Our final day in Afghanistan came, and Andrea and I woke up early to begin the trip to Peshawar, Pakistan. We went by way of Jalalabad, where Andrea met with several professors. As we left, we were sad to say good-bye to everyone at the institute. Even the police guarding one of the neighboring houses and nearby shopkeepers waved as we left.
The road to Jalalabad was beautiful. Soon out of Kabul, we passed through a narrow gorge, cliffs rising on either side of a river. As we climbed out of the gorge, we saw spectacular views back into it behind us. The downside was that Afghan drivers can be dangerous, speeding on blind curves and passing other vehicles. But, the other traffic was interesting. Truckers in the Afghanistan-Pakistan border area decorate their trucks in an over-the-top fashion. The vehicles are covered with many small paintings-landscapes, animals and others. The doors are often replaced with elaborate wooden doors, and an equally elaborate structure is built extending from behind the cab to keep cargo, piled high, from shifting forward. Chimes are hung from all around the trucks, turning them into mobile wind chimes. We, also passed the odd rickshaw, and we would see many more of these in Peshawar.
As we approached Peshawar, the land flattened and became more of a desert. The temperature also increased. We passed by many villages of the typical mud-brick houses that are arranged into walled compounds, and seem fortresses that can easily be defended. Several times we passed American convoys.
In Jalalabad we went to the house of a professor Andrea had earlier spoken with. In his 70s, he was clearly an important figure at the university. I was very happy to find that he spoke excellent Russian-better, in fact, than his English. He had studied for seven years in Russia, at Moscow State University. While it shouldn’t be surprising to find such people in Afghanistan, it still comes as a little shock. I was also very happy to find that the other professor we met with had just completed a Master’s at IU.
After an enjoyable chat with the professors, we had to turn down their offers for lunch in order to get to the border. It was actually not too much further, and we arrived just when the car meeting us was due to arrive. The border area was a mess of carts being pushed, sometimes with women wearing burkas in the carts rather than luggage. Fancy trucks rumbled by constantly. A goat wandered around as well, and seemed to be lost. We made it through passport control, only to find the car was actually about forty minutes away. So, we sat to wait with soldiers assigned to the crossing.
The driver finally arrived, and we crammed into the car along with the two soldiers assigned to escort us through the tribal areas to Peshawar. This is required for foreigners, as the region is volatile. We then went through the Khyber Pass. Forts dotted the tops of hills, and plaques announced which British regiments were previously stationed in the area. We passed many villages, also made of the same mud-brick. We saw boys playing in the river and women carrying pots on their heads. We switched soldier escorts several times. Right before Peshawar, we stopped at the village of Andrea’s Pashto teacher to visit and for tea. The only woman in our car, I was brought to the back of the house with the teacher’s wife and daughters. They didn’t know English, and here my Farsi was no longer useful as it had been in Afghanistan. All the same, they were very kind. Dressed colorfully, in a more Indian-like style than was found in Afghanistan, they gave me tea and delicious food and fanned me, which seemed a little strange and yet, drenched in sweat from the journey, I appreciated. One of the daughters made a beautiful henna design on my hand. They also presented me with a scarf and bangles. It was a wonderful experience.
We then continued to Peshawar State University, where Andrea had stayed for June and part of July. He was warmly welcomed back by the teachers and professors that lived and worked in the Peshawar University Teacher’s Association Hall, where we stayed. Then, tired but not wanting to stay put, we took a stroll around the university. The grounds were beautiful and green, very well-maintained. It contrasted in a startling way with Afghanistan. We then decided to go downtown for a short time. The mass of cars, trucks, decorated trucks, equally decorated buses, and rickshaws was overwhelming and yet I loved it all. Even though it was Friday and therefore not as busy as usual, it seemed very crowded to me, with people hanging off of buses, trucks, and cars, and entire families, including infants riding motorcycles. It was all beautiful in an overwhelming sort of way.
Later that evening, we attended a wedding that was taking place at the university. I have to admit that in my tired state, and again knowing none of the women, I found this wedding quite taxing. There was none of the music and dancing of the wedding in Afghanistan. Rather, the women simply sat and chatted in a large hall. We ate very late, and I later found out that this was because we were waiting for the men to finish. As the end of the celebration approached, the electricity went out. Peshawar is plagued by power shortages, and several times of day different areas of the city find their electricity cut for an hour at a time. What to do during this time was something of a problem, but one of Andrea’s friends offered to take us around. As IDPs, he had been staying with his entire family in one of the rooms of the hall when Andrea was there before. Now, the family had returned except for him.
The next day we started out by visiting an IDP camp. A large number of camps have been created on the outskirts of Peshawar as a result of military operations causing villages to be emptied or destroyed. The camp we visited was located next to the remains of an Afghan refugee camp. It was made up of neat rows of tents covered by white awnings overhead. We looked at a school located in the camp, and then I visited the living area of one family. Unfortunately I was unable to really speak with the two women, but they got across that they had been there for a year, and didn’t know when they would be able to return home. Their small tent was surrounded by a dusty courtyard in which several chickens wandered around. It was very hot, but I can’t imagine how cold it must get in the winter. Although Peshawar doesn’t get too cold, it still must not be comfortable to be facing a second winter in a tent.
The rest of the time we were in Peshawar, we wandered the city. The city is so full of energy and people, with colorful vehicles everywhere. We walked around the old part of the city, full of narrow winding lanes. We saw an ancient Hindu temple, fire trucks used in the early 1900s, and the residence of an Italian who was governor of Peshawar in the 1800s.
All too soon, though, it was time to go to Islamabad for my flight. The drive took a while and was made difficult by a rainstorm that also delayed the flight. However, by 6 am I was flying away from Pakistan.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Panjshir Valley
We decided to take a trip to the Panjshir Valley, both to see the tomb of Ahmad Shah Massoud and to see the site of such important resistance during the Russian invasion. This time, we hired a driver and car to ourselves. The driver was a local from the Panjshir Valley, and so was able to show us around very well. We started out on the same road we had taken to Istalif, but this time continued further. We drove through the Shomali Plain. The plain opened before us as we crested a rise in the road, while mountains rose in the distance. As we continued, we came to an area that was green with many trees.
We passed through a village called Gulbahar directly before the entrance to the valley. We wound through the unpaved streets through the bazaar, and then entered the mouth of the valley. We had to pass through a checkpoint first, and security seemed to be fairly tight, as our names were called ahead to the local police. Then we began the drive that had been so disastrous for so many Russian convoys. It was very obvious why this had been the case. In the initial part of the valley, cliffs rise steeply on either side of the road and the swift Panjshir River. In some places, the road is carved into the cliff and it is almost like driving through a tunnel. Clearly, anyone entering here would have been extremely vulnerable. After some time the valley widened. Here fields began to appear alongside the river. Some cows and sheep were also grazing in the flatter areas. Men were fishing in some parts of the river. We passed through some villages along the way. Some were destroyed while others seemed fairly untouched. In some flatter marshy areas, kids were swimming in the river. We also passed quite a few Russian tanks and vehicles. In some places, people were using the Russian trailers as storage places. Evidence of the war formed a strange contrast with the seemingly peaceful beauty of the valley and its villages.
After some time, we came within sight of the tomb. Originally the tomb had been a very modest structure, which seemed in line with Massoud’s personality. However, it was decided that a grander structure needed to be built, and this was under construction. A large gold-domed structure behind scaffolding could be seen perched on a hill. We drove up the road to find that this was part of a huge center being constructed. As a result, it was difficult to approach the exact spot where Massoud was buried. However, there was a photo exhibit set up, mostly very compelling shots of Massoud. There was also a collection of Russian tanks and other weaponry. The view from the place was incredible. Behind us, we could see back up the valley the way we had come. In front of us was another village along the river, and the fields that surrounded us. To either side were steep hills, and between two of the hills more distant jagged mountain peaks could be seen. On one of the hills we could just make out windmills for energy production, something I found somewhat unexpected. All in all, it seemed a fitting resting place for a man that has become a legend.
As we walked away from the construction area, our driver went to speak with an older man who seemed to be in charge of the site. He had grey hair and bright blue eyes, and seemed to be about the age to have known Massoud. We asked him, and he told us that yes, he did indeed fight with Massoud. He pointed towards a hill from which he said they shot down a helicopter. Then, he invited us into the trailer for tea. We accepted because it seemed like a wonderful opportunity. The trailer was another remaining from the war. The radio was still in the trailer, and we saw the name “Kolya” carved into the ceiling. It occurred to me that this could have been one of the casualties of a conflict that claimed so many on both sides.
We chatted a bit with the driver and the head of construction, who lived in the village at the base of the hill. We drank tea and ate bread, and then decided it was time to return to Kabul. Upon leaving I photographed Andrea with the two men.
We quickly wound back through the valley, now seeing it narrow rather than widen. At one point, the driver stopped and we took some spring water from a spring that was located close to the river. The spring was located next to some rice fields, and a boy was playing a flute next to the fields. I ran through the fields to get to the bank of the river and dip my hands into the river.
The rest of the trip back was fairly uneventful. The police officers at the checkpoint asked whether we had enjoyed ourselves, and of course we had. We definitely felt that the highlight had been having tea with someone who fought with Massoud, and we both hope to return to the valley and spend more time there in the future.
We passed through a village called Gulbahar directly before the entrance to the valley. We wound through the unpaved streets through the bazaar, and then entered the mouth of the valley. We had to pass through a checkpoint first, and security seemed to be fairly tight, as our names were called ahead to the local police. Then we began the drive that had been so disastrous for so many Russian convoys. It was very obvious why this had been the case. In the initial part of the valley, cliffs rise steeply on either side of the road and the swift Panjshir River. In some places, the road is carved into the cliff and it is almost like driving through a tunnel. Clearly, anyone entering here would have been extremely vulnerable. After some time the valley widened. Here fields began to appear alongside the river. Some cows and sheep were also grazing in the flatter areas. Men were fishing in some parts of the river. We passed through some villages along the way. Some were destroyed while others seemed fairly untouched. In some flatter marshy areas, kids were swimming in the river. We also passed quite a few Russian tanks and vehicles. In some places, people were using the Russian trailers as storage places. Evidence of the war formed a strange contrast with the seemingly peaceful beauty of the valley and its villages.
After some time, we came within sight of the tomb. Originally the tomb had been a very modest structure, which seemed in line with Massoud’s personality. However, it was decided that a grander structure needed to be built, and this was under construction. A large gold-domed structure behind scaffolding could be seen perched on a hill. We drove up the road to find that this was part of a huge center being constructed. As a result, it was difficult to approach the exact spot where Massoud was buried. However, there was a photo exhibit set up, mostly very compelling shots of Massoud. There was also a collection of Russian tanks and other weaponry. The view from the place was incredible. Behind us, we could see back up the valley the way we had come. In front of us was another village along the river, and the fields that surrounded us. To either side were steep hills, and between two of the hills more distant jagged mountain peaks could be seen. On one of the hills we could just make out windmills for energy production, something I found somewhat unexpected. All in all, it seemed a fitting resting place for a man that has become a legend.
As we walked away from the construction area, our driver went to speak with an older man who seemed to be in charge of the site. He had grey hair and bright blue eyes, and seemed to be about the age to have known Massoud. We asked him, and he told us that yes, he did indeed fight with Massoud. He pointed towards a hill from which he said they shot down a helicopter. Then, he invited us into the trailer for tea. We accepted because it seemed like a wonderful opportunity. The trailer was another remaining from the war. The radio was still in the trailer, and we saw the name “Kolya” carved into the ceiling. It occurred to me that this could have been one of the casualties of a conflict that claimed so many on both sides.
We chatted a bit with the driver and the head of construction, who lived in the village at the base of the hill. We drank tea and ate bread, and then decided it was time to return to Kabul. Upon leaving I photographed Andrea with the two men.
We quickly wound back through the valley, now seeing it narrow rather than widen. At one point, the driver stopped and we took some spring water from a spring that was located close to the river. The spring was located next to some rice fields, and a boy was playing a flute next to the fields. I ran through the fields to get to the bank of the river and dip my hands into the river.
The rest of the trip back was fairly uneventful. The police officers at the checkpoint asked whether we had enjoyed ourselves, and of course we had. We definitely felt that the highlight had been having tea with someone who fought with Massoud, and we both hope to return to the valley and spend more time there in the future.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Animal Shelter and Istalif Village
Several days ago, we visited a very interesting shelter for cats and dogs. We heard about the place, apparently founded by an American woman, in an ad in an ex-pat magazine, and so decided we should take a look and see what the organization did. We walked to the address given, and found no markings on the gate with the name of the organization, Tigger House. However, a little boy approached us and told us that this was the house for cats and dogs. We rang the bell, and as the gate opened we were greeted by a chorus of barking-clearly the right place! Several Pashtun men were working there, and showed us around. Andrea spoke to them in Pashto, which was very nice practice for him as so many in Kabul use Dari to communicate. We started by viewing the veterinary surgery, where a sick dog that had been turned in to the shelter was receiving an I. V. We then looked at the cages holding what must have been over twenty cats and kittens, all meowing loudly and seeming to fight for our attention. These were all apparently up for adoption. We then went outside and looked at the dogs. Apparently, most of the dogs belonged to Americans, for the most part soldiers, and this organization was preparing their needed documents and vaccines for their trip to America. The dogs jumped around their pen and barked happily for our attention. They seemed to know that they would soon be in a more dog-friendly environment. Of course, I thought of dear Gizmo, the dog I managed to bring back from Kyrgyzstan. It made me so happy to see that these dogs would also not be separated from their owners. There were also several dogs up for adoption. One, a black female, had been peeking in the windows while we looked at the cats. She was very submissive when we approached her, and yet sought our attention. I really hope she finds a home as the guys working there told us that no one seemed to want her. There were also several cute puppies and other dogs, all very friendly, awaiting adoption. There was one dog, Foxy, who had clearly been mistreated, and yet who seemed to have a very good relationship with one of the guys working there. He was very patient with her. I have to say, I was fairly surprised to find how dedicated these Pashtun men seemed to be towards the dogs. I have generally found in Muslim countries that dogs are not valued very much, and yet these men really did seem to care for these dogs, beyond simply doing their job.
The next day, we took a trip to a village called Istalif not far outside of Kabul. We first traveled to the taxi and bus station in the north part of Kabul, where we asked about cars to Istalif. We were sent on several wild-goose chases before we figured out that we had to first travel to the town of Karabogh, and from there head up the hills into Istalif. We found a car going there, already crammed with people, and squeezed in. Two men in addition to the driver sat in the front seat. In the back seat was a woman wearing a burka with two children, one about one year old and the other about three. I sat in between her and Andrea and chatted with her for a bit. She told me that her husband was away, working in Iran, and that she was going to visit her mother.
We came to Karabogh and were left near the bazaar to await a car going to Istalif. A car finally came, and we started up the mountain towards the village. We passed several tents belonging to nomadic Kuchis in the lower fields. Their livestock, including camels, were grazing outside of the tents. The road then started to wind up the hills into the mountains. The walls of the village on the way rose up directly on either side of the road. In other areas, we passed cultivated fields. We came to the village, where we found beautiful views of the valley and mountains on the opposite side. We left the car in the bazaar. Istalif is famous for its pottery, and we browsed in several shops looking for souvenirs. Many of the shops were closed, but I suspect they would have sold the same types of pottery. One boy, whose English seemed to be limited to “How are you?” seemed to be watching several shops, as he ran with us from one to the other repeating this phrase only. We made several purchases, and then walked up the hill a little ways into the village. Several houses could be seen behind some orchards. We saw some women walking up the hill in burkas, carrying children piggy-back. We then decided to walk back down the hill towards Karabogh, both because we wanted to take in the views and because there were really no cars available. We passed by many destroyed houses as we went. We later found out that the Taliban were responsible for this, as they targeted Tajik villages for destruction as they took control of the country. As we walked past the village walls, we passed several shops. Many people asked us in for lunch, and had we not been rushing to make a later appointment in Kabul, we would have gladly taken them up on the offer. We made it all the way down the hill on foot before a car passed us and offered a ride. One of the passengers spoke a little English, and seemed surprised that we chose to travel to Afghanistan when so many Afghans were trying to get out. The occupants of this car also tried to take us to lunch, but once again we had to refuse. We found a mini-bus heading towards Kabul, and crammed in. The entire back was filled with men, so Andrea and I squeezed into the front seat. I felt a bit strange in a bus only with men, even with my “husband.” On the way to Kabul we passed several cows that were decorated with fake flowers. I am not sure why this was. But, we made it back to Kabul uneventfully. It was a very nice trip out of the city.
The next day, we took a trip to a village called Istalif not far outside of Kabul. We first traveled to the taxi and bus station in the north part of Kabul, where we asked about cars to Istalif. We were sent on several wild-goose chases before we figured out that we had to first travel to the town of Karabogh, and from there head up the hills into Istalif. We found a car going there, already crammed with people, and squeezed in. Two men in addition to the driver sat in the front seat. In the back seat was a woman wearing a burka with two children, one about one year old and the other about three. I sat in between her and Andrea and chatted with her for a bit. She told me that her husband was away, working in Iran, and that she was going to visit her mother.
We came to Karabogh and were left near the bazaar to await a car going to Istalif. A car finally came, and we started up the mountain towards the village. We passed several tents belonging to nomadic Kuchis in the lower fields. Their livestock, including camels, were grazing outside of the tents. The road then started to wind up the hills into the mountains. The walls of the village on the way rose up directly on either side of the road. In other areas, we passed cultivated fields. We came to the village, where we found beautiful views of the valley and mountains on the opposite side. We left the car in the bazaar. Istalif is famous for its pottery, and we browsed in several shops looking for souvenirs. Many of the shops were closed, but I suspect they would have sold the same types of pottery. One boy, whose English seemed to be limited to “How are you?” seemed to be watching several shops, as he ran with us from one to the other repeating this phrase only. We made several purchases, and then walked up the hill a little ways into the village. Several houses could be seen behind some orchards. We saw some women walking up the hill in burkas, carrying children piggy-back. We then decided to walk back down the hill towards Karabogh, both because we wanted to take in the views and because there were really no cars available. We passed by many destroyed houses as we went. We later found out that the Taliban were responsible for this, as they targeted Tajik villages for destruction as they took control of the country. As we walked past the village walls, we passed several shops. Many people asked us in for lunch, and had we not been rushing to make a later appointment in Kabul, we would have gladly taken them up on the offer. We made it all the way down the hill on foot before a car passed us and offered a ride. One of the passengers spoke a little English, and seemed surprised that we chose to travel to Afghanistan when so many Afghans were trying to get out. The occupants of this car also tried to take us to lunch, but once again we had to refuse. We found a mini-bus heading towards Kabul, and crammed in. The entire back was filled with men, so Andrea and I squeezed into the front seat. I felt a bit strange in a bus only with men, even with my “husband.” On the way to Kabul we passed several cows that were decorated with fake flowers. I am not sure why this was. But, we made it back to Kabul uneventfully. It was a very nice trip out of the city.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Bird Bazaar and Burka
Upon feeling better, I scanned the guide book for an interesting place to visit in Kabul. I quickly decided that the part of the old bazaar in the section of the city south of the river where birds are sold seemed like a very promising option. Andrea and I set out by taxi to that part of the city. On the way, I decided that I would really like to try some fresh mango juice. Andrea desperately tried to convince the man working there that I could drink the juice outside, but he insisted we go in and sit down, making me the only woman in the shop and ensuring that we stuck out. The mango juice, kind of a milkshake with fresh mango, milk and ground almond, was delicious but I drank as quickly as possible so we could leave. Then we entered the bazaar. With my old scarf slipping off of my fine hair and exposing its light color, there was not any question that I was a foreigner. Andrea, who blends perfectly, found this very hard to take. I attracted so many stares, while no one looked twice at him.
We soon passed a shop that seemed to sell nothing but the well-known blue cloth burkas. Andrea asked if he should buy me one, and shy, I first refused. But then, realizing that it would not be expensive, I agreed. A little ways further I purchased a black scarf which seemed as if it my stay more firmly upon my head. We then began to search a maze of sellers looking for the bird bazaar.
We wound through the bazaar, first one way and another, asking where we could find that section. At times we were sure we could hear birds but we didn’t see them. Finally, we came to the small section, one alley really, where the birds were sold. There were doves and pigeons people keep and fly, partridges that may be used for fighting, and several beautiful, bright pheasants. There were also small green parents, canaries, cockatiels, parakeets and finches. Birdcages lined the area. There were also some rabbits, and I held a tiny black and white baby. We also found a pen with two puppies. The owner told us they were a special Russian breed and would go for $300, although I was very skeptical. One of the pups was shy and hung back, but the braver was soon tussling with my hand and gnawing on my fingers. I think Andrea fell in love with that one and for several days has said he wants a puppy.
After dragging ourselves away from the animals, I once again felt overly conscious of people’s stares. I pulled on the black scarf and felt a little better. Since we still seemed to have some spare time, I decided to do a little looking around at dresses. I found a dress store and when I realized how inexpensive the traditional dresses were, I decided to purchase one. Turquoise and covered with gold embroidery, sequins, and some rhinestones, I fell in love with it. Andrea was very patient while I tried to make the decision-the shop was full of beautiful things!-but this was perfect. We then quickly returned to the institute to show off our finds and have dinner.
The next day, we decided to visit Babur’s gardens, a beautifully restored setting that was the final resting place of the Mughal emperor. This time, I decided to wear my new burka. Leaving the institute and first walking through its more upscale surroundings, home to few burka-clad women, I felt very self-conscious. I felt like I was an imposter, and that I should hide my real identity, because people would laugh at me if I was found out. We took a taxi to the same bazaar to start. First, we walked some around there. I became so much more aware of what the other women were wearing for a little while. I looked for other women in burkas and felt better to see how many there were. As we walked away from the bazaar, I began to feel easier. It wasn’t really all that difficult to see out of. The only difficulty was that I couldn’t see what was directly at my feet, but I quickly learned to look ahead and remember any obstacles. We walked a very far distance out of town towards the gardens. To one side a small mountain rose up, covered with traditional mud-brick houses. I saw little girls playing up and done the stairs, the first little girls I have really seen playing (lots of boys playing, though). We took a detour up the mountain, and I lifted the burka to the top of my head to navigate the stairs, exactly as other women ascending and descending did. Other than a short break to eat a roasted corn that is sold after being cooked under hot salt, this was the only time I took up the burka during the long walk of about one and a half miles. The landscape, the mountains, the people, the old cemetery with jagged gravestones we passed at one point-all were very visible to me. I did not feel too bad in the hot sun, and I was able to breathe despite the synthetic material covering my face. I became so comfortable in feeling anonymous, and confident that no one would bother me like this, because wearing this, I felt there wasn’t anything for anyone to not approve of.
We finally made it to the gardens. The entryway was made of a large rebuilt stone caravanserai, that opened onto the lush, terraced gardens that rose before us. The gardens were full of Afghan picnickers, and it soon became apparent that this was some sort of mixture of private and public space. Families set up picnic areas in the trees, some open and some partially screened by women’s veils, which they had removed. Women with burkas had all raised them to the tops of their heads, so I switched to my black scarf. I had now found a hairclip to hold it in place under my chin so my hair stayed completely covered. While this is not quite the Afghan style, and looks like what an Iranian might wear to me, it seems better for me as with my hair showing everyone figures me out right away.
We climbed the terraces, looking at fruit trees like pomegranates and rose bushes as we went. At the top, we looked not only at the gardens and trees but felt we could freely take pictures of the traditional areas of the city clinging to the sides of the mountains, which we were previously uncomfortable doing. We also photographed a small while mosque ever-so-slightly reminiscent of the Taj Mahal and took in a photo exhibit. We found a beautiful pool and around its edge were flower gardens, including beautiful marigolds I so loved as a child. Kids were running wild, and we were very surprised to see that the guards we armed with slingshots to keep them in line.
After a very lovely walk, we decided to return home. I quickly switched back to my burka. Now, I almost felt proud wearing it, as if I was above reproach. Several Afghans had spoken to me and knew I was foreign, and yet still seemed to approve. I think I could become very comfortable wearing this here. We returned the full way to the center by taxi, where we enjoyed a delicious dinner and recounted the day’s adventure. We then went to the nearby grocery to buy some (local) ice-cream, me wearing my black scarf. This time the store clerks seemed confused and spoke to me in Farsi rather than English. Much better, I think.
We soon passed a shop that seemed to sell nothing but the well-known blue cloth burkas. Andrea asked if he should buy me one, and shy, I first refused. But then, realizing that it would not be expensive, I agreed. A little ways further I purchased a black scarf which seemed as if it my stay more firmly upon my head. We then began to search a maze of sellers looking for the bird bazaar.
We wound through the bazaar, first one way and another, asking where we could find that section. At times we were sure we could hear birds but we didn’t see them. Finally, we came to the small section, one alley really, where the birds were sold. There were doves and pigeons people keep and fly, partridges that may be used for fighting, and several beautiful, bright pheasants. There were also small green parents, canaries, cockatiels, parakeets and finches. Birdcages lined the area. There were also some rabbits, and I held a tiny black and white baby. We also found a pen with two puppies. The owner told us they were a special Russian breed and would go for $300, although I was very skeptical. One of the pups was shy and hung back, but the braver was soon tussling with my hand and gnawing on my fingers. I think Andrea fell in love with that one and for several days has said he wants a puppy.
After dragging ourselves away from the animals, I once again felt overly conscious of people’s stares. I pulled on the black scarf and felt a little better. Since we still seemed to have some spare time, I decided to do a little looking around at dresses. I found a dress store and when I realized how inexpensive the traditional dresses were, I decided to purchase one. Turquoise and covered with gold embroidery, sequins, and some rhinestones, I fell in love with it. Andrea was very patient while I tried to make the decision-the shop was full of beautiful things!-but this was perfect. We then quickly returned to the institute to show off our finds and have dinner.
The next day, we decided to visit Babur’s gardens, a beautifully restored setting that was the final resting place of the Mughal emperor. This time, I decided to wear my new burka. Leaving the institute and first walking through its more upscale surroundings, home to few burka-clad women, I felt very self-conscious. I felt like I was an imposter, and that I should hide my real identity, because people would laugh at me if I was found out. We took a taxi to the same bazaar to start. First, we walked some around there. I became so much more aware of what the other women were wearing for a little while. I looked for other women in burkas and felt better to see how many there were. As we walked away from the bazaar, I began to feel easier. It wasn’t really all that difficult to see out of. The only difficulty was that I couldn’t see what was directly at my feet, but I quickly learned to look ahead and remember any obstacles. We walked a very far distance out of town towards the gardens. To one side a small mountain rose up, covered with traditional mud-brick houses. I saw little girls playing up and done the stairs, the first little girls I have really seen playing (lots of boys playing, though). We took a detour up the mountain, and I lifted the burka to the top of my head to navigate the stairs, exactly as other women ascending and descending did. Other than a short break to eat a roasted corn that is sold after being cooked under hot salt, this was the only time I took up the burka during the long walk of about one and a half miles. The landscape, the mountains, the people, the old cemetery with jagged gravestones we passed at one point-all were very visible to me. I did not feel too bad in the hot sun, and I was able to breathe despite the synthetic material covering my face. I became so comfortable in feeling anonymous, and confident that no one would bother me like this, because wearing this, I felt there wasn’t anything for anyone to not approve of.
We finally made it to the gardens. The entryway was made of a large rebuilt stone caravanserai, that opened onto the lush, terraced gardens that rose before us. The gardens were full of Afghan picnickers, and it soon became apparent that this was some sort of mixture of private and public space. Families set up picnic areas in the trees, some open and some partially screened by women’s veils, which they had removed. Women with burkas had all raised them to the tops of their heads, so I switched to my black scarf. I had now found a hairclip to hold it in place under my chin so my hair stayed completely covered. While this is not quite the Afghan style, and looks like what an Iranian might wear to me, it seems better for me as with my hair showing everyone figures me out right away.
We climbed the terraces, looking at fruit trees like pomegranates and rose bushes as we went. At the top, we looked not only at the gardens and trees but felt we could freely take pictures of the traditional areas of the city clinging to the sides of the mountains, which we were previously uncomfortable doing. We also photographed a small while mosque ever-so-slightly reminiscent of the Taj Mahal and took in a photo exhibit. We found a beautiful pool and around its edge were flower gardens, including beautiful marigolds I so loved as a child. Kids were running wild, and we were very surprised to see that the guards we armed with slingshots to keep them in line.
After a very lovely walk, we decided to return home. I quickly switched back to my burka. Now, I almost felt proud wearing it, as if I was above reproach. Several Afghans had spoken to me and knew I was foreign, and yet still seemed to approve. I think I could become very comfortable wearing this here. We returned the full way to the center by taxi, where we enjoyed a delicious dinner and recounted the day’s adventure. We then went to the nearby grocery to buy some (local) ice-cream, me wearing my black scarf. This time the store clerks seemed confused and spoke to me in Farsi rather than English. Much better, I think.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Arrival and an Afghan Wedding
As the plane descended towards Kabul, I peered out the small window. Majestic, snow-capped mountains gave way to smaller, brown mountains and the outskirts of the city, brown mud houses appearing to blend with the rest of the landscape. It was exactly how I pictured the approach to Kabul airport. We landed and boarded a bus to the terminal, where I pulled by headscarf from the bag and put it on. Since then until now, I haven’t been out of the institute where I am staying without my head covered.
I made it through passport, registration, luggage and customs with no problems. I found that my Farsi was very useful, and many of the officials spoke with me for a few minutes as I went through the process. Then I began the long walk towards the waiting area of the airport. It seemed so long but finally I excited a gate and came to where Andrea was waiting, dressed in Pashtun clothing. I won’t write much about our reunion-just that after two long months I couldn’t take my eyes off of him and missed much of my first taxi ride through Kabul. I guess I would have seen streets fairly busy with people, although as it was Friday not completely packed. Women would have been covered to varying degrees-from long-sleeved tunics and headscarves to burkas. Men might be dressed in a more Western style, or in the long shalwar kameez white suit Andrea wore. The streets would have been dusty and full of cars and bicycles, and armed guards and soldiers might be apparent, depending on what type of place we were driving by. Election campaign posters plaster the walls. But, again, I am only guessing what I would have seen based on my later observations.
We arrived at the institute for researchers where we would be staying, located in a nice neighborhood in Kabul, Wazir Akbar Khan. The institute is beautiful. Or room opens to a balcony that looks out onto the backyard, which is filled with lush green grass (irrigated by water from a swimming pool emptied for this purpose), trees, and beautiful flowers. There is a nice sitting room downstairs and a nice dining room as well. But, I think the best part is Hazrat Gul and Lila, the husband and wife who look after the place with their six children. They are so very nice, and Lila’s cooking is amazing. Did I mention we eat here three times a day?
After a short period of relaxing with Andrea (too short considering we hadn’t seen each other in more than two months), we had to rush to a wedding. A relative of a local professor Andrea befriended was marrying, and we were expected to be there. I felt a little nervous, knowing the men and women wouldn’t be together and being so recently arrived. A taxi took us to the area of the city filled with gaudy hotels used for weddings, and at the entrance to the one we were to enter, a guard pointed to a separate door for me. Again, not usually a problem except that I knew absolutely no one even connected to this, save Andrea. Luckily, he called down the professor, who showed me in to the women’s side. Luckily, there was an Afghan woman, Fatima, amongst the several hundred in attendance who grew up in Iran and spent time in France, and who spoke English. I spoke some to the older women around the table but found the Dari accent difficult this early on. The younger girls at the table were from a village and seemed terrified to talk with me, so being put in touch with someone who knew English was great. The hall was full with women and children, and waiters literally all-out ran between the tables with trays piled high with food held over their heads. I don’t know how they didn’t collide with the many children, especially boys, going completely crazy on the floor all around. I later found most of the guests had been there since 9 am, and since it was nearing 2 in the afternoon, it made sense that the kids were acting out. The food was delicious, though, and there were at least seven different dishes.
Some of the women began to dance. Thee dresses were brightly colored, some beaded or embroidered, and all very beautiful. We watched the dancing until finally, the bride and groom entered. The bride was dressed in a very Western looking white dress. The two of them took the stage and the bride received gifts of gold jewelry. Lines of well-wishers, including myself and Fatima, approached the two with congratulations. Then the couple cut the wedding cake. This was something very strange to see because, after the ceremonial first slice, several women simply grabbed the rest of the cakes, chunked them up with their hands so that they were covered in icing, and heaped plates with these pieces, which were then passed around the room for anyone to reach in and grab as it sailed by. A mix of local and Western ways of doing things, I guess.
After this, we were finally able to leave. Unfortunately, I became ill for several days after this. While I haven’t had a migraine in ten years, I was hit with the worst one of my life and found myself unable to leave bed for several days. I even had a fever of 101. I guess I should be happy to have made it this far without becoming ill-but that fact that it was a migraine that got me really irked me! So, for several days there was nothing all that interesting to report-except perhaps waking up at 4 one morning to the sound of explosions and gunshots, which I later learned were a rocket attack connected with the elections. However, Andrea assured me that had casualties been the goal, the attacks would have been carried out in the daytime, when the streets are full of people, so I am not worried. It generally seems very calm here. I will continue writing what I have been doing since recovering as soon as possible.
I made it through passport, registration, luggage and customs with no problems. I found that my Farsi was very useful, and many of the officials spoke with me for a few minutes as I went through the process. Then I began the long walk towards the waiting area of the airport. It seemed so long but finally I excited a gate and came to where Andrea was waiting, dressed in Pashtun clothing. I won’t write much about our reunion-just that after two long months I couldn’t take my eyes off of him and missed much of my first taxi ride through Kabul. I guess I would have seen streets fairly busy with people, although as it was Friday not completely packed. Women would have been covered to varying degrees-from long-sleeved tunics and headscarves to burkas. Men might be dressed in a more Western style, or in the long shalwar kameez white suit Andrea wore. The streets would have been dusty and full of cars and bicycles, and armed guards and soldiers might be apparent, depending on what type of place we were driving by. Election campaign posters plaster the walls. But, again, I am only guessing what I would have seen based on my later observations.
We arrived at the institute for researchers where we would be staying, located in a nice neighborhood in Kabul, Wazir Akbar Khan. The institute is beautiful. Or room opens to a balcony that looks out onto the backyard, which is filled with lush green grass (irrigated by water from a swimming pool emptied for this purpose), trees, and beautiful flowers. There is a nice sitting room downstairs and a nice dining room as well. But, I think the best part is Hazrat Gul and Lila, the husband and wife who look after the place with their six children. They are so very nice, and Lila’s cooking is amazing. Did I mention we eat here three times a day?
After a short period of relaxing with Andrea (too short considering we hadn’t seen each other in more than two months), we had to rush to a wedding. A relative of a local professor Andrea befriended was marrying, and we were expected to be there. I felt a little nervous, knowing the men and women wouldn’t be together and being so recently arrived. A taxi took us to the area of the city filled with gaudy hotels used for weddings, and at the entrance to the one we were to enter, a guard pointed to a separate door for me. Again, not usually a problem except that I knew absolutely no one even connected to this, save Andrea. Luckily, he called down the professor, who showed me in to the women’s side. Luckily, there was an Afghan woman, Fatima, amongst the several hundred in attendance who grew up in Iran and spent time in France, and who spoke English. I spoke some to the older women around the table but found the Dari accent difficult this early on. The younger girls at the table were from a village and seemed terrified to talk with me, so being put in touch with someone who knew English was great. The hall was full with women and children, and waiters literally all-out ran between the tables with trays piled high with food held over their heads. I don’t know how they didn’t collide with the many children, especially boys, going completely crazy on the floor all around. I later found most of the guests had been there since 9 am, and since it was nearing 2 in the afternoon, it made sense that the kids were acting out. The food was delicious, though, and there were at least seven different dishes.
Some of the women began to dance. Thee dresses were brightly colored, some beaded or embroidered, and all very beautiful. We watched the dancing until finally, the bride and groom entered. The bride was dressed in a very Western looking white dress. The two of them took the stage and the bride received gifts of gold jewelry. Lines of well-wishers, including myself and Fatima, approached the two with congratulations. Then the couple cut the wedding cake. This was something very strange to see because, after the ceremonial first slice, several women simply grabbed the rest of the cakes, chunked them up with their hands so that they were covered in icing, and heaped plates with these pieces, which were then passed around the room for anyone to reach in and grab as it sailed by. A mix of local and Western ways of doing things, I guess.
After this, we were finally able to leave. Unfortunately, I became ill for several days after this. While I haven’t had a migraine in ten years, I was hit with the worst one of my life and found myself unable to leave bed for several days. I even had a fever of 101. I guess I should be happy to have made it this far without becoming ill-but that fact that it was a migraine that got me really irked me! So, for several days there was nothing all that interesting to report-except perhaps waking up at 4 one morning to the sound of explosions and gunshots, which I later learned were a rocket attack connected with the elections. However, Andrea assured me that had casualties been the goal, the attacks would have been carried out in the daytime, when the streets are full of people, so I am not worried. It generally seems very calm here. I will continue writing what I have been doing since recovering as soon as possible.
Trip to Kulob and Departure from Tajikistan
For my last day in Tajikistan, I travelled to the southern city of Kulob to visit with some NGOs that work with migrants and the families of migrants. I made the trip with several friends carrying out research in Dushanbe. We found a taxi going to Kulob and by 7:30 am were on our way. The drive was beautiful, and it felt so good to be leaving the capital. First we drove through small towns and villages, where people, mostly women, were just starting to go about their daily lives. Soon we began to climb a winding mountain road into breathtaking scenery. To one side of the road, a body of water became visible in the valley far below. This was a large reservoir formed by a hydroelectric plant. Hills were partially covered by the water, and their peaks jutted beautifully from the water to catch the morning light. We quickly left this site and descended to slightly lower ground. The landscape assumed a parched look as the temperature rose. On either side, rolling hills covered in yellow grass stretched to the foot of high mountains. People were harvesting hay in these areas. In some places they could be seen in the fields cutting it. Other fields were already full of hay bales.
Soon we entered Kulob city, after having driven for about three and a half hours. We found the first NGO on our list of those to visit. This one dealt with helping rural people, especially women, obtain knowledge and access to the law. In Tajikistan, particularly in rural areas in the countryside, many people are not even aware as to what rights they have under the law and as such cannot benefit from the laws which do exist to help them. This NGO tries to bridge this problem by training both people and local governments. We discussed these issues for nearly an hour and a half over tea, with me serving as the translator from Russian. Then we took a tour of the organization’s library and computer resource center, where locals, mainly women, come for training. Afterwards, the director was kind enough to drive us to the next NGO that awaited.
At this NGO, the main purpose is to prevent HIV/AIDS among the many labor migrants that travel to Russia, a growing problem in past years. It was explained to us that trainings were held among local communities, for migrants who would soon leave, their wives, and the children of the community who are viewed as future labor migrants. Several outreach workers joined us who target the train station, bus station, and airports as large numbers of migrants leave to pass out information. The NGO also is responsible for an amateur theater group that presents such issues to school children. While we talked about all of these over an even bigger spread of coffee, tea, cookies, candies and the boiled ears of corn that are for sale everywhere and that I love, we then taken out to lunch and treated to an enormous amount of food at a café.
After this, we made a last visit to another NGO, accompanied by everyone from the second. This one happened to be housed in a maternity hospital and its director was a medical doctor. The work they did was specifically with problems facing the children of labor migrants, exactly what I was most interested in. I discussed the possibility of collaborating with them on future trips to Tajikistan, and they were very open to the idea. They had also prepared us delicious plov for lunch-so we ate twice. The entire trip filled us with such good feeling, both because of the incredible work we saw being carried out by local organizations, and because of the overwhelming Tajik hospitality. I sincerely hope to visit this city again.
For the drive back to Dushanbe, we called the same driver. This time I rode in the front seat. The driver was incredibly talkative, and since for some reason his Tajik accent was very hard to understand I relied on Russian. We talked for the entire trip back and by the end, it was like we were family. He told me that he had been a C student but fell in love with, and married, and very intelligent woman who became a doctor. She soon found that she was unable to have children, and his family advocated divorce. He protested because of his love for her and they stayed childless but together for thirteen years, as which time, as he said, God gave them first one son and then three other children. I thought that was a wonderful story. He was always willing to stop for pictures and at one point stopped to treat us to fresh figs, a particular favorite of mine. He even halfway understood when at a police traffic point I noticed a puppy wandering into the road. Fearing it would be run over (I had already seen one dog hit by a car that day), I rushed out in front of an approaching car to scoop it up and carry it to safety. The traffic police stared in bewilderment as he yelled at me for not valuing my own life but then told me I should take the puppy with me to Afghanistan. From there we began to talk about the dogs the Soviets sent into space and the space program in general. He was a really good guy.
After returning to Dushanbe, I called my good friends Sitora and Nazir. We walked for a while and sat at a café together to say our goodbyes. I will miss both of them very much and hope to see them in the future, although both talk of leaving Tajikistan. I returned to the empty apartment to sleep for a couple of hours and left for the airport at 3 am. Upon arrival, I found that no one was being permitted into the airport because of the departure of the presidents of Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Russia, who were in town for a visit. People milled around outside in the dark. Most of them were clearly labor migrants bound for Russia, apparently still willing to take their chances there despite the crisis. Finally we were allowed in but I found that the women security agents had not yet shown up for work. Once they arrived, I was checked through to the waiting hall where I waited. And waited. And waited. Apparently Medvedev had not yet departed. His helicopters sat on the tarmac, but until he left no flights were allowed to take off. After close to three hours the Russian president finally was seen to be hurried into one of the helicopters and all took off. Almost immediately, boarding to Kabul started. We were bused to a small propeller plane which was only half full. The short flight crossed some of the most breathtaking mountain scenery I had ever seen.
Soon we entered Kulob city, after having driven for about three and a half hours. We found the first NGO on our list of those to visit. This one dealt with helping rural people, especially women, obtain knowledge and access to the law. In Tajikistan, particularly in rural areas in the countryside, many people are not even aware as to what rights they have under the law and as such cannot benefit from the laws which do exist to help them. This NGO tries to bridge this problem by training both people and local governments. We discussed these issues for nearly an hour and a half over tea, with me serving as the translator from Russian. Then we took a tour of the organization’s library and computer resource center, where locals, mainly women, come for training. Afterwards, the director was kind enough to drive us to the next NGO that awaited.
At this NGO, the main purpose is to prevent HIV/AIDS among the many labor migrants that travel to Russia, a growing problem in past years. It was explained to us that trainings were held among local communities, for migrants who would soon leave, their wives, and the children of the community who are viewed as future labor migrants. Several outreach workers joined us who target the train station, bus station, and airports as large numbers of migrants leave to pass out information. The NGO also is responsible for an amateur theater group that presents such issues to school children. While we talked about all of these over an even bigger spread of coffee, tea, cookies, candies and the boiled ears of corn that are for sale everywhere and that I love, we then taken out to lunch and treated to an enormous amount of food at a café.
After this, we made a last visit to another NGO, accompanied by everyone from the second. This one happened to be housed in a maternity hospital and its director was a medical doctor. The work they did was specifically with problems facing the children of labor migrants, exactly what I was most interested in. I discussed the possibility of collaborating with them on future trips to Tajikistan, and they were very open to the idea. They had also prepared us delicious plov for lunch-so we ate twice. The entire trip filled us with such good feeling, both because of the incredible work we saw being carried out by local organizations, and because of the overwhelming Tajik hospitality. I sincerely hope to visit this city again.
For the drive back to Dushanbe, we called the same driver. This time I rode in the front seat. The driver was incredibly talkative, and since for some reason his Tajik accent was very hard to understand I relied on Russian. We talked for the entire trip back and by the end, it was like we were family. He told me that he had been a C student but fell in love with, and married, and very intelligent woman who became a doctor. She soon found that she was unable to have children, and his family advocated divorce. He protested because of his love for her and they stayed childless but together for thirteen years, as which time, as he said, God gave them first one son and then three other children. I thought that was a wonderful story. He was always willing to stop for pictures and at one point stopped to treat us to fresh figs, a particular favorite of mine. He even halfway understood when at a police traffic point I noticed a puppy wandering into the road. Fearing it would be run over (I had already seen one dog hit by a car that day), I rushed out in front of an approaching car to scoop it up and carry it to safety. The traffic police stared in bewilderment as he yelled at me for not valuing my own life but then told me I should take the puppy with me to Afghanistan. From there we began to talk about the dogs the Soviets sent into space and the space program in general. He was a really good guy.
After returning to Dushanbe, I called my good friends Sitora and Nazir. We walked for a while and sat at a café together to say our goodbyes. I will miss both of them very much and hope to see them in the future, although both talk of leaving Tajikistan. I returned to the empty apartment to sleep for a couple of hours and left for the airport at 3 am. Upon arrival, I found that no one was being permitted into the airport because of the departure of the presidents of Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Russia, who were in town for a visit. People milled around outside in the dark. Most of them were clearly labor migrants bound for Russia, apparently still willing to take their chances there despite the crisis. Finally we were allowed in but I found that the women security agents had not yet shown up for work. Once they arrived, I was checked through to the waiting hall where I waited. And waited. And waited. Apparently Medvedev had not yet departed. His helicopters sat on the tarmac, but until he left no flights were allowed to take off. After close to three hours the Russian president finally was seen to be hurried into one of the helicopters and all took off. Almost immediately, boarding to Kabul started. We were bused to a small propeller plane which was only half full. The short flight crossed some of the most breathtaking mountain scenery I had ever seen.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Last Dushanbe Days
The last several days have been very busy as I am getting ready to leave Tajikistan. Classes have been finishing, and I have been invited to many people’s houses in order to say good-bye before leaving.
Saturday we took a group trip to the Ob-I-Garm sanatorium, which is located up in the mountains past Varzob, where I visited last weekend. The trip there was beautiful as the mountain scenery is breathtaking. I had an interesting conversation with the driver, who had just returned from working as a driver for two years in Moscow. I asked him about his experience, and it turned out that he had somehow gained Russian citizenship because his dad was an officer in the Soviet army. Because of this, he didn’t face many of the problems of many Tajik labor migrants, as he is able to obtain the correct documentation and registration.
After arriving at the sanatorium, a group of us went hiking with one of our language teachers. We made our way past the rushing river and started an uphill climb. On the way we passed people, mostly kids, with donkeys going up and down the hill. Some of the donkeys carried loads of hay which seemed bigger than the donkeys themselves. We also passed some areas where beekeepers were working, the boxes of beehives spreading across a flat area in straight rows. It was very sunny, and hot, and different flowers were blooming all around. We finally made it to the top of one hill and decided we would stop there. Cows were grazing nearby. Snow covered peaks were visible in several directions. Our teacher gathered plants and roots from which he will make tea.
We returned to the sanatorium, a huge complex clinging to the side of a hill. I can imagine what it must have been like in the Soviet period, when so many people came to relax. We reclined on kats, platforms that look kind of like beds. These were built out over a ravine and so had a beautiful view. We ate plov and melons. Then several of us went to bath in the water from the hot spring (ob-i-garm means hot water). A small pool had been created to hold the water, and it was housed in a small building. The water was hot and smelled like sulfur, and there was also a very hot steam room. Despite being so hot already and then subjecting ourselves to this, we felt very refreshed afterwards and it seemed to make our skin feel nice.
When we returned from this trip, we quickly got ready to visit Nazir’s house. Nazir is such a wonderful cook, perhaps because as he has no mother and father he has had to do this for himself. He made a noodle dish that he said was Uighur, and that was excellent. Afterwards, Nazir, Gulya and Sitora convinced us to dance. Somehow I always get drawn into this and they always play Uzbek music. Because I spent some time in Uzbekistan they seem to equate my dancing with Uzbek dancing and it seems to be really appreciated, as Sitora is half Uzbek and Nazir and Gulya are Bukhoran Jews. After dancing, Gulya decided that my eyebrows needed to be darkened, something that girls apparently do here. I was a little nervous, but agreed. Gulya mashed up some sort of plant and painted the juice on my eyebrows. After a little while, I washed it off. My eyebrows were a little darker, but I am happy to say not all that much.
The next day, Sitora had invited us to her house so that her mother could teach me to make ugro, the soup that was so delicious at the wedding. While we thought this visit might be a little less intense, I guess really I should have known better. We arrived to find the table covered in cookies, candies, fruits and nuts. Sitora’s mother is incredible kind and a pleasure to visit with. We learned the soup, which is actually quite easy to make so I should have little problem recreating it. Sitora’s mom also went outside of the apartment, where there are several communal tandoor ovens, to make non. We ate so much fresh bread and soup, and then sat around the low table talking and drinking tea. Sitora’s two sisters were there, her mom, and her aunt who had just returned from Novosibirsk. Once again, Uzbek music was played and I was encouraged to dance. They were also very excited by the maybe three Uzbek words I can remember. We really thought we would be leaving soon, only to find that of course, there was a second course and we were quite silly to think this would not be the case. Sitora’s mom brought out fried meat and potatoes which were also really delicious. Afterwards, we again reclined and talked and it was nearing eleven when we made our way home.
Last night I was once again invited out, to an interesting birthday party with the family of my friend Lola. They are from Kulob, and moved here several years ago, and her father apparently holds a rather important government position. In other words, they are some of the leaders of the country, as after the civil war people from Kulob were able to gain much control over the government. While men and women attended the party, which was held in an outside courtyard of a restaurant next to a beautiful pond, the two groups were segregated by a screen. This was fine with me, as I had a great time with the women and kids. At one point Lola’s father came over to check on me and said that he felt somewhat bad about this arrangement, as only the men were drinking alcohol, but that I would be welcomed to the men’s side to have some drinks. I politely declined, although it is interesting to see this different standard for a foreigner. The women had brought salads, bread, and compote they had made themselves, which they said was important for birthday parties and wedding, while the rest of the food was provided by the restaurant. There was live music and dancing. I found it very interesting that the women praised be for my “Kulobi” dancing rather than Tajik dancing, and said that it seemed as if I must be from Kulob myself. The importance of regional identity was clearer with this group than with any other I have seen-perhaps because they are the ones that came out ahead. Finally, we ate the birthday cake and it seemed as if we would be going home. I was having a good time but I hoped this was the case as the small children were becoming tired and cranky and a handful for their mothers, as it was past ten. However, I learned that Lola’s dad had invited a well-known singer, apparently at least partly for my benefit, and so we were waiting for his arrival. This was very nice, although I felt bad for those who were so tired. Luckily he sang a few songs, which a really enjoyed, and then the party ended.
Today is essentially my last day in Dushanbe. I’ll spend one day in Kulob, and after that fly to Kabul. The focus of what I write will shift then-perhaps I’ll need to rename this blog! There were several explosions here in Dushanbe several days ago-one near a hotel quite close to my house and one near the airport. No one was hurt. There are different ideas as to who is behind this, although perhaps it has to do with a visit by the presidents of Russia, Afghanistan and Pakistan. The main street has been lined with police officers, many with bomb-sniffing dogs. Hopefully no more problems emerge as I try to leave!
Saturday we took a group trip to the Ob-I-Garm sanatorium, which is located up in the mountains past Varzob, where I visited last weekend. The trip there was beautiful as the mountain scenery is breathtaking. I had an interesting conversation with the driver, who had just returned from working as a driver for two years in Moscow. I asked him about his experience, and it turned out that he had somehow gained Russian citizenship because his dad was an officer in the Soviet army. Because of this, he didn’t face many of the problems of many Tajik labor migrants, as he is able to obtain the correct documentation and registration.
After arriving at the sanatorium, a group of us went hiking with one of our language teachers. We made our way past the rushing river and started an uphill climb. On the way we passed people, mostly kids, with donkeys going up and down the hill. Some of the donkeys carried loads of hay which seemed bigger than the donkeys themselves. We also passed some areas where beekeepers were working, the boxes of beehives spreading across a flat area in straight rows. It was very sunny, and hot, and different flowers were blooming all around. We finally made it to the top of one hill and decided we would stop there. Cows were grazing nearby. Snow covered peaks were visible in several directions. Our teacher gathered plants and roots from which he will make tea.
We returned to the sanatorium, a huge complex clinging to the side of a hill. I can imagine what it must have been like in the Soviet period, when so many people came to relax. We reclined on kats, platforms that look kind of like beds. These were built out over a ravine and so had a beautiful view. We ate plov and melons. Then several of us went to bath in the water from the hot spring (ob-i-garm means hot water). A small pool had been created to hold the water, and it was housed in a small building. The water was hot and smelled like sulfur, and there was also a very hot steam room. Despite being so hot already and then subjecting ourselves to this, we felt very refreshed afterwards and it seemed to make our skin feel nice.
When we returned from this trip, we quickly got ready to visit Nazir’s house. Nazir is such a wonderful cook, perhaps because as he has no mother and father he has had to do this for himself. He made a noodle dish that he said was Uighur, and that was excellent. Afterwards, Nazir, Gulya and Sitora convinced us to dance. Somehow I always get drawn into this and they always play Uzbek music. Because I spent some time in Uzbekistan they seem to equate my dancing with Uzbek dancing and it seems to be really appreciated, as Sitora is half Uzbek and Nazir and Gulya are Bukhoran Jews. After dancing, Gulya decided that my eyebrows needed to be darkened, something that girls apparently do here. I was a little nervous, but agreed. Gulya mashed up some sort of plant and painted the juice on my eyebrows. After a little while, I washed it off. My eyebrows were a little darker, but I am happy to say not all that much.
The next day, Sitora had invited us to her house so that her mother could teach me to make ugro, the soup that was so delicious at the wedding. While we thought this visit might be a little less intense, I guess really I should have known better. We arrived to find the table covered in cookies, candies, fruits and nuts. Sitora’s mother is incredible kind and a pleasure to visit with. We learned the soup, which is actually quite easy to make so I should have little problem recreating it. Sitora’s mom also went outside of the apartment, where there are several communal tandoor ovens, to make non. We ate so much fresh bread and soup, and then sat around the low table talking and drinking tea. Sitora’s two sisters were there, her mom, and her aunt who had just returned from Novosibirsk. Once again, Uzbek music was played and I was encouraged to dance. They were also very excited by the maybe three Uzbek words I can remember. We really thought we would be leaving soon, only to find that of course, there was a second course and we were quite silly to think this would not be the case. Sitora’s mom brought out fried meat and potatoes which were also really delicious. Afterwards, we again reclined and talked and it was nearing eleven when we made our way home.
Last night I was once again invited out, to an interesting birthday party with the family of my friend Lola. They are from Kulob, and moved here several years ago, and her father apparently holds a rather important government position. In other words, they are some of the leaders of the country, as after the civil war people from Kulob were able to gain much control over the government. While men and women attended the party, which was held in an outside courtyard of a restaurant next to a beautiful pond, the two groups were segregated by a screen. This was fine with me, as I had a great time with the women and kids. At one point Lola’s father came over to check on me and said that he felt somewhat bad about this arrangement, as only the men were drinking alcohol, but that I would be welcomed to the men’s side to have some drinks. I politely declined, although it is interesting to see this different standard for a foreigner. The women had brought salads, bread, and compote they had made themselves, which they said was important for birthday parties and wedding, while the rest of the food was provided by the restaurant. There was live music and dancing. I found it very interesting that the women praised be for my “Kulobi” dancing rather than Tajik dancing, and said that it seemed as if I must be from Kulob myself. The importance of regional identity was clearer with this group than with any other I have seen-perhaps because they are the ones that came out ahead. Finally, we ate the birthday cake and it seemed as if we would be going home. I was having a good time but I hoped this was the case as the small children were becoming tired and cranky and a handful for their mothers, as it was past ten. However, I learned that Lola’s dad had invited a well-known singer, apparently at least partly for my benefit, and so we were waiting for his arrival. This was very nice, although I felt bad for those who were so tired. Luckily he sang a few songs, which a really enjoyed, and then the party ended.
Today is essentially my last day in Dushanbe. I’ll spend one day in Kulob, and after that fly to Kabul. The focus of what I write will shift then-perhaps I’ll need to rename this blog! There were several explosions here in Dushanbe several days ago-one near a hotel quite close to my house and one near the airport. No one was hurt. There are different ideas as to who is behind this, although perhaps it has to do with a visit by the presidents of Russia, Afghanistan and Pakistan. The main street has been lined with police officers, many with bomb-sniffing dogs. Hopefully no more problems emerge as I try to leave!
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