Everyone's a Teacher

I’m still a little shy about going out by myself. I have taken a walk or two just to explore. That’s pretty easy because I don’t have to talk to anyone. It is interesting, though, that sometimes someone will say “Good morning” in English – they just know I’m American somehow. (Must be that sign on my forehead.) There is a walk that is easy to take from our house around a major street back down to the Embassy and our house. One of my complaints about America (Woodbury specifically) is that there are so many like stores so near each other. At last count I think there were six Subway sandwich shops in Woodbury. Well, it is not much different here. Very popular are “Apteka” or pharmacies and convenience marts. The convenience marts are different from 7-Elevens and Super Americas in that they don’t sell fuel. I regularly go to them for bread, sausage, pasta, tomato paste, pelmeni (it’s like tortellini), sour cream (for the pelmeni) and yogurt. I bought a Dove dark chocolate bar there once. They also had some pretty good candy and cookies. The cookies are packaged and laying out in bulk. The bread often is not wrapped.

We are instructed when we arrive to be certain to soak all fruits and vegetables in bleach water. From what I’ve been told, the farmers use very fresh um . . . manure of all sorts and often place it right on the plants. Not only that, the vegetables – particularly root types like beets and potatoes – are very dirty. I was in a grocery store and, after choosing several apples and having them weighed, happened to notice my fingertips were nearly black. It’s worse at the street markets. Today I washed some beets twice in plain water before even putting them in to soak in the bleach water. Dirt was caked on. I came home with potatoes and didn’t even know they were red potatoes until I had washed them a few times! It’s like they’re pulling these things right out of the ground!

I shop with canvas bags to carry home groceries because all they use here is cheap, thin, small plastic bags. In one store I was followed around everywhere I went. I guess they thought I was trying to steal from them. I also embarrassed myself. Have you ever seen fancy chocolates that look like small rocks? They are as decorative as they are tasty. The mother of one of my piano students kept them in her home for her own personal sweet treat. Everything else disappeared. Her kids and husband thought they were just decorative rocks! Anyway, I saw what looked like little egg-shaped chocolates sitting on a counter in the shop where I was being followed. I figured I’d give my tail something better to do so I asked her what they were. She looked at them then blankly looked at me and replied “Eggs” (in Russian, of course). Everyone’s a teacher. I was so embarrassed. Of course they were eggs. I think they’re quail eggs which are popular to serve with plov. Where we are used to seeing milk and eggs and such in a refrigerated case, here they are just left out. The milk is heat treated so it doesn’t spoil as quickly. It tastes different, too. I find I only like it with a good dose of sweet chocolate powder.

Numbers are one of the more difficult things for me to understand orally so that makes shopping tough. The people who regularly see me have different approaches to this problem. One kindly older woman speaks very slowly and uses her fingers if I don’t get it the first time. One nice, though less patient, man pulls out his calculator and types in what I owe him. One younger storekeeper just laughs. He may seem rude to some but I like him. Somehow he puts me at ease. He has this way of laughing that says “Why me?”underneath it all.

There are two guards who regularly engage me in conversation because they know I’m studying and they are willing to listen and help. It’s rewarding when they hear me and understand. It’s more rewarding when I actually understand them – my weakness. Occasionally, after I’ve spoken, they look at me like they’re in a sort of a void searching for what I meant to say. I do appreciate their efforts to teach me by making me talk and listen and by correcting me. One of Doug’s coworkers also engages me in conversation. When I don’t know how to respond in Russian, I just switch to English because I know that he speaks excellent English. He, however, does not abandon the Russian. He makes me listen to it and lets me know he expects my response to be in Russian. Yes, everyone’s a teacher.

Most people are quite patient with my lack of good Russian language skills. Once in a while I get into a little trouble because I may know how to say a particular phrase well so they assume I speak well and proceed to speak accordingly. Once, I went into a market with a note that had butter in Russian written on it. As I stepped to the counter – with the shopkeeper’s attention – I pulled out the note as I began saying (in Russian) “I need to buy butter.” He rapidly asked me something. I excused myself and explained that I was learning Russian but didn’t understand what he said. He stuck his head out like a goose and yelled the same question at me! It was so funny I could think of nothing else to do but shout back at him (in Russian) “I still don’t understand you!” Then we had a bit of a stare off. Then I asked what he suggested. He pointed to one of the butters and I bought it. Maybe not everyone is a teacher.

I do wish I had better language skills, though, which is why I keep working. There is a man who I regularly pass on my way to the fruit and vegetable stand. He sits in a wheelchair because he has no legs from the knees down. I think someone wheels him out there at the start of the day and, at some point, comes and retrieves him. I did see him wheeling himself one day and another day a younger man doing it. I feel sorry for him. He sits alone. Occasionally someone will stop and talk with him, always another man. I think to myself, if he’s lonely perhaps he’d appreciate conversation even if it’s with someone like me. I imagined myself buying an orange and stopping to share it with him. Then I remember that this society is very different than ours. A woman stopping to talk to a man may not be quite right here, even if he is old. I don’t know what to do, if anything. One day we met eyes and I greeted him, he returned the greeting which most people don’t do. That heartened me.

Today when I went to a nearby store in a group of shops that included about four pharmacies I saw a very old woman going up three steps. She pushed with a cane in one hand and pulled on the banister with her other. It was very hard for her so I asked her if I could help as I took her arm and lifted. She thanked me then handed me a note and said something. Half her face was paralyzed so I had no idea what she said. I told her I didn’t speak Russian; I didn’t understand her. She spoke again and held out the list. She wanted help. I took the list and looked at it. I had no idea what it said. I did get her to come into the pharmacy with me. As we waited in line, maybe I looked worried because after a few minutes she gestured for the list. I gave it back to her and left. I felt so bad that I couldn’t help her more.

Different teachers; different lessons.

Christmas Memories

Living in Tashkent is flooding me with memories of living in Phoenix. The weather is quite similar with the eternally blue skies. The sunsets are the same. Those precious few minutes when the clouds are peach colored just before they turn purple remind me of something I wrote shortly before I left Phoenix. I wrote that I’d miss the skies. Lately I am remembering Christmases. In particular I’m remembering favorite gifts.

One Christmas I received a stand-up chalkboard that had two sides and a chalk tray. To change sides I just had to loosen a couple of wing nuts and flip the board. When my best friend Carolyn saw it, we played school for the rest of Christmas break. I also remember racing home after school let out for the summer so we could play school. We’d do math problems, write sentences, spell – all the things we hated to do in school were fun t home on the chalkboard. Go figure.

Every Christmas Eve my sister and I got new pajamas. I also got a sleeping bag one year and Cindy let me sleep on her floor! That is until she told me that I breathed too loud and sent me back to my own room where I slept in my bed in the sleeping bag. I always heard sleigh bells laying in that bed on Christmas Eve. Always. For real.

Every Christmas my sister made candy – a yummy chocolate dipped cream candy. Every year mid December I got a mysterious illness and had to stay home from school. This was the day I feasted on her homemade candy. My sister got wise to me because she could tell that the candy had been disturbed. (We were once robbed and didn’t know it until my sister came home and demanded to know who had moved her perfume bottles. I’m serious.) So I started rearranging the candy so it looked the same. Always one step ahead of me, she started to count it before leaving for school and I was, again, busted. And, remember, all this happened incrementally year by year. One year I was left home “sick” with the instruction not to watch any television. Okay, I lied. I didn’t notice my sister unplugging the set before leaving for school. I had to plug it in to watch. Unfortunately, I was not smart enough to unplug it before she got home. I do believe my sister loved me; really I do. The one thing, to my knowledge, I was never busted for was peeking at gifts. I knew where my parents hid the secret stash of Christmas gifts. I was busy during those sick days.

We got a family gift of a tape recorder one Christmas. We took turns passing it around talking to my grandmother. When we filled a tape, we’d send it to her. My Uncle Carl, unbeknownst to anyone, got a hold of it and recorded this:

An accident really uncanny
Befell a respectable granny
She sat down in a chair
While her false teeth were there
And bit herself in the fanny.

Yes, my grandmother wore false teeth. She saved all the tapes that we made and I inherited them which was when I discovered his mischievousness.

I rarely liked the clothes I got for Christmas partly because they usually didn’t fit and partly because my sister often received the same thing, maybe in a different color. But, one year a got a nightgown from my Aunt Lynn that I adored. It was elegant and sexy. I was about 13 and felt like such a lady wearing it. That was the year Barbara Streisand made the movie “Funny Lady”. After watching that, I was Fanny Brice. The nightgown helped. I’d go into the kitchen before bed and rub lemons on my elbows (just like Barbra did in the movie). When my mother caught me putting on perfume before going to bed she searched my room.

I always wanted a Light Bright but never got one. All my friends had one. I think my parents never really loved me.

Tubsy was one of my favorite dolls that I got one Christmas. She sat in the tub and splashed her arms until she rusted.

I do remember more than just gifts and candy. I remember going to late Christmas Eve service and being quite concerned that we didn't get me home and in bed before midnight - when Santa came. I didn't want to get skipped because I was in church on Christmas Eve!

Now I'm in Tashkent where Christmas is not a big deal. I have seen a few decorations outside American's homes and the Embassy, but not many. That's okay; I don't miss it. It's all part of this great adventure. Tonight the Marine House is open for Happy Hour. Tomorrow night (Christmas Eve) the guards are hosting a masquerade dinner party at a local restaurant. Saturday we are having Christmas dinner at the Charge d'Affaire's house. He has a Russian style pool table. The difference between this and what we have in Ameria is the balls are larger so the corner pockets, for example, are only 4–5 mm wider than the diameter of the ball! The central pockets are 14–18 mm wider. In other words, it's harder. Can you tell I like pool? I'm getting off topic. Ah, Christmas -

I got spoiled in Minnesota with beautiful white Christmases. Tashkent is, like Phoenix, brown and blue. Douglas and I are not exchanging gifts this year. I told him not to try and get anything for me(although someone put something in my stocking). We haven't been here that long to know the good places to shop and, frankly, after the move and getting rid of things, neither of us really wants anything. I did tell him that this life he has given me is a gift that will cover him for many Christmases and birthdays yet to come. I want nothing. I have everything and more. That is the truth. I wish the same for you, dear readers.

What Would You Do For a Klondike Bar?

Would you go to Uzbekistan for one? Someone may have because I passed a littered wrapper this morning on my way back from the Embassy.

This entry is a little premature (I’ve only been here about three months) but I’m going to tell you what I miss from the United States.

So far, without a doubt, the number one thing I have most often missed is a cold drink. So many times I long for a good old 7-Eleven for a Big Gulp of cold Pepsi on ice. Uzbeks believe that cold beverages are bad for you so Coke (Pepsi is very difficult to find) is served at room temperature. I only know of one person who would truly enjoy this; my old friend Beckie from Phoenix. We worked together at a Jewish Community Center preschool. During the summer (Phoenix, remember, 112 or so degrees) she would leave a can of Coke in her car and pop it and drink it at the end of her work day.

I have yet to find familiar-looking stores. For example, I saw a shoe store and went in. Without exaggeration, I’d say 98% of the shoes were black. There are a few things I need (sunglasses, an umbrella) that would be easy to find back home. I just don’t know where to begin looking here. When I buy bread, often it is not wrapped. It just sits there where people can pick it up and squeeze it like Charmin. Eeew.

I thought I’d miss Subway and Taco Bell. Although they still sound good I can’t say I really miss them. I do want the occasional sandwich. I haven’t found cold cuts yet. And bread is a dicey matter; most of it’s quite dry and either small or round. The food I do eat here is so good. The Embassy cafeteria has an excellent hot lunch M-F. Plov spiced vegetables, raisins and meat over rice is a national standard and is delicious. In place of a sandwich I can easily buy a somsa on the street. It’s kind of like a meat pie shaped like a turnover. Their inexpensive, filling and good.
It sounds like I’m fixated on food. I am, but that’s beside the point. Food is a daily need and we stocked up on other needs like clothing and toiletries so food is something we seek almost every day. There is a nice fruit/vegetable stand very near our house I go to once or twice a week. I am depending on Embassy food and small markets within walking distance. I have found pelmenni easily. Pelmenni is like tortellini. It is stuffed with beef, lamb or mutton and served with sour cream. Delicious.

Thank God for the Marines! Every other Friday they host Happy Hour. Their cook makes pizza. Their cook makes really good pizza. That’s a nice regular fix of home comfort food for us.

I had lost weight before coming to Tashkent and I wasn’t sure how easy it would be to keep it off. Unless I’m really lazy or foolish I think it will be easy. The commissary at the Embassy has American candy but it costs about $2. I love candy but I’m cheap at heart. I saw Pepsi at the grocery store but it was about $5 for one liter.

During this season I miss seeing more Christmas decorations. So far I’ve seen three trees: one in the home of a friend, one in the Embassy and one in a park in Tashkent. I saw lights once but it was hard to tell if they were up for Christmas or just general decoration.

What do I not miss?

I do not miss stickers on our food. I mean those nasty little stickers on every piece of fruit and vegetable in the store. The people who sell fruits and vegetables here know a kumquat when they see one and don’t label it. I know, I know there are different kinds of apples, lettuce etc. and it’s just too much trouble to LEARN to recognize them even if it is your JOB. (Pardon my raising my voice.) Just to be fair, I wouldn’t know a kumquat if it were growing out my ear. Or a papaya. Or an ugli fruit. Maybe an ugli fruit. But that, my friends, is one of the many reasons I taught piano and did not sell produce.

So far I don’t miss television. I didn’t watch much anyway, but I did like to watch while I was eating. Here we get a few stations on the Armed Forces Network. Oh! I also don’t miss commercials! They don’t have commercials! They have informative, public service announcements and short news breaks. The public service announcements are pretty lame – like a fifth grade class project – but they can be entertaining.
I don’t miss the predictability of everyday life. The ways of the people are so subtly different here it holds my attention. For instance if I am walking down the sidewalk and there are four people walking abreast toward me they don’t move until the last instant. At first I abandoned the sidewalk for the dirt thinking “How rude!” Not rude. Different. (Remember THAT post from my previous blog?) It’s easy to judge. But I keep thinking and maybe I’m understanding. There are three of them and only one of my; why should they move?

I don’t miss the traffic of the states. Drivers . . . oh, where to begin. Nuisances like red lights and lane lines are apparently there for no reason. They are merely suggestions. If an Uzbek driver can drive through a red light without actually making contact with another car (or a pedestrian) they will. It is typical to pull over to turn left only to have someone else pull up just past you on your right to also turn left. They will do this until they are three abreast! Lane lines are nonexistent or difficult to see on most roads. You just drive. Apparently, though, there are no right turns on red and this law they take quite seriously. You will not see someone turn right on a red light. Go figure. I mentioned in an earlier posting that the lights here flash green-yellow-red-yellow-green. If you are stopped at a red light and it turns yellow the car behind you will likely pull around you to go before it turns green. They, of course, will do this while honking. And they do not stop AT the red light. They stop in the middle of the intersection (IF, indeed, they stop) just in case they can squeeze in between cross traffic. But you know what? It works. It’s efficient. People don't waste time and energy and patience waiting behind timid drivers. And no one seems to get the least bit annoyed at each other. You really have to pay 100% attention constantly. The lights are not always obvious as they are low and of to the side and often set up so that the sun's direct reflection and the reflection off other cars distorts what color is actually lit. What's interesting to me is I don't see myself getting angry at these drivers as I would back home. Why? I think it's because this is the generally accepted way of doing things. It's the same if you are waiting for service. If there is a line, it's very common for people to walk right to the front of the line and the rest of the people to just stand there and watch. It’s almost like they have their own private world and, if they are headed somewhere, it doesn’t matter what is between them and their destination; they just go to it. I guess the Uzbeks are a mix of the very impatient and the extremely patient.

I don’t miss the abundance of smiles. Yet. The Uzbeks (and the Russian, the French and most of the rest of the world) are not smiley people. When he was living in Germany, Doug was once asked why Americans walk around grinning like idiots. I thought that was so funny. It’s not that they are insulting us. It’s not that they are unfriendly. I think they are genuine. If there is no reason to smile, they don’t smile. One needn’t smile to be friendly. I think it leaves people wondering what you were smiling about. It’s odd to them; it’s out of place. Think about it. I’ve always been one who smiles, greets and chats, I’m learning to hold my Uzbek poker face. I want to blend in. And I think that it’s a whole other matter here if I, as a woman, smile at a man. I know that when I’m introduced, a man will not shake my hand unless I offer him my hand. This makes me very glad before meals.

The Hill and the Tree

It’s been an exciting week at the Embassy. Thursday evening, the Embassy hosted a VIP. The Embassy staff has really been putting in the hours – including, of course, Douglas. Doug’s boss left town for a two week vacation about two weeks ago. This meant that not only Motor Pool and Customs and Shipping fell into his lap but also Housing and Procurement. The first thing to happen was the diesel was got too cold and was stalling the vehicles. The diesel was ordered when the temperature was in the 90’s. Now it was dropping close to freezing at night. The problem grew as upcoming road trips loomed and the logistics of either mixing an additive into the existing fuel or siphoning that fuel for the proper fuel were complicated. A few days later the Embassy ran out of gasoline before the ordered delivery arrived. Actually, just about everyone in Tashkent is running out of fuel. From what I understand, the fuel companies are required to provide so much fuel per year. Apparently when they hit their quota, they basically take the rest of the year off leaving their customers dry until January or so. Remember the lines at our gas pumps in the 70’s? From what I’ve seen, that’s pretty normal here. These problems were, fortunately, short lived because Douglas was in charge. He’s not even home and I can hear him say “Don’t write that!” Okay, he also has a great staff not only of Americans but of Uzbeks who work quite independently and well. But it is Doug they called with these problems.

Amidst his difficult work, our lives go on as we adjust to living in Tashkent.

We live about a five minute walk from the Embassy. It takes Doug about 10 minutes to get to work (and me as long to get to the gym there) because there are three security check points through which we must pass. Usually I am at the Embassy in the morning to exercise and have my language lesson. I often stay for lunch. Usually I return in the evening just before sunset to exercise once more with Doug when he isn’t too swamped with work. We walk home together for dinner. Every other Friday night the marines host a happy hour in the Marine’s House. We are usually there until 9:00 or 10:00 which means that the gate to our housing complex which is nearest the Embassy is closed. One night when we were walking home I heard voices. This was not a schizophrenic experience as Doug heard them too. We could see no one. It was dark so we didn’t think too much of it. A week or so later we were walking the same route in daylight. Again, we heard voices. We looked around and saw no one. Eventually we figured out that the voices were coming from a tree. It was a large, full, leafy tree and, apparently, some kids were in the top of it, unseen. This got more entertaining as the days passed. Once I was walking by it alone and not only could I hear the kids, but the tree was shaking animatedly with their movements and voices. This became a regular check point for me – what’s going on in the tree? As the leaves dropped, in the uppermost branches, a tree house was revealed.

There has been an entirely different energy at the Embassy in preparation for the VIP. As I mentioned, staff worked longer hours. Lunch chat turned to The Event. No one was allowed to talk about it outside the Embassy. The facility was looked at with a more critical eye. Hotel reservations were made. An advance team for the VIP came into town to basically take over. It was like a theater production. Doug went to the airport to walk through the landing of the plane, line up the motorcade, decide who rode where, exactly which route would be driven, how long it would take, etc. The reception room was decorated and redecorated for the VIP to meet with local civic groups. Every high-ranking visitor was personally assigned an Embassy staff member. And, of course, when it came time for everything to happen on Thursday, ‘final’ plans changed continuously.

In the meantime, the tree house was bustling, too. I’m not sure if these kids are legitimately out of school (it looks like a large age range up there), ditching, homeschooled (I’m not sure how popular that is in Uzbekistan) or otherwise class-free. Sometimes there seems to be some serious discussion going on up there; most of the time I hear laughter and talk. I realized that I can see the tree from our back windows. It’s not very clear but I can hear them. One Friday I heard pounding all day long. Usually that would bother me – noisy. But I knew who it was and it sounded delightful. The next day, Doug was home and we heard a loud bang. He got up and looked out the window and saw kids scattering to the four winds. We aren’t sure what happened but at least the kids were okay. Later that week, as more leaves had fallen and they had very little privacy up there I could see that they had built a platform. At just the right angle it looked like the boys (all boys) were standing on the tips of the highest branches like birds. After another day or two passed – fewer leaves – I swear I saw a fainting couch up there. Are these boys homeless?

When Thursday arrived, it was like field trip day in school. Everyone was dressed in their best. After lunch, the cafeteria tables and chairs were removed, tape was laid out on the floor and areas were roped off. I was to return to the Embassy around 7:00. I expected lots of people but the place was quite empty except for the marines and sparse Embassy staff. The rest of the staff was either in their office, with the motorcade or at the airport. Doug had been at the airport for her arrival. Unfortunately, the Uzbek officials changed their minds and wouldn’t let the motorcade onto the tarmac as rehearsed. They then split up the motorcade into two sections – it was quite a large motorcade. Meanwhile, at the Embassy, all the tables had to be cleared from the reception room for security purposes. I saw a trained dog wandering around probably to sniff out bombs – which, thank God, did not exist. But the VIP arrived safely and, really, without any snafus. She met with President Karimov at the Presidential palace then came to our Embassy. At about 8:15 Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton walked into the main lobby/cafeteria and addressed us. She told us that “. . . today’s a four country day.” She had already been in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan and, after leaving us, was flying to Bahrain. I was told later that after spending Friday in Bahrain, she was flying back to D.C. to host a black tie dinner. She looked tired but I must take this chance to say how much prettier and young-looking she is in person. She didn’t sound tired. She had quite an energy about her as she praised the Embassy staff and reminded them of the importance of the location of Uzbekistan and our post’s mission these days. She was specific in her gratitude to the staff. Apparently when Kyrgyzstan had its uprising a couple or three months ago and refugees were flooding over the border into Uzbekistan, our staff played a large role in giving aid to them. Many local employees have spent time in Iraq to help out the Embassy there. After she spoke she said she wanted to shake as many hands as she could. She started from the extreme right and reached three or four deep and slowly made her way out the door. Yes, I got to shake her hand. I also wanted to thank her for being our Secretary of State. I spoke fast, but I noticed that as she started to move but realized I was talking, she paused to hear me. She is a smart, gracious, courageous woman who cares and demonstrates her care through her hard work. I had a question in mind just in case we got a chance to ask her a question. I would have asked her if she had any hopes or expectations of Foreign Service spouses, like me, who do not work in any official capacity. My personal mission, many of you already know, is to learn Russian so I can gather Central Asian folktales and songs and share American folklore.

Sadly, Doug didn’t get to see or hear her speak. He was busy overseeing the motorcade. He knew he wouldn’t be able to be there so he asked me to listen to what she said. One of the advance team’s jobs is to gather ideas for her to say in her address to us. Doug had two suggestions. One was to mention a long-time, indispensable local employee named Pavel. He is an expeditor. Pavel met Doug and I at the airport when we arrived and got us to the front of all the lines and past customs in about 10 minutes. There were two other sizeable groups that arrived this week so the expeditors and motor pool were busy. Pavel probably hadn’t slept in three days, Doug said. But, he was efficiently assisting at the airport when Secretary Clinton and her entourage arrived. Secondly, he thought it important to mention all the employees from our Embassy who have served in Iraq. I got to tell him that she used one of his ideas.

As Doug and I walked home past the tree house, it was quiet. I thought of all that was going on in the world at the same time and how closely they occur sometimes. While Secretary Clinton was talking to an audience in rapt attention, those boys were probably carrying on to the curiosity of those passing below.

A Desert is a Desert

A desert is a desert, right? Wrong. There are hot deserts, temperate deserts and cold deserts. Theodore National Park in North Dakota is a temperate desert area. Antarctica is the largest cold desert. The Sahara is the world's largest hot desert with its miles and miles of sand. My home, Phoenix, is right on the edge of the Sonoran desert but, from what I saw, has more dirt and cacti than sand (the dunes are in Yuma). It is scorching and dangerously hot in the summer, dehydratingly dry, not too cold in the winter and it has little changing blue skies that offer rare rain. Yet even though all that lives in the desert is so abused and denied, life thrives.

In Phoenix I'd lay in bed in the morning and hear the cooing and gurgling of doves in the rafters of our house. Here in Tashkent there is a bird that likes to sit on the bars just inches from our bedroom window and blast out its morning calls. It's not too unlike the infuriated parent trying to get a teenager awake and out of bed, but it has a lot more character.

In the afternoons in Phoenix I'd hear the regular rounds of the ice cream trucks playing four bars of either "The Entertainer", "Jingle Bells" (even in July), or "Fur Elise" incessantly for hours. Interspersed between that carnival-like sound is the ding of the tortilla wagon gently proclaiming "fresh tortillas".

In Tashkent the sounds of traffic dominate your senses. People drive with their horns. They honk when they are approaching you (whether you're on foot or in a vehicle), they honk when they pass you. They honk if you're in their way or not going fast enough. In Amerca while traffic lights flash green-yellow-red-green-yellow-red, etc.; in Tashkent they flash green-yellow-red-yellow-green-yellow-red-yellow etc. so the drivers honk whenever the light is yellow and you're not moving forward. They honk if you are approaching a street and look as though you just may walk/drive into it. They also honk for no apparent reason. And these cars have horns that can stop time. They are shrill and LOUD. When Doug's poor Hyundai arrives and we drive I fear it (we)will be ridiculed when we honk or lame little horn.

I dreaded mall-shopping in the states because of the vendors who had kiosks and carts instead of shops. they assault every passer-by interrupting conversation and thoughts with their physical obstacles and desperate sales pleas. In the Tashkent bazaars its the old vendors I notice. They sit until thy have to get up. When I pass I hear them solftly speak of and gently gesture to their fine produce. It makes me want to buy. It makes me want to bring them back a share of the soup I made with their produce.

In the states our currency is paper and coin with many denominations. In Uzbekistan they also have coins and paper. I have yet to see any coins. With inflation where it is I have only seen paper bills in denominations of 100 cym (pronounced "soom"), 200 cym, 500 cym and 1,000 cym. One dollar equals apx 1,600 cym. I think the least expensive item I've bought is an onion for about 800 cym. Uzbekistan is a cash-only society. One must carry a wad whenever going out. Bye-bye "Barbie purse" as my friend Julie lovingly refers to my bag. It's joked in the Embassy that we all look like drug dealers with our stacks and stacks of bills rubber-banded in groups of 100,000 cym and further subdivided into groups of 10 for easy counting at the point of payment. It's not unusual to hear Can you loan me 100,000?" "Sure. " The picture you see is a little over $500 in cym. And, yes (look closely, please) I DO have clothes on!

Your Feedback; My Response

I got comments on my last blog that I want to share. First I’ll show you Calliope’s:

From a historical standpoint, I vote to honor the sacrifice of women and not a few men who secured my right to do so (q.v. 19th amendment). I don't like feeling disenfranchised!

I don't care who sees me or doesn't see me at the poll--I'd love to have a mail-in ballot in Minnesota, so it's not social approval I seek. But I'd get there come hell or high water because I like feeling part of the process. While I alone might not make a difference, WE the people can.

I vote because I'm privileged to live in a civilized society. The corporations that run the country . . . have enough of a say, so even or especially when it seems futile, it's the only way I can register any kind of a complaint that matters. It's as much a vote against apathy as anything on the ballot, and for me, apathy is the biggest sin, so voting is the least I can do.

So... I've read and re-read your blog on this, and I still don't know why you didn't vote! It's not like you don't have time to figure out the issues or where the candidates stand on them. There's a ton of ways you can do that, without listening to one tv ad, either negative or positive. You can watch debates, or read transcripts of them, visit their websites, and read read read. If you're interested.

I agree with letter-writing . . . but I don't know if the numbers-behind-the-numbers argument holds true for email. However, people with computers can crank out a well-written letter just as easily. I do both, (and yes, I used to volunteer, put up yard signs, attend rallies, and march in protest, too) and I applaud your neighbor's efforts. But that power goes only so far if it's ultimately a substitute for voting.

Thank you, Calliope.

Another reader pointed out how devastating it would be to our system if everyone felt that their vote didn’t count and, therefore, didn’t vote. I agree.

I swiftly pointed out to this person that, although my individual vote does not make any difference mathematically – it won’t change the outcome, if EVERYONE who believed that didn’t vote, that WOULD make a difference. But I also said that, although my individual vote won’t change the outcome, it matters morally and ethically and statistically whether or not I vote.

To me, he was changing too much about my statement to make any sense. He was kind of arguing a point I wasn’t making. I recognized this because I have done this plenty of times.

Some may say he was comparing apples to oranges. (It always makes me scratch my head when people say that. They’re both fruit, for crying out loud. They have a lot in common! I guess that expression is just lost on me.)

This brings me to address an issue I have now brought up twice: the fact that we need to learn how to debate each other. I don’t believe we stand a chance at living in a more peaceful world if we cannot argue civilly with our relatives, friends and neighbors. Since I have said this before I decided that I should offer some solutions.

I used to argue with an agenda. I would “listen” to the other person – because that’s what you’re supposed to do – only to find a way to insert my opinion to counter theirs. That’s the kind of “listening” that drives people to uncivil behavior. I know. I’ve been behind the wheel.

I used to “listen” while forming my next argument in my mind. I didn’t realize that I only made myself look bad. My response to their statements had little to do with what they actually said. Instead of letting them know that I heard them and understood (at least grammatically if not in principle) what they said, I showed them that talking to me was a waste of their time. I, of course, didn’t know this at the time and I would have argued with anyone who told me that.

Thank God, we usually grow up. Sometimes it takes every ounce of self control I can muster to sit and hear someone out. It takes all the patience I can gather to actively hear them. And it sometimes takes a lot of effort to make sense in my mind of what they are saying. It takes respect to question what I don’t understand without inserting my opinion.

Taking the time to do all this can be very enlightening. It can also be disturbing. It reminds us how complex we are.

When I am sharing my views about an issue and someone asks me for clarification it’s an exercise in reason, self-defense and certainty in my own self. This is not easy; not remotely easy.

I used to use the most dramatic speech I could think of in order to shock my adversary into the light. I used to use punchy phrases I’d heard others use effectively. The problem was defending those statements since they weren’t really mine. I looked ignorant.

Many people defend their faith by loosing pithy sayings like “God said it, I believe it and that settles it” or “If it’s good enough for Jesus; it’s good enough for me.” Both may be true but, in my opinion, when you start involving a third party in your defense of your beliefs, you should have their permission and you should be respectful of it. I am not a spokesperson for God. (I just wanted to say that before proceeding). I believe that God demands more of us. I understand the importance of faith (defined once to me as ‘the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen’), but I think God gave us our faculties to use and develop. God wants us smart - especially when we are throwing the name of God around to defend our arguments. God wants us to use all we’ve been blessed with to seek the truth and find it. Those of you who are parents, here’s a question for you. When your child is 18 years old do you want them to look both ways before crossing the road “because mommy says to” or because they recognize the dangers of walking into traffic? To my ears, hearing a mature adult say “because the Bible says so” is like hearing that 18 year old say “because mommy says to”. I have a lot of respect for the Holy Scriptures; I enjoy reading them (although my Bibles have been in eternal storage for over a year now). I try to remember to take what I read in the Bible and discuss it, pray about it, observe its relevance and evidence of it in life. This is new to me and I’m still figuring out how to do it.

This applies to more than just the Bible, of course. Look up information for anything online and you’ll find an assortment of opinions and “facts”. The Atlantic magazine ran an article about whether or not Google was making us stoopid (sic.). We are becoming dependent on instant information. We are depending on having instant information at our fingertips and, therefore, not really learning anything because we can just look it up. Yeah, but what if it’s wrong? We need discernment and that takes some research, reason and commitment. All that, of course takes effort and practice.

One more point. Let’s say you are in a debate and you are right but, because of the way you are phrasing something or because of your attitude, the other person isn’t receptive or just isn’t understanding you. Just as we need to question when we don’t understand how others come to their beliefs, I think we need to question ourselves in order to practice the art of explaining. I used to get hung up on convincing people instead of educating them. I used to get hung up on winning the argument rather than on learning anything.

I spend a lot of time practicing this in my mind. Thank God my husband, Douglas, is a patient man who will listen to me. He said he understood where the comment I mentioned at the beginning came from. He said that I didn’t make it clear that I realized that the individual votes add up and do, indeed, matter in all ways. I do understand that. I hope this clarifies things.

Next post: Back to news from Tashkent!

A Perspective on Voting

My mother and I had an exchange last night. Not an argument, just an exchange over an issue we don’t agree on. Today is a voting Tuesday so this issue is very timely. I told her that I would not be voting today because I’ve been so removed from Minnesota for so long that I would have no idea as to who to vote for. I am not one of those voters who blindly goes into the voting booth and votes strictly party line. The only reason I am registered to a party at all is because our government requires it of us. Anyway, I also added an aside like, “Not that my vote matters anyway.”

She jumped to the defense of the vote. “Your vote does matter.” She said. “No it doesn’t.” I countered. I, of course brought up the shameful Gore/Bush election and she, of course, reminded me of the Electoral College. Fortunately we didn’t go on very long like this. We both stayed our ground.

I realize, looking back on our exchange, that I wasn’t very clear or well spoken. I should have said that mathematically my vote doesn’t matter. If I had voted opposite the way I did in every election, the results would have all been the same. Thus my vote does NOT matter. Fact.

Do I think we are all wasting our time voting? No.

Do I vote? Usually. I used to be able to say yes to this but since today is an election day and I am not voting, I cannot in good conscious say simply “yes”.

My vote matters ethically and morally. When I have a gripe about our government a typical response is “Well then, change it.” They say this as though it were a simple thing to do. They say this as though THEY know how to “just change it”. They also add, “Do you vote?” My vote matters because I can look at these people and say, “Yes.”

Truth be told, what I think really matters is letter writing. I think we all need to make a habit of writing letters to government officials. When a letter is relevant and well-written I believe they appreciate it. I remember one elected official saying that for every individual letter they receive, they consider that this is the opinion of X number of people who don't bother to write. (I don’t remember the number.) That’s power. That’s a lot more powerful than a single vote. One of my former neighbors in St. Paul hosted a letter writing party. There was a particular issue that was affecting our neighborhood. As I remember she even went as far as to provide officials names, addresses, stamps, paper and envelopes to encourage people to write and to make it easier for them. It’s much easier, of course, with e-mail. If nothing else, their response can tell whether or not you want to vote for them.

For years every issue or individual I voted for lost. I was pretty bitter. I thoughtlessly said “My vote doesn’t matter.” My mother (and others) were there to tell me that it did matter. I asked them how they could possibly say my vote mattered when everything I voted for lost? They sidestepped this question with democratic (as in democracy, not the party) rhetoric that majority rules. (Is this a good time to mention Gore/Bush again? No. I don’t know enough about it.) I know that majority rules or is supposed to rule. That fact does not make my single vote matter unless you are strictly into the statistics of it. To me, the final outcome being 1,222,375 pro and 1,578,893 against versus 1,222,376 pro and 1,578,893 against does not mean that my one vote mattered. The outcome is the same.

I love the stories of married couples who routinely vote opposite each other. They joke, "We're going to the polls to cancel each other's votes." Do their votes matter? Not mathematically. They matter statistically. And they matter ethically.

I think people who listened to me whine (yes, I admit it) missed a good teaching opportunity. “Yes, Laura, you’re right. One individual vote won’t decide a large election like this. One vote matters if you are on the Supreme Court and you are the tie breaker, but when the numbers are this large, one vote does not matter. What does matter is the interest you show. What matters is the knowledge you gain while researching who to vote for. What matters is doing your part as a citizen when there are so many people in the world who do not even have a teensy voice like this. That’s what matters. And you can demonstrate that in the act of voting.”

That, I believe, would have rung true in me. That would have given me pride in voting long before I had it. It would have told me that I did not just waste my time getting up early and standing in line.

Some of us who are wrong are teachable. Don’t forget that. We need to learn how to talk with each other even when we disagree. I’ve said this before. I don’t see how we can have any hope of peace in the war ravaged regions or any alternatives to war if we cannot debate with our family, friends and neighbors.

I will end this gently with a beautiful panoramic view from the last hike I took about an hour out of Tashkent. It took a lot of climbing to get up this high just like debate takes a lot of work. But when we got to the top, this was our reward.

Things Aren't Always as They Seem

I have done my fair share of boasting lately.

“I have a housekeeper who washes and irons everything for $15 a week!”

“I don’t have to work outside the home!”

“I lost 10 pounds!”

Two years ago, given this vision of my life, I would have seen this as the most stress-free I could imagine. Now that I’m here living it I see how that sneaky stress worms its way into the most blissful of existences.

I did not expect or even hope for stress free living in Uzbekistan, but I did expect a lot less without the responsibilities of teaching every day.

Last Monday started out nice until Doug and I were about to walk out the door and I could not find my badge to enter the Embassy. (In all, I have two passports - one diplomatic, one tourist plus copies - an accreditation card, an "I don't speak Russian; go easy on me because I'm with the Embassy" card, and my Embassy badge to keep track of.)

During my piano teaching years I lost something roughly once a day. It infuriated me. I often went ballistic (not publicly). It affected me as well as everyone around me, especially Doug. I hated it. It really affectred me deeply. This morning I awoke from a dream that I lost my purse on a Tashkent metro. I was really wound up inside even though I knew it was a dream. Since we moved to Virginia, that has all but ceased. It has been like a new life and I have relished it.

The morning I could not find my badge I expected those old feelings to come rushing back. They did, but I did not react as emotionally as I did previously. I was confident of where I last had it and where it may be. Long story short: I found my badge within a half hour. Problem solved. Except the viruses of worry, defeat and failure were crawling around in me.

The next thing that happened was I went to the Community Liaison Office to purchase Halloween party tickets. While I was there the woman in charge shared her concern of my storytelling in English since there would be so many Russian and Uzbek speaking children attending. She thought that perhaps a translator would be a good idea. I froze. I don’t speak good enough Russian to do storytelling and yet to tell with a translator would take hours of practice to make sure it flowed smoothly. I walked away worried that my first impression in storytelling would be mediocre if they insisted on a translator. I also felt that backing out would give me an equally bad reputation as would digging in my heels and proclaiming “My way or the highway!”

The worms were crawling in and out and around my mind and heart.

I headed for the gym.

I tried to calm myself by simply looking at the facts. I had my badge; it was misplaced, not lost. All I was obligated to do was to keep my word and tell spooky stories at the Halloween party. I was prepared for that. I am capable of negotiating and these people are reasonable. It was this prayer that really helped. I have been praying it for a month or so now. Some of you may be familiar with a scriptural passage that lists the fruits of the spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness and self-control. I add a few of my own: mercy, pity, empathy. I ask God to help me to live in, practice, develop, reflect and demonstrate each of these (where appropriate) as a first, automatic response to everything that comes my way in my thoughts, words and deeds. That’s a tall order but I think God can handle it.

Lastly, when I got home, I sat down to write instead of grabbing a book to escape. I wrote to you, my few faithful readers because it truly gives me great pleasure. It is difficult (especially since I raised the bar and promised pictures and, hopefully, audio - which I can't figure out yet) but it is extremely rewarding in the process and accomplishment as well as in each and every rare comment I receive from you. Thank you.

Lately I have had a few recurring dreams with a twist. I often have dreamed of driving in a car and, as I drive, the car mutates into a skateboard, say, or an animal. It gets more and more difficult to drive and make forward progress. Last night my car turned into a shopping cart which began to fall apart when I had to cross a rickety passage of some sort. What was different last night was there was a woman nearby who came over and helped me carry my shopping cart across the passage.

There are many people who like to interpret dreams. Some would say my driving the car is my making my way through life and its paths. Others would say it is analogous to my sexuality and waking sex life. Hmmm. Let's work with the former interpretation, shall we? I look at this dream and see that, while I am moving along in my life and things get difficult, I can depend on and even expect help from the Embassy community here in Tashkent. That’s comforting. Carl Jung had a theory that every character in your dream was a facet of your own persona. Therefore I could see this dream as my figuring out how to help myself.

I regularly dream of being in a bathroom and people can see me. There is either no door or someone has come in on me. These dreams are very upsetting. I get enraged at the people who won’t leave me in private. I'm embarrassed. Well, I just had a dream in which I needed to use a public bathroom and there was a long line. I went away for a while then returned. The line was still long. It was then that I noticed that there was another side to the bathroom with several empty stalls. I went to the first one; there was no lock on the door. I went to the second one; the lock was misaligned and wouldn’t secure the door. I went to the third; the door closed but left about a five inch gap between the door and wall. On and on this seemed to go until I decided to skip it.


I like that, in that dream, I was more in control. Hopefully that’s a good reflection on my life right now. Outwardly, it doesn’t seem like I’m in control. I have to depend on others for transportation, translation, advice, directions and all sorts of things. Inwardly, however, I am holding up well. I may fall to pieces for a few minutes (this has happened twice, both times in the morning first thing on a Monday) but I get myself in the gym on the elliptical and start praying and within the hour, I’m fine.

And my dreams remind me of how much I miss you. About two weeks ago I dreamed that I was in St. Paul for two days. I was frantically working out a way to see everyone in that short amount of time. That, of course, was impossible so I was mixed with feelings of elation in seeing some of my friends and regret in missing out on my only chance to visit with some of you. I think that is close to what is going on within me. I am glad of this opportunity; I love my life. I'm also a little uneasy. A future post will tell you exactly what I miss (and do not miss) about living in our United States of America.

Don't You Dare Pinch Me

Lately my life has seemed too good to be true. I keep waiting for that something to happen. I am living a life relatively few people get a real chance to live. I have the support of my friends and family back home as well as my new friends here in the Embassy community. There are a few times in my life that I can bring to mind where everything came together just for a moment or two and I was overly ecstatic with joy. So much so in some cases I had to get away - it was too good for me to take for long. I'm there. But now I've learned to revel in it. And I'm learning to spread it around while I'm here.

A view of our entryway from the living room. Sorry about the crooked camera. I'm trying.

There are stages of welcoming. Just as a house (like ours in Tashkent) can have an immediate

entryway before being in the main body of the house, so can an arrival to a new country. When Doug and I arrived in Tashkent we were jet lagged. But it was Monday - a work day for Doug. So we dropped off our luggage at the house and headed for the Embassy. (They let me accompany him on the first day to meet people and tour the Embassy.) This was akin to walking in from a storm into someone's house and taking off your coat, hat and boots and saying hello.

Initially, you are made as comfortable and welcome as possible. People are very accommodating. You are given the best seat in the house. You are served a drink and some fancy appetizers to comfort you. Some preliminary small talk is made as you relax into your new surroundings with the folks who are there. You sit and look around. Maybe you are even given a tour of the house. That first Monday in Tashkent, we met with the Charge d'affaire as there is currently no Ambassador. We also met with Doug's boss, the heads of Security and Human Resources and the Medical Officer. We were given a tour and were briefly introduced to many more people. I remember immediately feeling a part of the mission in Tashkent rather then "just a spouse". I like that they take my presence here as seriously as I do even though I do not, will not (in a box, with a fox) work in the Embassy.

Our living room.

After all the niceties are over it's time to get down to the purpose of the visit - dinner, a game or a meeting. Doug, of course, went right to work Tuesday finding his way around the systems and hallways. I started a routine of walking to the Embassy with him in the morning in order to exercise. I return later for lunch with him. The first couple of weeks I spent a lot of time in the Community Liaison Office. They have a computer there I used to access e-mail and my blog while we awaited Internet connection at our house. They are also the social pulse point of Embassy Life. I decided right away to say yes to (almost) everything then eventually pair down to what I really want to do. I have joined the Tashkent Women's International Group. (I am one of only two or three Americans in this group. I am one of the very few American-born spouses in the Embassy. There's an old joke that you can tell a Foreign Service's Officer's first post by the nationality of his/her spouse.) I signed up for Russian lessons which I have one hour a day, five days a week. This is my priority right now. I want more time for writing but if I don't learn Russian I don't stand a chance of leaning Uzbek folktales or sharing our folktales with local people here.

Our dining room. The furniture is quite nice. The fireplace is wood burning. The mess on the table is my Russian homework. I was unwilling to pick it up and rearrange it for this photo!

When you have an extended visit sooner or later you have to pitch in and help. You may be company, but you are not served as often and you have to wash some dishes. Doug and I have signed up to help out with the Halloween party. I am telling spooky stories and Doug is roasting hot dogs. (The food is great here, but I can't wait to have a hot dog!) I have written a couple of articles for Uz News, the Embassy newsletter and plan to write more. The first was on our trip to Nukus; the second was about a hiking trip I went on. We are hosting a meeting at our house for the General Services Officers in a week or so. I have no idea what I'm going to do for that since, at this point we don't have our own transportation and there are only tiny convenience marts and a fruit/vegetable stand within walking distance.

So I go along here hoping I don't wake up; hoping no one pinches me. Every Wednesday Irina comes to clean our house. I was against this on the principle that I'd wind up spoiled. But when I found out that she cleans everything, washes our clothes and linens, irons for $15/week I broke down. And she's sweet. She does not speak English which left me a bit distraught the first week but now I appreciate the extra help and practice with my Russian skills.

Saturday morning Doug and I are going on a Tashkent tour. Saturday night we are having dinner with Doug's boss and his wife. Monday I am attending a tea with the spouses of the Embassy employees. Sometimes I feel like it's too cushy. Then I walk by that dining room table and see the Russian cards strewn and I remember what I must do. I honestly love both the social life and the study life. They are both difficult; they both give me headaches. They both give me a prideful feeling and are rewarding.

Busy being unemployed

My year in Virginia was the first year of my adult life I didn't work a paying job. I loved it and kept busier than I thought I would. I accomplished alot and stayed pretty disciplined. I began being concerned that when I got to Tashkent I would relax too much and start sitting around. That's not happening and there are a few reasons for that.

The first reason is our social sponsor, Jennifer. Jennifer has invited us to more lunches and dinners than I can count. She had game night at her house which we went to and she took us to a bazaar to shop. Whenever we ride with her she acts as a tour guide pointing out landmarks to help us navagate the city and find our way home, good restaurants, suspicious restaurants and good hotels. Everyone really looks out for each other to make sure you aren't too lonely or bored.

Another reason is my friend, Alexandra who I met in Virginia. She took the liberty of signing me up for EVERYTHING. Thanks to Alexandra I have attended the Tashkent Tennis Open, had lunch at the Charge d'affair's home, and joined the Tashkent Women's International Group.

I go the Embassy with Doug in the mornings and exercise for an hour. After that I come home and clean up then go right back to the Embassy or one hour of private Russian lessons with Milana, a very patient woman. I am supposed to learn all the new words I was exposed to that day for the next day's lesson so some of my time throughout the day is study time. I am also able to get in plenty of writing time. Right now I'm working on a ghost story for Douglas for Halloween.

Doug and I plan on taking advantage of all the excursions the Community Liason Office at the Embassy offers. This past weekend we went to Nukus and Moynok - a port city during the days of the former Aral Sea. I'll share a brief story about the fate of the Aral Sea but if you're really interested it's worth looking up. Uzbekistan has always been an agricultural country with cotton being the main crop. The problem is that Uzbekistan is desert and water is difficult to get for crops. They saw two major rivers flowing into the Aral Sea and decided to divert one of them to use as water for crops. Eventually the Sea bean to dry up. It is not entirely gone, but it has shrunk to only 10% of its original size. There remains there a "ship graveyard" and a vast expanse of dry, cracked low vegetation bearing land. It's quite sobering and sad. Those who think the actions of mankind cannot affect the earth that much need to read about the Aral Sea. I wrote up a short article about our trip for the Embassy newsletter, "Uz News".

I am, perhaps, writing this entry prematurely as there are many things I plan on doing but have not yet done. This includes volunteering to do storytelling at the local international school. I look forward to leading a "Chai Chat". A "Chai Chat" is a gathering at the Embassy for local students to hear English, learn something about the United States and practice their English speaking skills. I plan on telling some stories and getting them involved in some storytelling. I really want to get out, meet local residents and learn some Uzbek folklore. My Russian skills must be much better before I can do that. One of the men who works with Doug - a foreign national - heard that I want to learn Uzbek folktales so he told me about a Russian language collection of them that is out of print but he said I may be able to find it at a used bookstore. Three days later he handed me a copy as a gift. These are good, caring people.

I am trying to take my position here as seriously as Doug takes his Embassy job. I am, after all, living off taxpayer money and those of you who know THAT side of me know how important it is to me that taxes are used smartly. Those of you who don't know that side of me - you don't want to. I feel a personal accountability to you for my time here and I will keep you posted as to my progress and experiences.

I came here to learn Uzbek folktales but, as I look at my situation I realize that, since this is our first post I think my real goal is experience.

I got some experience on the trip watching some Kazakh school children picking cotton and wanting their pictures taken with us. (In the picture to the left is my friend Alexandra and her husband, Terry, with a few of the children we met.) I experienced eating lunch in a yurt (a felt covered mobile home shaped like an igloo but kind of tee-pee like). I experienced in Uzbek art. Islam does not allow depictions of living things so their art is either thinly disguised people and animals or landscapes and still life. As we drove the two and a half hours to Moynoq we'd occasionally see a man squatting at the side of the road. This aroused my curiosity as there were no structures in sight. (See the above picture of the dry Aral Sea bed - the land we drove through didn't look that much different.) Where did he come from? Where was he going? How would he get there? There is a whole different world of experiences here for me.

After the roadtrip and staying in my first Uzbek hotel and seeing the yurt I was heartened that upon returning to our house here in the compound I felt like I was coming home.

Back to the Desert

Note to readers: I know, I know - my picture placement, sizing, etc. leaves everything to be desired. I'm learning. Bear with me. My writing is much better . . .

The desert can be a very deceitful place especially if you are unfamiliar with it. I was born in a desert and it always upset me to hear people say "There's nothing there." It didn't make me angry-upset; it confused me and gave me not a little pity for them. For I had sat in the backseat of our family car and ridden through Death Valley in the summer time and seen the same thing they had seen. They saw nothing; I saw space.* I saw ground that allowed growth in the most unlikely places. I saw sky uninterrupted by steel-constructed sky scrapers (which, to me, scraped the sky bloody). I saw potential - not like a land "developer" (read: ruiner) would. I saw true freedom. Freedom to wander forever, to let my feet go one way and my thoughts go another. I saw privacy - a necessity. If you live in the uncivilized desert your contact with people is rarer and more deliberate, not forced daily.

The desert doesn't give much to us, we must hunt and gather to receive its offerings. We have to look closely to see that gila monster or snake since they so ingeniously blend into their environment, unlike we humans. It takes some work, sometimes, to see things in the desert. And we don't like to work, do we? One cannot live unconsciously in the desert as one can in a city where there is always a sign telling you explicitly what to do and where to go. The signs in the desert are more cryptic.

Part of the nothingness people see is their perceived lack of color in the desert. The desert isn't obvious with its sharing its many colors.

These two plants are the same type of plant seen at diferent angles. What a difference in color!

The greens of the cacti are dusty and soft. The mountains are a strong and quiet granite-blue. Ireland is praised for it's forty shades of green. No one sings of the deserts forty shades of tan and brown. Again, it takes thought to see color in the desert unless it is sunrise or sunset when the sky edges the darker land under the purple mountains with an orange-peach-pink glow. It takes thought and effort to see the color in the desert - that lizard is not the exact same shade as that rock! - unless the cacti are in bloom. That is as aggressive as the desert gets with its color. Maybe it's stingy. Maybe it saves the treats for occasions instead of spoiling us. You can learn appreciation in the desert.

When I was 28 I left the desert for Minnesota and North Carolina - both of which are about as polar opposite as one can get from Phoenix. Minnesota's cold shocked and hurt me after Phoenix's intense heat. The moisture of North Carolina soothed me but made it a challenge to look good in the humid summers.

When I lived in Phoenix I drove around in a convertible with the top down - no air conditioner - all summer long. It felt good. After years of living in Minnesota and North Carolina my routine February trip home somehow migrated to July. The heat and the sun's intensity were not as comfortable any more. I had gone from one extreme to the other. The last summer I was in Phoenix it hit a record 122 degrees and when I arrived in Minnesota they had the famous "Halloween Storm" when it snowed a record 28+ inches before the plows were ready for winter.
Not only did I have to change outwardly in buying a new wardrobe I had to change inwardly in my attitude toward the extreme weather. All this while learning to navigate a new city, find a new job and new friends.

Last Monday, September 13, 2010, I began repeating this process in Tashkent. There are a few more variables this time - new language, new food, new cultures (both the local culture and the Embassy culture).

My life is so different today than when I lived in Phoenix. I'm married. I am unemployed. I have all the freedom in the world to do and learn and experience. I am different within myself. I am much more disciplined, less selfish and more broad minded. I never again want to live as I did in Phoenix yet I can't help but wonder if something - even one aspect - will come full circle in my return to the desert.
The vans you see are ours. We are standing on an ancient fort built of mud.

*I recently read a book by Mary Doriah Riley called "Children of God". In the book a signal is heard from space. The sound is of singing. A group travels through space to make contact with a planet's known inhabitants. One of the members of the team is a linguist who, after listening to the singing, figured out a good deal of the language. These beings do not have a word for 'ceiling', 'floor', or 'wall' even though their structures have all those features. They refer to their dwellings by a word that indicates the space within those peramiters. I thought that was very interesting.