Language and Culture

About a month after we arrived Doug's coworkers (Uzbek citizens) gave us a gift of traditional Uzbek wedding garb. They are elaborate, as you can see. We had no idea what to wear with them so there we are in our jeans. What a nice memory of Tashkent culture and the kindness of those with whom Doug works.

In Uzbek culture, when two people who know each other greet each other they ask the same sort of questions we’d ask someone we hadn’t spoken to for a while: How are you? How is your family? Are you still happy at your job? Is your house in order? Etc. The funny thing is, they ask these questions without breaking to await an answer and simultaneously. They talk right over each other not waiting or expecting responses. Kind of like when we say “How are you?” and all we really want to hear is “Fine, thanks.” To hear someone really tell how they are can be throw one’s day out of balance. Several years ago, I got tired of always saying “Fine.” I had read somewhere what a shame it was that we asked people how they were but really didn’t care too much. So I started truthfully answering the question. I’m grumpy today. Hungry. Happy. Sad. I usually didn’t give details, I just answered truthfully. That is a habit I cannot continue in Russian. When asked by one of the guards how I was and I replied “tired” he corrected me. There is a typical answer which translates “normal” in English – whatever that is. So I’m walking around Tashkent telling people I’m normal!

One of the frustrations of studying Russian is the way they print their language. They use the Cyrillic alphabet which has two letters which look similar: e and ë. The problem is, in much printed material (like my textbook) they don’t print ë, they just print e. Apparently, this stems back to the early years of printing when making those two little dots was difficult. I have no idea why publishers haven’t realized the year and progress that has been made in printing but they insist on keeping e and ë looking the same thus misspelling many words. These two letters do not sound alike. e sounds like “yeh” and ë sounds like “yo” (long o). What winds up happening is, I make lots of errors when reading text because of their misspellings. I’m frustrated. Learning this language is difficult enough without the deliberate misspelling of words which leads me to mispronounce them.

What really blows my mind is how everyone just laughs at me as though it is such a little thing to get worked up about. Imagine picking up a novel to read in which none of the lower case t’s were crossed and they all looked like l’s. We are familiar enough with our own language that we’d figure out what the word was supposed to be but I imagine we’d have to pause plenty of times thus interrupting our reading. Would you give such a book to someone learning English?

When I started studying Russian, I was taught the alphabet that included e and ë. I wonder why they didn’t just put two e’s next to each other and try to teach us that one is pronounced “yeh” and the other pronounced “yo”. I’ll tell you why. Because the next question from the students would have been, “How will we know when to say “yeh” and when to say “yo”? They would have had to answer, “You won’t know. Not until you’re fluent, anyway. In the meantime, you just have to memorize them.” It’s funny in writing; it’s not so funny in the classroom.

In my last blog I told you I would be telling stories at a Chai Chat. I did that and it went very well. I arrived a little over 30 minutes early to get a feel for the room and set up. The students arrived a full 30 minutes early! No alone preparation time for me! For ten minutes or so they sat and I stood and we all looked at each other. (I get shy at the darndest times.) I made myself walk up the aisle to see what would happen. Questions happened. I stopped three times to answer questions from three different groups of students. Where are you from? What job do/did you have? What grammatical mistakes do Americans make? And many comments like, “Your Russian isn’t too good but if you keep practicing it will be.” One boy wanted to know some American slang. My first thought was, ‘I’m the wrong one to ask.’ The only thing I could think of is how some young men call each other “Dawg” as in “’sup Dawg?” He liked the sound of that.

As is typical in Tashkent, about 95% of the students were wearing all black or dark gray. I noticed one colored sweater. I attended the next week’s Chai Chat given by a friend of mine and had the time to count how many people were wearing a color other than black. I counted 10 out of about 170. These are the same people, by the way, who walk in the road rather than the sidewalk and are comfortable doing this at night. One more reason I don’t want to drive here.

The students enjoyed the stories and participating in the storytelling game we played. They knew their parts of speech! In America I played this game in the schools in which I’d ask the students to name some nouns, adjectives and places – which they could easily do. When I asked them to name prepositions I usually had to teach them what a preposition is. These kids knew.

Afterwards, some students came to me with more questions. One girl asked me if I thought that people could learn all about life from stories. I answered her wrong. I hope she writes me (she has my e-mail). I told her that I think you just might be able to. She then told me that sometimes people tell lies in their stories when they are trying to teach about life. I agreed. I added that sometimes we are just not ready for the lesson of the story so it seems wrong or impossible. One boy came up to me to inform me that I had not answered the question he had asked me during the question and answer period. I must tell you that this boy spoke English but was trying to hard to have an American accent with proper “Rs” that he contorted his mouth and I had a difficult time understanding him. After asking him to repeat himself (during the Q & A period) I just said something like “I think I know what you’re trying to ask me . . .” and I gave an answer. He was very polite about it.

I know we cannot learn all about life from stories; we must live life to learn it. I also know that using stories can speed up the process.

A Chai Chat

On January 14, I am going to do what is called a Chai Chat. This is an weekly event at the Embassy. It is an opportunity for local students to visit the American Embassy, hear one of the diplomats or spouses talk and take questions thereby practicing their English.



I went to one Chai Chat when I first arrived. A woman led songs from her childhood. She had a room full of high school students singing “Old MacDonald” “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” (in a round), “ABC”,“This Land is Your Land”, “B-I-N-G-O”, “The Eensy Weensy (or Itsy Bitsy, depending on where you were raised) Spider” and more. At the end she asked which were favorites that they wanted to sing again and she got several requests. I was amazed that high school students would want to sing songs like that. Most of them sang, laughed and really seemed to have a good time.


At my Chai Chat I am going to do storytelling with them. Most of you know that my main goal here in Tashkent is to get strong enough in my Russian language skills that I can go out and learn local folklore from people and share American folklore with locals. It will be a long time before I’m ready for that, but this Chai Chat is an opportunity for me to start sharing and I can do it in English.


I will begin with a story I often begin with when I go into elementary schools and tell. It is a personal story about how I thought my father did not love me when I was growing up. I share a (slightly embellished) story of the day I broke my arm while trying to pop a wheely on my bicycle. I go on and on about how mommy comforted me but all dad did was yell and be grumpy. Why? Because when I came home injured I dropped my bike at the foot of the driveway – a no-no. He was under the car changing the oil and yelled for me to pick up my bike. I was in pain and ignored him. He came into the kitchen angry with me while mom was comforting me. He started to tell me again to pick the bike up when he realized I was really hurt. He knew he had to get me to the hospital. The more he tried to hurry the more obstacles he encountered: the oil change had to be finished, the bike in the drive had to be driven around, he had to contend with traffic and red lights on the way to the hospital, the car had to be parked, paperwork had to be filled out, etc. etc. All the time he dealt with all this (read: yelling at the drivers, swearing under – or on top of – his breath) mommy was holding me and comforting me. Obviously daddy didn’t love me but mommy did, right? The students to whom I’ve told this story jump to my dad’s defense. It’s really encouraging. This is an excellent “bridge” story; we all have something like this in common.


I haven’t chosen all the stories I’ll tell that day but I will include some storytelling games where the students work together in creating a story or two.


Sometimes I feel so foreign here, like I am so different that I don’t belong. I understand that. Yet I also know that, though I am so different, I am as much the same. I’ve shared with you what a difficult time I have understanding spoken Russian - even words I know and use. The other day at the vegetable stand I frequent, a man said something to me right after taking a big bite of something. It came out just as it would in English, all garbled and incomprehensible. I turned and looked at a couple of women who were watching this (women who recognize me and know I do not speak much Russian) and I made mumbling sounds and a funny face. We all laughed together (except the man – he didn’t notice). Humor is a great bond.


Stories also make a strong bond. Many countries have their own version of Cinderella, for instance. Many cultures and religions have their unique version of the creation and great flood stories. Through all the variations in the story details (Did Cinderella have a fairy godmother or a magic tree? A prince or an enchanted fish? Did it rain or did someone cry until the earth flooded?) the story still comes through.


It is important to me to teach people of all ages that they can often find within themselves what they so desperately seek elsewhere. For instance, people everywhere turn to strangers for entertainment (television, cinema, recorded music, etc.) when good company can be as entertaining and much more rewarding than television every will be. When I taught piano I loved the house parties where we played for each other all night. I particularly loved Halloween parties that usually wound up with the late partiers telling scary stories to each other. I’ll take that over a good, fright film anytime – and I LOVE fright films. When Doug and I lived in Minnesota, we regularly gathered with people and sang. This was no formal choir; we never performed. Sometimes we didn’t sound very good; sometimes we sounded excellent and to be a part of that sound was very exciting – more exciting than singing along with a new recording by my favorite group. So, with that said, I want to inspire these Uzbek students to turn to their own creativity and the ingenuity of their friends for entertainment. It’s free. It is more rewarding to feel a part of the “show” rather than envying those strangers who are. It brings out of us what we weren’t aware of, it awakens what we have put to sleep and it develops a maturity in us. I am speaking of trusting our intuition, trusting others to teach and to learn through story or music and reviving the old endangered value of a close knit group versus a broad spectrum of acquaintances.


I need to say that I find nothing wrong with watching some television or paying top dollar for concert tickets. It’s getting lost in the near worship of celebrity that is disturbing to me. I also see the value in having a broad spectrum of acquaintances; it enhances our world perspective first hand. I think it is dangerous to have 10,000 'friends' on Facebook and no one to sit down and laugh or cry with when you need it at 2:00 AM.

I'll close with a few pictures of a Tashkent snow. I'm posting these with my Minnesota friends in mind. You recently got somewhere in the neighborhood of three feet of snow, right? We got about a third of an inch! But, remember, this place if very similar to Phoenix weather-wise so that's big, exciting stuff! You couldn't shovel this snow if you wanted to. Calvin (from Calvin and Hobbes) would have to do his snowmen house of horrors in miniature. It snowed all morning and, by late afternoon, it sounded like it was raining because of the melt. The top right picture shows the infamous tree from "The Hill and the Tree" post of December 5.

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!