This is post #5 in a series of edited versions of my blog from 2010/11 when I studied Persian in Tajikistan. The first post is here, and more are to come!
Mid September
Yesterday, our language class went to lunch at the cafeteria of a Russian school nearby. I was warned against eating the meat, but I ignored this advice, as I had gotten cocky being “healthy” for at least four days in a row. The meat was disgusting, so I only ate one bite, but the borscht—delicious! The creamy white sauce stuff they put in the borscht did me in, though. Later, it hit me in the middle of the night. I’m not sure if there’s a worse way to wake up than having someone shouting you awake (Army times), waking up to water dripping on you (camping and/or Army times), or what I would now add: waking up with the shits. It is probably a close third.
My host mom seems to take a strange pleasure in identifying—through her interrogation techniques—what it was that I ate and when that made me sick. She is so assured that her food is good and fresh (freshly made it is, but that’s a relative term), and there’s a slight hint of Schadenfreude in her voice when she says, “Ah, yes, Russian food, the cream….bacterias…” her voice trailing off with a downward glance of her eyes. This time, I took the Imodium right away and recovered by 11 am.
This evening, something strange happened—strange for me, of course—and I’m still trying to figure out if it was unusual for my family. Two men in suits came to the house, and then Baharon, the sixteen-year-old, called his uncle Umed (who I refer to as my host brother because we’re the same age). It seemed serious. The men all retired to the kitchen, so I didn’t hear what went down (I was doing homework on the kot, as I’ve learned I must be visible or they think they’re bad hosts).
After some time had passed, both men used the bathroom—the one where my personally purchased fluffy toilet paper is, which they used up—and then they left. I asked what it had been about, and they told me it was the police coming to see if they had paid their taxes! Can you imagine the police in America coming into people’s homes and demanding to see their tax returns (and taking a dump in your bathroom to boot!)? I need to find out more about this incident; it’s very perplexing to me. Why would the police (exactly what kind of police are they even?) know to come to this house? Do they go to everyone’s house? Were they tipped off that an American was living here? Who knows? My Tajiki isn’t good enough, and my patience isn’t long enough today to figure it out.
16 September
I’m such a wimp. I broke down and went to the Hyatt Hotel for lunch. It was raining for two days; everything was getting goopy and muddy—the half-dirt, half-paved roads turned into mud rivers. I heard from a bunch of expats that the Hyatt had a good fixed-price, three-course meal of equivalent US prices. As I entered the huge revolving door, it was like levitating into a different plane. It’s a 5-star hotel by any standards, and the service was up to par. There was a hostess, waiters, a very enthusiastic head waiter, bartenders, and chefs at all levels, including sous chefs.
I realized how absolutely spoiled I had become as an American woman—I want to live in a universe where it’s not strange for me to be a woman alone, eating or working or doing whatever I want—but alone. I sat there in awe at the sterile yet pleasantly quiet environment. It was amazing. I only made it two weeks here before wanting my share of luxury again. It also felt silly. All the poverty was right around the corner, and here I was, using three plates and seven utensils for one meal with ten waiters. In a way, it was like a sterile version of my host family where I will forever be the “Mehman,” the guest being served by them.
Friday 17 September
Yesterday, after I gave up on my host family’s food, my host brother’s wife, the house Kelim, returned. She had been staying two weeks at a medical clinic with her disabled son for some kind of treatment. I guess they do have some assistance, after all, for the disabled? I think she rules the roost domestically speaking, so things have improved somewhat as far as having food forced upon me. She maintains a regular schedule of meals and cleaning (as expected from a Kelim), and I can communicate well with her about my needs and their expectations. It’s also true that since I’m older than everyone in the family except Bibi, Grandma (who I call my host mom), I’m in an even more Mehman situation because here, the younger serve the elders.
I’m never really sure what the heck is going on here in this family; every day is a new adventure. They don’t inform me of what is happening ahead of time, or at least, in a way that I can understand. Bibi’s first daughter (the second was Baharon’s mom, who died last year) was visiting from Uzbekistan with her three younger kids. Her oldest daughter lives with Bibi in Dushanbe. The husband back home is apparently not the best, and it’s clear that though she’s only a bit older than me, this woman has had a rough life.
Tajik Pop Science
Overhead in other (not my) host families:
You and I (westerners) don’t need to eat as much food because we don’t have the same microbes as they do, which eat half of their food, so they have to eat more.
The weather here is what’s giving you diarrhea.
Drinking cold beverages is unhealthy.
They are going house to house, providing free doses of an AIDs vaccine.
Things in Fashion in Tajikistan
Pointy-toed shoes on men.
Spraying on more perfume instead of showers.
Skinny pants.
Leggings.
MC-Hammer pants on women (otherwise known as “Harem pants”).
Mix-matched colorful multi-design scarves and dresses.
The Hijab – despite the Tajik government’s best attempts at secularization.
Glitter.
Rhinestones.
Gold teeth.
Spitting in public.
Bribery.
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