Let the Field Work Begin

Just a quick update for my followers (aka: my mom).

I've recently been staying in the small town of Khorog, 15 hours from Dushanbe. During this time I've been hiring and training enumerators and preparing all the logistics associated with our 35 day data collection period - which begins tomorrow!

I'll be monitoring one of the data collection teams for 2 weeks in the most isolated region of Tajikistan (yes, it can get more remote). Murgab is also the poorest region of Tajikistan, as it is located on a 3,500m plateau where nothing grows and its been snowing since August. Needless to say, I am absolutely thrilled to be adventuring out to the far eastern edge of the country and can't wait to get back and write all about it.

My apologies for not updating more frequently and my thanks to all the readers,
Stay tuned for more at the end of the month,

Heidi

Twenty-Six in Tajikistan

After a confusing conversation with a fellow British expatriate, I let out a searing “ah-haaa” when I finally understood exactly what he meant by a “fancy dress party.” Max was not, in fact, referring to fancy prom dresses, but rather to dressing up in costumes – one of my FAVOURITE pastimes! Given limited materials here and the fast approaching holiday where all outrageous outfits will emerge, I soon decided that togas would be the perfect touch to my 26th birthday party in Tajikistan.

This would be my first birthday spent outside of Canada – and I had no qualms about making a big deal out of the celebration. Breaking the fasting of Ramadan a week before the 24th for work’s September Birthday Cake would serve to kick off my “Birthday Week” which would continue with an over-the-top toga party, helluva good helicopter ride, distinguished dinner, glorious gifts, and wonderful birthday wishes.

Perhaps the most exciting of the birthday activities was the Toga Party. Back home, a party such as this would speak for itself, but here the concept of tying a sheet around oneself and sporting a crown of leaves was more than foreign, it was just plain weird. Despite this, most of our Tajik friends took up the unique opportunity wear this “fancy dress” and some expatriates even went the extra mile to buy very fancy materials. Vodka was flowing, grapes were bountiful, and the dance tunes jammed until… the police came. Not really sure about the legalities of a house party, I was fully convinced that this man was serious about shutting down my party just as it was getting rolling. After 20 minutes of negotiating, I announced to the party that I’d have to go to home to get my passport (the party was held at a friend’s house) and would hopefully be back quickly. I pleaded for people not leave or remove their Togas, just as Nira brought out a birthday cake for me. I cringed at the inopportune timing and glanced to the officer that he would continue being patient while I blew out the candles. That’s riiiiight. I still didn’t get it. The birthday joke was on me – and the KGB didn’t actually come to take me away. In Tajikistan everyone has friends, even ones who will show up in uniform during their duty to scare birthday girls. The party went on!

Friends from work gathered in Greek-style

The biggest surprise during my birthday week was the arrival of a large package from my mom. Admittedly, I had requested many of its contents in a guilty email labeled “care about me package” but the excitement still built as I lugged the box home, sat on my living room floor, and pulled out each item one-by-one. Bags of spices, books, magazines, flip-flops, a water bottle, marshmallows, gum, stir-fly sauce, salad dressing mix and a few special birthday gifts – all made their way in 22 days. In addition to the expected package, I also received a card from a former lacrosse teammate now living in Australia. She knew I was away and sent it “just because everyone loves to get mail.” Thanks Kathleen!! To Holly’s dismay, I also received 2 candles and a card in a small packet from her mom. She’s still waiting for her large package and we hope the Tajik mail doesn’t live up to its bad reputation before its arrival. I’ve never been one to celebrate birthdays with many gifts, but these special ones sent so far really were meaningful (yes, my curry powder is heart-warming ;). THANKS SO MUCH!

By far the most anticipated birthday activity was my helicopter ride to Khorog in eastern Tajikistan. During work planning meetings, I strategically planned our journey for the 24th and crossed my fingers that weather wouldn’t ground AKDN’s private “heli.” Waking up to clear skies, my boss, co-worker, Holly, and I boarded the 12-seater in eager anticipation of the beautiful views, as we would head out of Dushanbe and over the Pamiri mountain ranges. The trip did not disappoint – I oohed and awhed at each breath-taking turn the helicopter made around a snow capped mountain or over a bright blue mountain lake. I was unable to wipe the smile below off my face for the entire hour!



While this ride would have been gift enough, turning 26 in Tajikistan wouldn’t have been just right without a communal meal and the consumption of vodka. With fellow IDMer’s Erin and Holly and 2 of my co-workers, we dinned at AKDN’s riverfront Serena Hotel. In addition to a wonderful meal, we chatted about development, future plans, and reminisced about the most memorable times in our lives (thus far). We cheered to years past and times to come and threw back shot after shot of Tajikistan’s finest vodka.

Just when I thought my birthday was over, I went online Thursday morning to find that numerous friends from home had sent me special birthday messages. Their warm wishes and birthday love traveled farther than ever this year to warm my heart and make me smile that I would be so lucky to enter my mid-twenties in a foreign country with a "family" extending six continents.

Iskander Cool

I’ve always found it somewhat amazing how the calendar can turn to September and everything seems to change. A different season begins, a new “year” starts, and mind-sets alter from the work life to the different skills required for learning. While this is the experience of a (perpetual) student living in Ontario, I imagined working this autumn in Tajikistan would hold something else in store. As the air became too cool to keep our window open at night, a new fleet of children hit the streets in school uniforms, and a different work-phase was initiated, I realized that I was wrong. September was September – but in order to start it off right we would need to first make some (North American-esque) Labour Day long weekend plans!

"Mountain Gem" here we come

Luckily, with Tajikistan’s Independence Day falling on Tuesday, September the 9th this wouldn’t be too difficult, as taking one day of holiday would easily become four. After some disappointing news that the Uzbekistan border would be conveniently closed between September 1st and 12th, we pulled out our map and looked for somewhere more local to explore. Additionally restricted by the daily closure of the main road heading north out of Dushanbe between 8am and 8pm, we pulled together a mini-bus and a group of six to head to the base of the Fan Mountains at the renowned Iskander-Kul mountain lake. Holly, Nira and myself were joined by our local Tajik friends Farid, Nido, and Delaire, who would quickly turn into irreplaceable allies in our navigation of the Tajik natural world.

Our group, plus a random old man who insisted being in our photo

After a 4am departure and a predictably bumpy ride, we reached the former Soviet holiday camp (turbaza) tucked along side a magnificently large turquoise lake. With the sun still warming up the stony beach, we grabbed our carpets and ground mats and sprawled out to make up for lost sleep. Apparently the turbaza’s 30-odd family cabins are generally booked solid in the summer, but given the time of year we were one of only 2 or 3 groups at the site. This left us ample opportunity to explore, meditate, read, take photos, and chat away the days at ease. At meal times we collected firewood, peeled potatoes and carrots, and heated the cauldron to prepare soup, shashlek (meet kabobs), or sheer bringe (sweet milky rice).

Holly chilling after getting a "massage" (aka: skin ripped off her spine)

Farid is not so happy that he has to cook for 3 useless women. Not quite homemakers yet - and more than happy to sit back, watch, and eat the rewards. Ha!
Delaire's shashlek starts off mouth-watering, but it was the vegetarians who were laughing in the end.Nira and I doing out own version of the "Tree Pose."

After a wonderfully lazy day we stoked the main fire, gathered around with the guitar and a bottle of vodka (like it or not, it’s not truly Tajik without it), and laughed the night away. I retired to our waterfront tent around midnight, after first sitting under the bright moon and sky full of stars by the waterside. What a wonderful escape from the city. What a great start to a new season… which reminded me that at 2195m this was not a “summer night” and I was freezing. I’d put on some more clothes before heading to bed.

View from our tent.

Sunday morning we woke up energized and ready to walk to the nearby waterfall. During the still of the morning you could hear the water rushing in the distance and as we approached there was no doubt that we were coming nearer to the source of the sound. Iskander-Kul fed into a smaller river that gained speed until pounded through a narrow corridor and fell 30 meters into the lower mountains. As the water crashed below us, it generated a cool mist that met the morning light forming a beautiful rainbow. Needless to say, we were all infatuated with this natural wonder and observed in awe for quite a long time.

Getting as close as possible to the water crashing below us!

The perfect fairytale rainbow at this magical mountain waterfall.

When we returned to the turbaza the lake sat waiting for us. A new Danish friend of ours, Arne, had jumped in the frigid waters earlier and encouraged us to do the same upon our return. The sun was now high in the sky and the beads of sweat rolled down my forehead. It was now or never and I was sure I wouldn’t have a problem recovering from hypothermia at this time of the day. Moments later Holly, Nira, and I had swiftly put on our swimming suits and were running for the lake. In one fluid motion we ran in, went under, screamed, and ran out. The water was freezing, but refreshing, and would substitute for the lack of showers at the site. Our dip would also serve to pressure all the guys into proving their manliness – one icy submersion at a time.

So much nicer to look at then to be in!

Our not-so-long weekend ended Sunday night as we packed our things and left in time for the road to re-open at 8pm. Despite ominous sign that our driver was carsick the journey started off quite smoothly. Without delay, we entered the infamously bad mountain pass tunnel that lacks ventilation, is consistently flooded, and takes about 30 minutes to navigate. Half way through the tunnel a middle-aged man stopped our car and motioned for us to open our mouths wide and cover our ears. Moments later a massive boom vibrated deep throughout the tunnel – shaking the car and our eardrums. Apparently, they had needed to explode some piece of the mountain nearby and didn’t find it necessary to stop the cars before entering the tunnel (or do it during the day). I admit is was pretty cool to feel my heart shake off-beat and to know that such a thing would likely never happen in Canada, but I had to wonder how this scenario would have been presented in any type of safety protocols.

After a few hours our car came to a stop again, but this time I barely flinched at the traffic police roadblock that cause consistent stops during any Tajik traveling. Since our driver was passed out in the passenger seat, Nido grabbed his license and Holly’s video camera and headed into the temporary police shack. The initial thinking that such a move was not the best way to make friends and avoid tickets, was confirmed as he quickly came running out and yelling for us to take the camera, hide it, and not to delete anything. Sick of inconsistencies and corruption, Nido had caught the officer on tape trying to double ticket him illegally. After some quick maneuvering (and an officer who’d never seen a video camera before) we were able to convince him that we had deleted the video and were able to carry on.

We reached home at 1am, crawled into bed, and went to work Monday morning. With that I realized that not only had I fit a long weekend holiday into 2 days, but that autumn had officially begun and I was now beginning Tajikistan: Season 2.

"If I wanted to see a photos of Takijim-a-what-i-stan I'd just buy post-cards." I disagree, but fine, I was there too...see.

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.

An Afghan Adventure

After a flurry of form-filling, picture-taking, and finally, visa-obtaining – the plans were secured. Holly and I would be taking a weeklong expedition to the most northern region of Afghanistan – the Wakhan Corridor – situated between Tajikistan, China, and Pakistan. The second annual Pamir Cultural Festival would lure us into a valley isolated and remote, even by Central Asian standards. We rested assured that it was “the safest place in Afghanistan – too far for even the Talib to go!”

Nearing 5am Sunday morning, Holly and I emerged from our apartment, with trekking packs filled with sleeping bags, mats, a tent, modest clothing, photography and video equipment, and 19 Liters of clean drinking water in hand. We headed for the road and the Land Cruiser promptly pulled up, with Tiger at the wheel. As we waited for another passenger, his irritated hands paced around the perimeter of the steering wheel, he revved the engine, and his shirt bore the orange and black markings of an animal ready to pounce. Once our bags were all stowed, he let loose on the roads heading towards the mountainous eastern Autonomous Oblast of Gorno-Badakhshan (GBAO), Tajikistan.

Ten minutes later a hissing noise would soon turn into the dreaded flop-flop-flop of a flat back tire. With Tiger on the job, it was quickly changed and we continued on our 14-28 hour journey (depending on an assortment of road, car, and external conditions) towards the border of Afghanistan – without another spare tire in hand. Around 3pm we would regret not turning back earlier, when we rounded a bend 5km from the nearest town (which also didn’t have a spare tube), and heard the hissing noise once again.

"that's 0ne tricky tire, i tell ya"

How many Tajiks does it take to change a tire? (2 hrs later)

When finally reached the border, Monday at noon, we were like two little school-girls on the first day of class in September. Giggling, with our heads plastered to the windows and passports with official entry visas in hand – we were unable to contain our excitement to venture into this much-talked-about, but seldom traversed land. As we pulled our scarves over our hair and our jeep up to the border guard’s post, we were also nervous. Would they turn us back? Delay our entry without reason? Put an end to our adventure right here and now?

Ready to break into the Middle-Eastern version of YMCA?

As it turned out, our bag of dried apricots were more interesting than anything in our baggage. After one curious guard poked his head in our window, pointed, grunted, and was given a few fruits the others also made their way to our (rationed) snacks. We chatted in broken Tajik/Dari/Farsi/and English, made friends, and broke the first rule of international travel: Don’t take photos at/of military, police, check-points, border-crossings, etc. Photos snapped, we were off and running – or driving rather… Afghanistan awaits!

With the snowcapped Hindu Kush Range rising to the south and the Tajik Pamirs lining the border with the Panj River down the valley, our next 24 hours would be a breathtaking ride to a festival in the center of nowhere. The landscape was perplexing, as it turned from desert to rock to river to grassland, and back again. We crossed over 2 dozen rivers and glacier-melts, drove next to 2-humped camels and hairy yaks, and witnessed the slow lives of young herdsmen unfold in the infrequent fertile patches of the Wakhan.

A group of little ones hanging out in the fields

200km down a road we often carved ourselves, we made our final turn and decent into a wide-open grassy field with two large striped tents marking the site of the 2008 Pamir Festival. This was the end of the road – continuing on to either the Chinese border, the regionally renowned Little Pamir, or the Broghil Pass to Pakistan would necessitate travel by animal and foot. We would pitch our tent here and save trekking for another trip, as the Pamiri people inhabiting the surrounding nations had come to us!

***** Five Star Views Available *****

With horses chomping at the bit, rearing, and warming up for the coming events in the background – it was with great disappointment that we would proceed to sit through 2 hours of welcome speeches and introductions. It was, however, a good opportunity to suss out the crowd and the other “tourists.” As it turned out, only about a dozen foreigners made the journey – the rest also coming 3 days, but from the direction of Kabul. Many of us had close affiliations with AKF/AKDN – the event’s key supporter – though one man had truly arranged his vacation time in France to coincide with the festival and another was back-packing and free-lancing in the region.

A ball would soon be tossed into a fiery of horses and a polo match would commence the afternoon’s numerous activities. Football (soccer) and volleyball were a bit more unruly than North-American standards, but entertained the 150-200 local Afghan and Wakhi spectators who had gathered around the perimeters of the fields – of whom, all were men.

Spirits were kept lively during sporting intermissions with traditional music and dancing. After gazing in awe at the way in which the dancer’s feet kept beat with the pounding tabla drums while their arms and hands moved gracefully above their heads with the strum and twang of the local string instruments, someone grabbed my arm. "Dance, dance… dance!!" the familiar Afghani AKF staff member pleaded with me. With little interest in becoming even more of a spectacle than my colourful Tajik dress had already made me (I didn’t get the memo that Afghans stick to earth tones) and clearly noticing that the ratio of men to women was sitting at 40:1 – I tried persistently to avoid the situation. Defeated, I finally stood and tied my hijab (head covering) a bit tighter. Soon, Holly was dragged off the volleyball court and onto the dance area too. We used the hoola-like Pamiri dance moves we’d learned a few weeks earlier at a wedding in Dushanbe, laughed infectiously at our lack of coordination, and smiled at the cameras and video cameras which popped out of nowhere to capture the display. It wasn’t until after the (very long) song was completed that another foreign woman residing in Kabul informed us on the sidelines that women simply do not dance with men in Afghanistan. Mostly, however, it was only us who seemed to mind that we had been terribly taboo. After all, they had captured the next best home video and as one organizer chuckled: “no problem at all… you’ll be remembered in this valley for along time now!” Great. Just great.

Buzkashi Battle

My embarrassment soon faded, as I grabbed my cameras in time for the main event: BUZKASHI! Similar to polo, the traditional game is played on horseback – but the “ball” is a headless animal that must be picked up and dropped in a goal area. The anti was upped for the festivities and instead of a typical goat, the players fought tooth and nail to capture the carcass of a small calf. Dust was flying, animals snorting, and players grunting. Even a baby cow’s body is fairly heavy and quite awkward, particularly when another player is attempting to snatch one of its legs and tug it too his own horse. With brilliant mid-day sun and a quick sport shutter speed on my camera, I was ready and waiting for the perfect pictures of this oddly addictive cultural sport. It was during a particularly rare piece of footage – with the horses' nostrils flaring, the carcass in clear view, and the player looking directly into the camera – that I looked up to find the game was moving at a dangerously fast pace into the camera. At that point I let out a gasp, my camera jittered towards the ground and then sky, and I joined the crowd in dashing for cover from the 6 horses that came barreling threw the sidelines. Later on, I would plead with a rider to let me up on his mount. Though well fed and of good stature, it was immediately clear that these stallions had a streak in them distinctly different from the Arabians I’d had my hand with back in Canada. After a short canter, I pulled back the reins and decided I’d save riding for another day.

[(c) H.Shrumm]

After more traditional music (and less dancing) we ate local dishes of rice and meat, as no fruits or vegetables are available or grow deep in the valley. The moon was filling out nicely and we chatted by candlelight with locals and other expatriates about life in Afghanistan. The heat of the day had cooled down and I bundled up in sweater and wool socks, happy to have my down-filled sleeping bag back in the tent.
The morning sun brought with it more speeches and a few less eventful activities. We socialized, ate, packed up, and by 2pm were in a Land Cruiser convoy heading back through the valley. We’d reach Ishkashim by nightfall and gather around the satellite television to eat raisin-zeera rice, mutton stew, and watermelon, while mourning the recent death of 4 IRC humanitarian aid workers outside of Kabul and the implications of the impending Russian-Georgian crisis. Our vacation was soon to be over, as we prepared to head back to our respective realities far from the green pastures and rugged mountain landscapes of the Wakhan Valley.

The Sweetest Words

You know that feeling – it only happens sometimes – when someone says something that just catches you off guard and melts your heart a little bit?

Today is August 5th and it has been exactly one month since Holly and I moved in with our oh-ee-la (Tajik family). When Zeez introduced us to his mother and negotiated our original arrangement to stay together in one bedroom of their apartment, we all understood that the first month was a type of probation period. If we didn’t like it here – or more concerning – if his family didn’t like us staying in their house, after a month we’d be free to/have to leave.

Upon returning home from work today, I was greeted by Zeez rocking his 3-month old son, Imran, in the communal courtyard. We sat and chatted about the day, the baby’s health, his father’s gardening and finally, the awaited status of our residence in Mirco-District 91. I tiptoed around the topic, praying to God we wouldn’t have to move out tomorrow, but also wondering to no end how long she might actually agree to keep us.

You see, I love our oheela.

The family is headed by a 60-70 year old couple – Holla and Amak. Their 25-year-old unmarried son, Borodar, also lives in our apartment but is quiet as a mouse (except when he is pumping Rihanna or Britney Spears from his serious stereo setup). Zeez’s oldest son, Ibro, is 4 years old and spends most of his time at our house because he’s “too bad” for his mother to take care of him, the 2-year-old Farah and the newborn. Holla, Amak, Holly, and I try to keep the little bugger entertained and out of trouble. The latter is near impossible, as he has a fancy for not looking where he walks and eating everything he sees – including the telephone cord. However, we have found a variety of ways to entertain him, such as waving a laser pointer around on the floor and throwing a rolled up sock for him to go fetch. Yes, just like a dog (and most of the time, just as cute!).

Don't be fooled, Ibro is pretending to be good here with Holly.

The rest of the family is not too far away – making for an extended family consistently totaling 12. Holla’s daughter, Lulu, and her husband and 2 teenagers live in the same building as us and love to come practice their English here. Zeez lives across the courtyard with his wife and 3 children. Two of Holla’s other daughters live about 10 minutes away and her 6th child is divorced and working in Moscow with her son. I still couldn’t tell you all of their names.Farah had the flower, until big brother Ibro stole it.

In only four short weeks I have come to know, respect, and adore each individual member for their respective qualities and roles in our household. Zeez and Lulu are both trained physicians, but Zeez now works at a large international NGO and Lulu is a housewife. Holla has her PhD in bio-chemistry and worked full-time while raising 6 children, while Amak is a professional horticulturalist. During the evenings and on weekends we sit and chat about life and our experiences. Lulu spent a year with her family in California, Holla likes to discuss her marriage, and Zeez provides a national’s perspective on the international community’s work in Tajikistan. I feel like I have gained insight into the minds of a few Tajiks and been able to participate in the most sensitive discussions about family, culture, wealth, gender, and responsibilities.

One of the most (literally) satisfying elements of living with a Tajik family, though, is that we regularly eat together. Tonight we made meat-filled dumpling pastries, but we often have traditional rice, carrot, and meat osh (or palov), soups, salads, and meat pie. Of course this also means that at one point there was an entire goat’s tongue in our fridge, I’ve been served up slices of pure fat, and that avoiding fresh (sooouuuur) cheese is a daily occurrence.3 generations give the macaroni a try: Holla, Lulu, and Fatima

This month there have been two birthday dinners where the whole family gathered on the living room floor and dove into the communal platters of osh, salad, and naan (bread). Far more exciting to the family, however, was the night Holly and I decided to make “Canadian Food.” After being pretty scared by the hanging slabs of fresh bloody meat at the market, we decided to go for a classic spaghetti and pasta dinner. Macaroni is common here, but never before had they tasted an entire can of red sauce and spices over sautéed vegetables. All went over well, even after we discovered that our massive salad cucumber was in fact a zucchini. It was “good for being without meat.”

Com'on down... you might be the next winner of this
Collectors Edition Pasta Spice, Expired 2006.

In the beginning, I definitely had my hesitations about sharing a room and living in the home of a family of strangers. At the end of the day, though, there is nothing better than walking into the familiar tree-filled courtyard, being spotted by a neighbour who quickly shouts “Hay-lo” out the window, and then walking inside to Holla shoving piping hot naan into my hands. This was just an introduction to my family, but the adventures here never stop.

And that’s why today, when Zeez told me that his mother had asked him how to say – and then been practicing all day – 8 simple English words, I got that warm fuzzy feeling of reciprocated appreciation and love.

“I want you to remain in our house.”

28 Days Later

It has been exactly four weeks since I arrived in Tajikistan and it seems like the only thing I haven’t done… is write! I have scribbled down notes and recorded voice bits for the later transcription of such up-coming entries as:
“Our Tajik Family: home is where the heart is”;
“Holly and the Giant Peach (Bowl)”;
“What a Nice Set of Watermelons”;
“A Poster of You (with a picture of me taped over your face!)”;
“It’s Not All Sunshine and Mountainsides”;
“Power, Privilege, and the Moo-moo”;
“The Knock-Out Wedding”, and
“I speak Tajik.”

There is no shortage of interesting material to work with and I desperately hope to share many of these hilarious, meaningful, and eye-opening events here – as I find/make time to write. While my daily routine consists of waking up at 6:45am, catching the work-mini-bus at 7:30am, beginning Tajik classes at 8am, eating lunch, and heading to work from 1-6pm – the evenings and weekends still seem to bring unimaginable and exciting surprises.

Erin and I play over-sized chess in Obigarm

We’ve been to a Pamiri wedding, a swanky Jubilee reception, the children’s hospital, the man-made lake, 2 discos, and out to “the field.” We’ve shown local men that women can play soccer, entertained visitors from Kabul, Khorog, and Kazakhstan, jammed with the Tajikistan Idol, and enjoyed a few traditional birthday dinners with “our family.” You’d think things couldn’t get more random than this – but this weekend we are going paragliding, hiking to a small glacier, and finishing it all off by dinner with Tajikistan’s AKDN Ambassador.

I remember a similar feeling when I was in Kolkata (Calcutta), India in October 2007. It was during the large Bengali-Hindu celebrations of Durga Puja that I was on two television news programs, lit my first fireworks, addressed a large public audience, was mistaken for an actress and had my jeep swarmed on all sides, and became an official judge of various community’s traditional festival decorations. At the time I blamed the insanity of the events to be simply “India at its finest,” but now I question if it’s just the reality of being a curious foreigner in a new and unknown country.

Of course life is not always so exciting – but it is the regularity of certain events that also make things mentally manageable. I shower every morning (even when the water is brown) and wash the dirt off my feet before bed. On Sundays I do my laundry by hand (even when the water is brown) and in four weeks I have halved the time this takes from 3 hours to 1.5. I put it out on the communal line to dry while I read, write, nap, clean, or play with the kids. On Monday, Friday, and Sunday nights we play soccer. I buy juice, eggs, and yogurt at the small shop a few doors down and dried apricots, pistachios, white-coated peanuts, peaches, green apples, cucumbers, and watermelon at the large market. I take the Number 8, 22, or 17 mini-bus, while I change money, buy pasta & sauce and chocolate at the 24-hour International Grocery.

How d'ya like them apples?

Even the less adventurous evenings and weekends have been fulfilling. I finally had time to finish reading a book I’ve been working on, re-write my Tajik notes, and talk to different family members about the day’s on-goings or life in Tajikistan/Canada. At times unpleasant “only-in-Tajikistan” type things happen that could seriously upset the uptight traveler. Generally when these things happen, I burst into the bedroom, dramatically tell Holly about it, and then say: “Grab the camera – this is a good one.” We proceed to the location (often the bathroom or kitchen) and make a spoof commercial for our series “Life in the ‘Dush’.”

We’ve also spent late nights with maps planning local adventures – hiking the Hindu Kush, traversing the black desert of Turkmenistan, skiing for Christmas in Kazakhstan, and even entertaining a large Middle-Eastern regional tour at the conclusion of our placements. This is still in the very early stages of formation, but the evening was strangely ridiculous as Holly and I looked at routes on the map, exclaiming “well, that country is a war-zone, they have a dictator, Americans aren’t allowed in there, the ferry strands foreigners on that shore, mmm, there’s another war-zone, women can’t travel legally alone there, and if we go to any of these countries than we can’t go to Israel…” Let’s just say the geo-politics of the region makes for some interesting trip-planning over here.

Getting a good view from the fish cultivation pond

Overall – and most importantly – I am happy. I have quickly become accustomed to most of “new” things, enjoy my work and the organization which I represent, have overcome some basic health concerns in my first few weeks, have a blossoming social life, and see clearly how this placement fits into my life and future career. Not bad!

The only thing we need now… is our visa extensions!!!