In Which I Do Not Stay in the Village and Marry a Nice Tajik Boy

Scene: It is the second Tajik wedding I have crashed in a day. I am sitting on one of the long pillows that makes a ring around the woman's room when another aunt or grandmother enters. My legs are  folded carefully under me to avoid rudely pointing my feet at an elder, and I struggle to rise and go through the routine of greeting. One hand to the chest, the other clutching the newcomer's, one, two, maybe a third kiss on the cheek, repetitions of "soz, soz, narz, khub". All of which words mean good, and eclipse the often unspoken "How are you?". Again the explanation, "We are two students from America" - except I think I just said "I am two students", but no matter, we move on, into further mutually half-understood conversation. Eventually the question comes. Shohar darid? No, I say firmly, I do not have a husband. No, thank you, I do not want a husband. Thank you, but I must go back to America. Yes, I like Tajikistan. No, thank you very much, but I do not want to have a Tajik wedding.

Then the look of confusion, and the gesture toward my eyebrows. Eyebrows? In this case, I am pretty sure my eyebrows are fine, though it is amazing how quickly one becomes aware of an insignificant body part when half the people you meet are fascinated by it. The first woman has now been joined by another and they both tap their own foreheads determinedly. If they are trying to give me fashion advice, I am not sure I want to accept it. The unibrow has many devoted followers in Tajikistan. I look at the small girls dressed up in party clothes that look like fairy princess costumes, girls with a dark line painted above their noses. Though who am I to judge the gold teeth and friends who wear matching print dresses? I, after all, arrived at their wedding with a giant backpack and khaki fishing pants.

My fashion faux paus seems to distress the kind women around me, though it does nothing to diminish their determination to make us dance in the center of the wedding party in front of 200 people. The amazing Tajik generosity springs into action. Somehow I find myself in possession of, first a headscarf, then a borrowed blue velvet dress, then a pair of purple and silver zebra print socks. Finally Mari and I have our positions reversed - now I look Tajik, and she is labelled as Uzbek, Kyrgyz, maybe Kazakh? Walking through town, an awkwardly tall Tajik in a blue dress with shoulder pads, I apparently resemble our host's sister Nozanin, and that's the name everyone in the town of Tavildara adopts for me. Nozanin, why don't you stay here and marry a nice Tavildara boy?

Tajikistan is a surreal country, and maybe I have dwelt too long on the things that seemed bizzare. I have adjusted fairly well - for example, I now own my own Tajik clothing, which is loose and comfortable and extremely practical for travelling (confession: Mari and I wore the same pattern in two colors of blue today). Some differences are good differences. The plain truth is, where else in the world could I turn up on the doorstep of a random house in a strange city -  because our taxi driver took "UNDP guesthouse" to mean "the nearest foreign compound" and took us to the street of the OSCE - and have the family of said random house invite us to stay with them and give us watermelon, hot showers, and a taxi? (This happened in Kulob the night before last. BTW: guidebook fail. The Lonely Planet central Asia doesn't say a word about the entire Khatlan region, and the Pamir book suggested two guesthouses that no longer exist). Just when things seem too strange, too ridiculously bureaucratic, there is someone with a cup of chai and some naan and a friend of a friend who can fix the problem. I think it only fair to warn my parents that if strange Tajiks show up at our house someday, they had better put the kettle on, because my karmic debt is growing faster than the budget deficit.

But to return to the eyebrows for a moment, because the mystery has been solved at last. Two days after the wedding, we met Gulnora and Zarnigor, teenagers from a village higher up the valley. This time, I think mischievously , I will ask the questions first and give them a taste of their own medicine. Shohar darid? They giggle, and say no, and again touch their eyebrows in explanation. Wait....it slowly dawns on us. You don't shape your eyebrows until you get married? Ohhhh....so we'd been giving out conflicting (though probably more appropriate) signals to the matchmakers of Tavildara. Who knows what the drunken gold mine inspectors were thinking about us...but that's a story for another day.

From lovely Kulob, land of cotton and big salt mountains,

Anna (Nozanin)

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Back in the USSR

On nearly opposite sides of the former Soviet Union, Latvia and Tajikistan have many differences, but I couldn't help being struck by the similarities: the same trams (green in Dushanbe, blue in Riga), the same pedestrian underpasses with flower sellers, even fruit markets that sold large quantities of dill. The first two were clearly the Soviet legacy, though the culinary tastes probably go back even further, and may be inexplicable.

Both cities are full of outdoor cafes selling shashliks, beer and fanta (btw, Tajik Fanta is bottled in Afghanistan). There are parks with fountains that light up at night, streets full of scandoulously dressed young women and grandmothers wrapped in long dresses and head scarves. But while Latvia seems to be facing west, ever closer into the embrace of the EU, Tajikistan seems to be doing all it can to reclaim its heritage as part of the Persian world. In Riga, the Soviet period has been lumped together with the German conquest during World War II in a single "Museum of the Occupation." The icon that loomed large over the port city was the Christmas tree ( Latvia's laying claim to having invented it). At this time of year, one large specimen was decked out in sunflowers in recognition of Midsummer's Day.

In Dushanbe, where statues of Stalin and Lenin used to stand, there are now Rudaki, Aini, Ferdowsi - the heroes of Persian literature. The rather terrible monument (see above) that dominates Rudaki avenue is celebrating Ismoil Somani, the greatest king of the Samanids, a dynasty that sprung from central Asia. Its outrageous gold looked rather beautiful in the setting sun today, and even the presidential palace (whose furniture alone cost millions; Tajikistan is one of the poorest countries in Asia) was softened a little by the orange light. Its clear that in both new countries, there is a need to rewrite history, to find a new identity and pride in being independent nations.

All of these grand gestures seem a bit out of place in a hot and crumbling city like Dushanbe, and, aesthetic crimes aside, certainly seem less important that improving, say, health and education. Still, there is something surprisingly friendly and open about Dushanbe. Compared to the cities I visited in India, it is quite clean and quiet, with tree lined streets and rose gardens. In the cooler evenings couples stroll and children rollarblade along Rudaki Avenue. For me, some of the openness comes from the wonderful, and somewhat surprising, fact that I can understand people. That may be the best thing I learned from being in Latvia - having spent some time knowing two words of latvian (lidosta = airport, iela = street) - my halting, formal, Iranian-accented Tajik is serving me quite well here. Most people can't quite figure us out: we are clearly foreigners, yet we speak no Russian. Then we attempt to speak Tajik and the confusion grows, though mostly people are pleasantly surprised.

I've benefited from the amazing generosity of near strangers as I struggled my way through the last few days. After I arrived in Riga with no money (don't ask, someone got a few hundred dollars richer off my stupidity), having almost been arrested by the Latvian traffic police, Ieva took wonderful care of me. She brought me tram tickets, cooked me dinner, took me to the beach, and figured out how to send a fax to America. She is either the best advertisement for couch surfing, or perhaps just the savior of my faith in humanity. (Thank you! I hope the karma comes back to you soon). And here in Dushanbe, the Rakhmatov family have opened their house to Mari and me. Every one should be lucky enough to have a Bibijon to cook them a full breakfast after their plane arrives at 5 AM.

This week I'll be beginning my interviews for my research project, starting with NGO staff in Dushanbe. Then it will be off to the southern plains, and the home village of President Rahmon. It was 99 here today. It gets even hotter there. Wish me luck.

Small islands

I have now taken 7 Subway rides, 3 Buses, 2 Planes, 1 Taxi, 1 Train, and 1 Boat, all to find myself writing from the library of King's College Cambridge, which, by sheer virture of age, must be one of the most sedentary places on Earth.Its a very nice kind of stillness and quiet, an antidote to vibrant - and exhausting  - crowds of London. Not that Cambridge doesn't have its share of tourists. Still, its easier to think kindly toward one's fellow travellers on sunny morning on the river, when everyone is crashing their punts in equal measure. Dylan did a lovely job of taking us up river, while I draped myself langourously in the bow and imagined I was a Victorian in a long white dress and parasol, dangling my hand in the water and thinking about the Lady of Shallot. Then it was my turn to punt, and such romantic notions were quickly dispelled by a heavy pole, an unwelcome wind, the discovery that my canoe skills were a hazier memory than I had supposed. I didn't fall in, which is all that can be said for my short lived attempt to actually do some work in propelling the boat. Perhaps a straw boater would have helped...

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The last time I was in London, I walked along the embankment, and early morning Soho, and I saw a city of marble and bridges, pidgeons and wet sidewalks. Yesterday there was no time for historic monuments and parks, but I did see a wider variety of London than I knew existed. Riding the tube - which I did excessively - I saw an Italian family trying to teach their children to pronounce the H in Hounslow, business men reading the paper, and a young couple sharing an ipod and singing along in different keys. My host Theresa told me that, statistically, there is one millionaire on every tube train -  and that 1 in 5 of those people will be undocumented. It was thanks to Theresa that I went out to North Islington, and walked down blocks with pubs, kebab shops, a caribbean takeaway, an espresso bar,  an Iranian grocery, and a Malaysian restaurant cheek against jowel. Even more than New York, London wears seems to wear its globalization on its skin.

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In my ongoing quest to see every country in the world before I die, I have tried to lay down some ground rules, number one being: It doesn't count if you don't leave the airport. Racing through the Munich and Frankfurt airports to make connections does not mean I can put a check next to Germany. But what about Iceland?  In "The Girl in the Cafe", Bill Nighy's character says that everyone knows one fact about Iceland, and only one. So here's the question: can I have been someplace if I learned something I'd only have known by being there? Is it enough that I've walked outside and felt the air (cold and salty). Or must I follow up on Icelandair's annoyingly persistant infomercials and see a glacier?

Tomorrow I'll be heading to Latvia and leaving islands behind...

The day is almost here

As I look at the clouds going by on this beautiful Maine July day, its hard to imagine ever needing to leave my own backyard. But the weeks have been slipping by, a small fortune has been spent on plane tickets, and somehow the time has almost arrived when I'll be picking up my (skillfully and lightly packed) bag, and heading off.

The title of this blog, where I will, internet-cafe dependent, be posting my adventures, comes from one of my favorite poems, Tennyson's Ulysses. I think it sums up the feeling.

I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!