much communication can take place when people work at it. My friend “Sandra,” (actually Shahnoza, but she likes Sandra Bullock) provided me with a local phone and telephone number, which has been invaluable to us in making connections here. A quick phone call to the Ikat workshop allowed the directors to give directions to the taxi driver, which are, simply speaking, everywhere, on where we were headed. . I expected the “village” of Margilon to be just that, a sleepy little hamlet where life continued as it has for untold centuries. Instead, I found the same bustling energy that imbues the entire valley with its life… We visited the Ikat fabric workshop. Carol knows a woman who has worked with them for years and we got the name of the directors who greeted us with warmth and generosity of spirit…we were going there anyway, but the personal touch was wonderful…lunch was offered and a tour of all the processes, the weaving, the block printing, the dying of colors all explained in detail….fascinating stuff even to a non-fiber schlep like myself. Carol was totally into it. Girls who have finished lyceum are learning the skill of the weaving and there is always a waiting list for those wanting to learn…A master weaver from Iran, Persia, they still say here, who has one of the kindest faces on this planet, explained how it all worked. We were then taken to where the specialized velvet weaving is done in private homes on ancient looms which look like they were built by people who lost several pages of the instruction manual. A young, shy girl of 18 explained how she wanted to help her family’s finances and that is why she is learning from her aunt who is a master weaver…life is hard here and any skill which brings in money is a major asset. At the silk factory itself, large bags containing thousands of cocoons filled the room with 6 large work stations of vats and wheels…two ladies worked the large vat of hot water which loosened the fibers of silk…the one lady spun the large wheel pulling the silver threads onto the bobbin while the other fished around the vat with a stick, raising several cocoons from the water, taking several threads and letting them be gathered into the twist of the other fibers to create the desired thickness of the yarn they were working on….she put the fibers between her fingers as they spun towards the bobbin, and has such a fine touch that she could tell whether she needed to add more individual fibers to reach that desired thickness….what a magical ability to be able to tell such fine differences. Between 25-30 individual fibers make up what we call silk thread…they are that fine. Upon our return to the hotel we were greeted by a “Our manager wants to speak with you.” He informed me that they did not have a room for us the following night…I told him that we had reserved and paid for a room for the three nights. His response was, “we don’t have a room for you tomorrow.” I told him that the registration card they had given us when we checked in showed three nights. He replied, “we don’t have a room for you tomorrow.” This conversation was going nowhere…He then told us that he understood that we had friends in Fergana and that we should go stay with them..and that they would be happy to give us a discount on the room that we were not going to use. They also said that they were willing to violate the law which says we can’t stay in private homes and state on the registration card that we stayed there all three nights. So, as I understood the concept, we would not have to pay for the entire cost of the room that we were not going to use and that we should stay with friends who did not invite us to stay and he would lie to make everything legal despite the fact that it wasn’t. I love travel….LOL. It was a scramble to rearrange everything to return a day earlier to Tashkent than planned…driver and car had to be rescheduled and our hotel in Tashkent had to rebook the reservation to make the extra night…Our driver was supposed to arrive at 8:00 but by nine had not arrived, so I called my sleepy-voiced Tashkent travel agent on a Sunday morning and she made it all work…but 9:45 we were on our way back to our home base, the Uzbekistan Hotel in Tashkent…the desk clerk with whom I have a good, bantering relationship after our many visits here, said there was no reservation, but he made it all work…we joked about Carol being “Plus 1.” On our arrival the first time, he pulled the reservation for the night and said: “Mr. Jim Owens for tonight, plus 1.” I thought he was referring to the number of nights we were staying and I said: “No, Plus 3.” He looked very confused and discombobulated , until he realized I was talking about the number of nights. “Oh, no, the Plus 1 refers to the number of people in your party.”…He thought at first that I had three wives…so when we checked in on our return, he looked at Carol and said: “Hello, Plus 1.” It’s been our running joke. The Uzbekistan Hotel is getting a little long in the tooth, but it’s home to us in Tashkent and we are always very comfortable here, physically and emotionally. So today, plus one and I are back in Tashkent celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary, and I’m happy to say that I don’t want, nor need, “Plus 2.”