Heidi and the Hot Springs

We pulled to a quick stop and the three men in the jeep began digging in their personal bags. “Where are we?” I asked curiously about the small, but bustling down we’d arrived at early in the afternoon.

“Obigarm – you must try – very nice”
“Ahh, you love the hot springs, don’t you?” I laughed, as we stopped for the second time on our journey home from Afghanistan at one of these natural mountain hot springs (obi =water and garm=hot).

Imatbek shone his full golden-toothed smile back at me as he proclaimed: “They are good for your health. Come!” and hopped down from the vehicle.

Just like bath crystals, eh?

I was a little hesitant after the encounter with such a location the day before with Holly outside of Ishkashim. I was originally enthusiastic about sitting outside in the crisp mountain air with the bubbling hot water straight from the source, but unfortunately it wasn’t “woman’s hour” when we arrived. Relegated to the indoor version, they had shoved us in a small, dark room with a grimy whirlpool in the corner. Instead, we opted to take pictures of the water spurting out of the interestingly shaped calcium crusted mound of land.

As close as we were getting to these hot springs

I thought about the current offer and decided “what the heck, once in a Tajik lifetime.” Traveling, volunteering at a children’s clinic in rural India, and playing sports my whole life – I’ve already faced my fair share of random skin infections along the way, this couldn’t be that bad. I jumped down from the jeep. I was in.

The nasty skin infection I battled last year in Kolkata, which was only better than the previous one since this time it wasn't "discretely" located on my face.

This time there wasn’t a sputter in sight outside and we all walked towards a large building. The air smelled of sulfur and the white tiles dripped with condensation. I wasn’t sure what I was getting myself into, as I was pointed to door on the right at the end of the hall.

I opened the door a wall of dense steamy hot air hit me in the face. When my glasses defogged I realized I had become the center of attention. I imagined it wasn’t too often that foreign women venture into this place. There were woman of all ages, sizes, and shapes steaming themselves on the benches around the perimeter of the room – with all their clothes hanging on rods in the middle. As I scanned the audience of sagging breasts, hips never squeezed into blue jeans, and tummies that had spent their entire lives under moo-moos I waited for someone to make a move. I had no idea what I was suppose to do in here… Undress? Sit? Where was the water?

A few girls sauntered through the door in the corner with wet bras and serious granny panties on and I breathed a sigh of relief that nakedness wasn’t a necessary component of this cultural activity. I disrobed and walked in their direction – assuming this would be where all the hype was located.

I turned the corner and there was a small pool with milky blue water steaming in the corner. A few women sat with water up to their necks chatting quietly. I moved closer to the awaited spring-filled pool and dipped my foot in: iiiiEEEE – the water was BOILING HOT! Natural alright – like from the center of the molten earth!

I wasn’t sure how they were calmly “relaxing” in this inferno. My lungs were gasping for air and my brain was giving my feet the instinctual “remove self immediately from hot surface” command. I recalled my youth growing up on Lake Huron and could intellectually rationalize that your body needs time to adjust to the water temperature, though this was usually to the first frigid swims around May 2-4 weekend, and not to hot water I knew was capable of causing scolding burns. I continued forward up to my calves.

As I inspected the increasing redness on my legs I noticed the long, black unshaven hairs of my fellow swimmer waving to and fro in the water beside me. This was about as natural as things could get. My attention was jerked away as the woman on my right started pointing making Tajik remarks at me. She had noticed the oddly placed ring on my stomach. I had forgotten that I even had it, but realized how strange my bellybutton piercing must have seemed to her. I motioned to one of her earrings, saying “same, same.” I smiled. She laughed. Funny foreigner.

Shortly after two younger girls literally jumped in the 4-foot pool beside me, scolding hot water splashed in my face, and I figured I needed to stop being a chicken about this whole thing. I sunk down to my neck – a submersion level I felt was sufficiently deep enough to later say “I have been in the hot springs” – and promptly left. This was one activity I decided is better left for the locals – or at least until the winter.