Time flows differently here in Uzbekistan.

The day started with language then K and I went to eat at our caf̩ Рthe older woman came out with a list of food and prices. I am pretty sure I ordered an apple pie for $3.00.

Flowed to P’s where she wasn’t and picked up K’s cake from the sweet older brother. Back to the taxi hub to find Deshir and Yorkin lounging in a car… Machmut! A ride for Katherine, I walk camera in bag.

To the maktab, more earth is tilled. Sounds of singing from somewhere inside, round the corner, the keystone boys with shovels working earnestly… Machmut! Good Morning! Odil? In the other building, go there, no, in the gym.

Out and in, small group, mostly boys, Odil and I talk, they crowd around though they don’t understand a thing we say. Some basketball – me, two other big kids (50 cent dude included) vs. 6 or 7 little kids. The little ones are slick but the big boys win. Class to teach tomorrow! Come join director we’ve never seen for festivus on Monday.

Be at the monument at twelve… we’ll be waiting for you.

The boys shoveling look over – out comes the digital and suddenly two rows of smiling boys… Machmut! A picture of me by them – Odil walks with us to the main road, one more photo – NO SMILING! 50 cent kid goes with me till his street… Left, Right, right?

Walk past the cotton fields waiting, past the old bus, into C’s turf. I see the father from afar. Assalamu Alaykum. Choi? Keling! We sit and talk a little, watch TV – one delightful cup of coffee them I’m up to leave. But first to the cellar – Vino. Motions for the water bottle, I hand it over, out goes the water, in goes the wine… I taste, not bad, not good. Yashi Boring!

…and to Chinobod and the coolness of the room (it’s hot out) and to the Zen touch in my ears singing aloud Catching the Deluge in the Paper Cup…. Genres, lifetimes, movements meaning profundity frivolity in the doses of RANDOM, SKIP, SKIP….

BACK out into the sun to photograph the family agreed upon last week. To Anvar in the Magazine wrapping presents for Tuesday when for one day the women don’t have to cater entirely to the men. He says we’ll go but keeps wrapping. The previous generation’s baby brother tends to the store, kids and patrons come and go – Qualysis, Yashi Misis? Hugs, touching on the arms, playful fronting at unwashed boys.

I squat outside, the late afternoon sun straight ahead. People pass, some stare, some hellos and some good mornings. The man with lame legs crawls slowly up the street, smoking, stopping every few feet to view the town from an entirely new perspective. One Damas stops and he’s handed money, I think, white beard driver…. but most ignore him. I stoop and he slowly comes closer. We eye each other now and then – both freaks and we know it, but what to say, anything?

Back into the store – cool – I become the tape dispenser for Katta A. Indispensable. Carefully but without rhyme or reason glasses, perfume, and knick knacks get wrapped in Happy Birthday! and labeled 4200. In and out, gimpy is around the corner now and the sun lower, a chill through the ACLU T shirt. We set off to take the photo…

on time Uzbek time, but they’re not home.

Back back to center but not before being summoned to push an old van out of someone’s courtyard onto the street – no thank you – me and Katta A stop back by the store – there’s nothing for us there anymore. Furkat’s machina out front, the small man walking up the street with a bottle of oil in one hand. To the store with the telephone past the men,

Qandaysis? Yashi Misis? inside to the women, appropriate greeting unclear…

no phone today – KAPUT – a term Machmut understands.

Back out and Furkat has turned the car around and is headed in the direction of home. I enter, back seat, but Katta A does not. We drive and pick up a new Man… Machmut…. Quandaisis? Down a new road past unknown faces. Some smile and wave – stop for one man, conversation through ½ rolled down window. A girl, oh 15, 18 sits on the stoop by the door smiling and waiving at me…

on to the house with cows, “mechmon Amerika” Furkat asks if one of them is any good… I don’t pretend to know. Back down to the main road. I’m given the oil, now somehow ½ empty and 400 sum for non. Walk back with new man. Car swerves at me door opens to two playful men… Machmut… gestures of the mumkin emas.

And then I’m back to the homestead. Oyi cooks osh under flickering lights and I go scan the dial for a familiar language, ending up, after Swedish top 10 pop singles, at the tail end of BBC World music program. Lament of a land familiar but now so far away. WAL*MART everywhere – where are this generations’ Dillans. Is it a real lament or have the Dillans moved into new mediums? Hard to know.

Greasy rice and meat chunks for dinner. Late night walk to M’s – Tractor lumbers up the street breathing sparks above. Back back for a photo orgy and unveiling of the A-75’s kino technology. Family laughs together as they star on my small small screen. The lights flicker again….

time flows differently here in Uzbekistan.

Yesterday I agreed to attend an English Club run by my resource teacher (the guy whose class I’m teaching in for these first 3 months.) I went with two other volunteers and we sat in the front of the classroom fielding questions. They ranged from the basic, “Where are you from?” to the more elaborate, “Who did you vote for in the last election.” I got a real kick out of having them sing the Uzbek national anthem (a rather uninspired and endless affair if I may say so.) After, and I should have known better, they had me sing our National Anthem in front of them. I made the single mistake of starting in too high a key. Since I don’t often sing our NA, I was not aware of a major pitfall. So if you are reading this, and you are in a place where you can break into song, try it. Start “oh say can you see” in a mid to high note. As you will continue, you should find yourself reaching very high notes, which may or may not be manly, however you are so inclined to interpret singing at near opera pitches. Regardless of that, they liked it so much that next week I am going to teach them to sing it – now that should be a good indoctrination… uh, I mean cross cultural exercise.

Things are starting to heat up here, and when the sun is out, it is pretty warm. All the snow and ice is gone, and I’m actualy starting to see green on the ground. There has not been any more drama in the neighborhood; I have survived another trip to the choixona; taken a trip to the Tashkent Zoo with my family; and passed (barely) my first language assesment. In about 10 days I should find out where I’ll be plunking myself for the next two years. I’m touched that whenever this topic comes up, I am asked why I can not stay where I am. It’s hard to explain that relatively they have got it pretty good. I’m still enjoying guesting with other members of the community, and meeting some new faces. At the spice Bazaar in Chirchik I ran into a spice guy who spoke English and wanted to practice with me.

There is hope for Uzbekistan 😛

Yesterday was one of those days that you don’t experience at home. Things were going normally in the morning. I came to class and taught a few classes – aside from one chaotic group activity, not terribly exceptional. Then after lunch we were dropped off in the usual spot in my town. As we got off we heard the sound of crying, and looking across the street saw a household holding a wake. Although I’ve not participated in one intimately here yet, they are very different. I was not perpared for what we were to see.

In the driveway stood about 25 older women, all wrapped up in sweaters and scarves. They stood around, wailing and hugging each other. They did not try to stifile their grief, and the sounds were some of the most peircing I have ever heard.

Fifty feet down the road was the actual funeral procession. Most of the older men here own a chopon, which is a long dark coat. These are worn in the house and around town. Now picture 60 or so men, all in these dark brown garmets, slowly proceeding down the middle of the street. Above the throng was the coffin, which stood out because of its purple siding. They moved slowly, each man duty bound to carry the coffin for at least seven steps.

After watching respectfully for a few minutes we headed back down my street towards our language class site. I had to run into my room and just cry for ten minutes. Even worse is that I heard that it was an 18 year old boy who had killed himself.

But, the day was not all a bust. Later that night our whole family went over to my dad’s father’s house. I really like this old guy. His name is Abdullah, and he is very interested in me, but not in an intimidating way like some of the younger men. I call hime Bobojon – Bobo being the word for grandfather, and jon being a term of respect added to one’s name or title. Throughout the night more and more people came in who I came to understand were my host father’s brothers. We sat around the table, me next to Abdullah, and ate osh, peanuts, wafers and lots of fruits.

I had prepared some statements in Uzbek to say to the group and they were pretty well received. At one point when I said that “I like you” to Bobojon, he replied, “I like you,” to me in English. It was a genuinely sweet moment. Sadly he is flying out to another part of the country today for a vacation with his wife. Oh, and by the way, none of the women were present in the room with us menfolk.

So, certainly not a typical Uzbek day, but one that makes me glad I’m here.

** Impt Note – Here in Uz, they do not enjoy the freedoms we have grown accustomed to as Americans. Therefore, I must warn you that it is possible that any communications you have with me will be read by government officials here. Please don’t stop writing (both here and reg mail) but just be aware of and sensitive to this fact. **

So last week at out hub, our PST director announced a suprise… we’d all be going on trips this weekend. We chose randomly who would go where, and I am now in Shakrisabz. We left Tashkent early Saturday and headed to the railroad station (a depressing and cold Soviet affair.) However, we were in for a great surprise when the train rolled in. As we found out, the train, called The Registan, is Uzbekistan’s crown jewl of the rails. It was sweet – very modern and sleek. It is up there with the ICE trains in Europe. So we had a beautiful train ride to Samarkand. Although some of us wanted to, we could not explore that city… it’ll have to wait for another day. So we then chartered a van and took a two hour ride here.

About the town. There are two stunning ruins, one of Amir Timur’s summer palace, and some ruins of a crypt where he was to be buried. We also have seen two Madrassas. I do have pictures, but this connection is so slow that I think its best to wait till the next time to upload them.

Some tidbits in no particular order:

– On Thursday I taught my first three English classes. My resource teacher, a great guy named Odil, had us go up and do our thing. One of the other volunteers, Mary, told me the day before that although I was nervous, when I got up there, things would click into place. Well, I didn’t totaly beleive her, but she was right. I had a great two first lessons. For the third lesson, it was the oldest boys in the school, about 17 or 18. They all hang around trying to look tough, so I figured the hello – how are you – my name is – this is a horse – would not work with them. So I opened up the floor for questions and got some good ones; they all really like American rap, and one kid even had D-12 shaved into his head.

– I’m liking the food here a lot. The three main things I have are: a soup dish with potatoes, noodles, carrots and chunks of meat; lamb and beef shashlik, which is shish kabob; and osh, a dish consisting of rice with meat. It keeps me full and there is plenty of it.

– Today at the Bazzar here in Shakrisabz, I purchaced 4 pommegrannites (annor in Uzbek.) I’m semi-proud of myself from bringing down the price 200 soum, but I probably still paid too much!

– It’s strange walking down a street here, where nearly everything is different, then hear, blaring from a cafe or a stand with boys selling tapes, Eminem, 50 cent and J. Lo. The American influence here is sporadic and truly odd.

– I can’t write individual emails b/c my fingers are freezing (heat in public spaces and businesses is rare here.) But I have a ton to say, and please funnel your questions via comments or email. I’m phasing out the Trincoll email address – so write me here.

Hayr!

First off, thanks soooo much for the comments – it really warms my heart over here! I am writing from an internet cafe in which I waited an hour to get onto this machine. Luckily the connection is much better than in Tashkent. I’m writing from the city where all the TEFL vols gather, and it is called Chirchik.

Where to begin: Well, since the last update, I have moved out from the sanatorium and into my host family’s house! A little about the family. There is a father, mother and two boys. One boy is 15, the other 9, and the parents are middle aged. The little one, Aziz, is really cute, and we’ve taken to calling him little monkey. He is kinda a loudmouth, and when I’m a block or two away and he’s playing outside, I can hear him loud and clear. All in all a normal little boy. The older, Anvar, is more serious, though he does have a good sense of humor. So far he has shared with me the books he uses to learn English (surprisingly good modern British publications.)

The house is more like a compound, with detached rooms all surrounding a courtyard, which must be beautiful in the summer when not covered with 5 inches of snow. My room is behind the boys’ room, and though a little spartan, is rather large. I have a bed, dresser, table, and an old Russian TV that works if you hold the button constantly. The family eats in another room around a very low table while sitting on cushions. I occupy the spot of honor. During meals, we attempt at conversation, which is fun and frustrating, and watch Uzbek TV, which is state run, music video heavy, and generally schitzo.

And though there is hot running water for showers, the toilet is, sadly, just a hole in the floor. So, I’ll leave your respective imaginations to that one…

I haven’t been doing much, but language classes and techincal training (i.e. how to formulate lesson plans) is picking up. All in all things are okay here, though life is much more difficult. Though our house is warm for the most part, some places lack heat. I feel like I’ve gone back in time… and not to the genteel days of ole Boston.

I will now try to attach some pictures:

Madrassa in Tashkent:

Me and a sad Russian clown…

Fertility statue at Sanatorium:

Me and another PCV, Josh:

Okay, that’s about it for now. Again, thanks for all your comments, and I promise next time I have internet, I’ll write personal notes. I’d like to extend a special welcome to the new visitors to this site – Welcome to WorkingDefinition!

From Uzbekistan,