A visit to Mascho

A VISIT TO MASCHO

Late Friday afternoon we left Khujand on a journey to our friend Jalol’s village, Mascho. We would stay overnight and meet his family and see his village. It was a one hour journey, changing vehicles three times.

The village is positioned behind the mountain range that we see daily in Khujand. It is a village with a good water supply, a swift open canal runs through its centre and consequently the village is a refreshing green colour with many trees, cotton fields, and corn and grass crops. Livestock are more abundant. The cotton plants are lush and tall, a stark contrast to other places we had passed.

A number of donkey pulling wagons are visible on the roads, many driven by young boys carting corn plants and grasses for animal feed to be stored in winter.

We walk a short distance to Jalol’s home. The houses are well constructed from mud bricks and some have stone walls. People stare at us with surprise and curiosity. Foreigners must be very rare!

Jalol’s family welcome us, his father and mother, his younger brother and in the background two younger sisters. There are smiles and hand shakes and the usual Tajik greetings.

We are quickly ushered into their guest room, a vividly painted room with the centre picture painted of a mosque. Arabic writing also adorned the walls. Mascho is a strong Muslim village and prides itself as such.
Korpachas are laid out ready for us and the dustahon begins to be laid. First the platters of candies, then the most enormous bread arrive, four wheels of it. This bread is typical of this region and is made with milk, oil, salt, yeast and flour and cooked in the tanoor, the clay oven. Soon Jalol’s mother brings trays of watermelon and grapes. The ladies begin to prepare ‘osh’.

After chatting and eating we were encouraged to look over their ‘hovli’, their home.
The ‘hovli’ consisted of a number of large and small rooms for guests and sleeping. Some are interconnected while others have their own entrances. Within the centre of the hovli is a large garden with fruit trees, vegetables and a large walnut tree. The walnut tree is considered as a very valuable winter food. Running down one side of the garden are different mud brick rooms of different sizes. Firstly the kitchen, then some dry grass and dry twig storage for fires, next the tanoor and a place where osh is cooked, then the chicken area which housed 8 chickens, another storage room, followed by a pit toilet, a small shelter for the cow, a donkey stable and a few shelters for yet more storage.







Here’s a picture of Jalol’s mother cooking the osh over the fire. The second picture is their kitchen.
Osh is ready so we all go back to eat again. The day has been very hot and the room is many degrees higher in temperature. After numerous drinks of tea and lemonade I still feel like I haven’t quenched my thirst. It’s difficult to eat a lot of osh when you still thirsty! Tajik people do not drink a lot and are often astonished by the volumes of liquids we need to drink.

Two sleepy boys and a throbbing headache send three of us off to bed early. A room has been set aside for our family. Four korpachas, two layers thick have been placed side by side. Blankets have been given as well but you can be sure that we will still cook under nothing at all. I didn’t sleep well. My head was throbbing; it was very hot, yet peacefully quiet. The occasional flea, mosquito or flying ant also wanted to dine on us.

Early dawn was greeted with the call to prayer, while the women swept the concrete and watered it carefully to keep down the dust. The youngest brother milked the cow routinely at 6am. We lay in bed still resting.

Breakfast was a bowl of hot, fresh milk, bread, butter, grapes and tea.

It was after breakfast that the men left for a visit over the village. Even with tactical manoeuvring it was insisted that I should stay behind with the women. I really wanted to see over the village too, but later was quite glad I hadn’t!! The men visited the men of course. They visited the butcher shop, Jalol’s relatives and the workmen who had been out in the fields. The men do specific tasks quite different to the women.
Jalol’s mother and I went visiting. We walked down some quiet streets to a neighbourhood house, a relative.
Another dustahon was laid with plates of candies, bread, watermelon and nuts. We drank tea together watched a Russian soap for a short time then on leaving I noticed what looked like eggs in a large flat ‘nest’ hanging from a limb of a tree. I asked ‘were they eggs?’ My mistake! She quickly hurried over to the hanging platter and carefully took one and gave it to me. They were not eggs at all, but soft yoghurt balls that they use for a traditional dish called ‘kirtob’. Kirtob is a platter of fried onions and small pieces of meat, layered between bread which is soaked in a yoghurt sour sauce. It’s actually quite delicious, though unusual. Unfortunately the yoghurt balls on their own are not quite so delicious!

We returned home to prepare lunch. My hunger was non existent. I had been nibbling all day. You learn quickly to eat only very small amounts because food just keeps coming.
Lunch was served in the guestroom with just the women, the men were still away. Then the sisters dragged out a few family photos and took great delight in explaining who was who.

Voices interrupted our discussions as the men returned. The women moved outside while the men filtered in to be served. I was glad to retreat to the company of the women and the cooler outdoors.

It was funny the women were so curious about me. They wanted to know what I put on my cheeks and eyebrows and were surprised when I said just water. You would find them searching my face with interest. They loved to sit close and giggled and smiled.

Neighbourhood ladies arrive bringing large gifts of food plates, first ‘osh’ then ‘kirtob’. Everyone expected you to eat, or at least have a taste. It is quite insulting not to take something. (I had been eating all day) They found it amusing when I said I was full and that I had been eating all day, or that I was becoming very fat! Each visitor continued to sit with us and talk quietly. I heard parts of my story be retold many times. They were particularly amazed at the age of my grandmother’s age turning 99 years old this September.

Finally the afternoon came to a close and we were returning home. It had been a wonderful experience and we had enjoyed a family’s very gracious hospitality, typical of the village Tajik people.

Jalol’s mother and I went visiting. We walked down some quiet streets to a neighbourhood house, a relative.
Another dustahon was laid with plates of candies, bread, watermelon and nuts. We drank tea together watched a Russian soap for a short time then on leaving I noticed what looked like eggs in a large flat ‘nest’ hanging from a limb of a tree. I asked ‘were they eggs?’ My mistake! She quickly hurried over to the hanging platter and carefully took one and gave it to me. They were not eggs at all, but soft yoghurt balls that they use for a traditional dish called ‘kirtob’. Kirtob is a platter of fried onions and small pieces of meat, layered between bread which is soaked in a yoghurt sour sauce. It’s actually quite delicious, though unusual. Unfortunately the yoghurt balls on their own are not quite so delicious!

We returned home to prepare lunch. My hunger was non existent. I had been nibbling all day. You learn quickly to eat only very small amounts because food just keeps coming.
Lunch was served in the guestroom with just the women, the men were still away. Then the sisters dragged out a few family photos and took great delight in explaining who was who.

Voices interrupted our discussions as the men returned. The women moved outside while the men filtered in to be served. I was glad to retreat to the company of the women and the cooler outdoors.

It was funny the women were so curious about me. They wanted to know what I put on my cheeks and eyebrows and were surprised when I said just water. You would find them searching my face with interest. They loved to sit close and giggled and smiled.

Neighbourhood ladies arrive bringing large gifts of food plates, first ‘osh’ then ‘kirtob’. Everyone expected you to eat, or at least have a taste. It is quite insulting not to take something. (I had been eating all day) They found it amusing when I said I was full and that I had been eating all day, or that I was becoming very fat! Each visitor continued to sit with us and talk quietly. I heard parts of my story be retold many times. They were particularly amazed at the age of my grandmother’s age turning 99 years old this September.

Finally the afternoon came to a close and we were returning home. It had been a wonderful experience and we had enjoyed a family’s very gracious hospitality, typical of the village Tajik people.

A picture of young cola delivery boys!

A neighbour's wedding

Wedding no2!

Late Friday night we received an invitation to our neighbour’s wedding. The eldest son was to be married and had arrived from Moscow for his wedding.

Our neighbours had spent the last few months renovating their apartment in preparation for the wedding.

The wedding invitation stated that the celebration would begin at 6pm the next evening., but the neighbour’s daughter said to wait outside at 6pm for a lift to the reception centre.

Before 6pm we got dressed up and the waited outside but it looked visibly quiet and vacant. Sure enough miscommunication had happened (typical) and we had missed our lift. The policeman downstairs insisted on driving us to the venue, a police escort!

When we arrived there were two large groups of women and men. Women were in their sparkly dresses and head scarfs and men standing back in shirt and pants. We couldn’t find any recognisable faces and we ‘stuck out’ a mile! We decided to stand together on our own!

Soon the wedding car arrived with beeping horns and everyone filed into the reception centre. Our neighbours welcomed us and had us taken to the ‘neighbourhood’ table where we caught up with familiar faces, pheww!
The celebrations began as the bride and groom entered. There were mainly women at this part of the wedding celebration. Their outfits were very colourful and interesting. We had many plates of salads, fruit, chocolates and nuts, but the main meals of mantou (like a meat filled dumpling - delicious, my favourite!) then meat rissoles, and lastly juicy pieces of lamb.

The reception room was extremely hot! The fans were blowing but sweat was running off us and the ladies all fanned themselves and wiped their faces with serviettes.

Speeches were made, music blasted, and many people danced. The Tajiks are excellent, natural dancers. Even the young children dance with poise and grace and wonderful expression. We danced (we had too!) with the neighbours who grinned at us and enjoyed the dancing. I’m still not sure if they were grinning at our strange style or just enjoying the fun.

At every speech the bride bowed from under her veil. The bride and groom didn’t speak but stood to attention showing respect to their parents by their behaviour.

The bride looked very pretty in a white dress.

Celebrations over, we head off…………


………….the next day we received a plate of ‘osh’ from our new ‘kellin’ neighbour. (It was cooked by the bride’s mother). We were then beckoned inside their apartment to greet the new couple. The dining table was set with the usual nuts, chocolates, fruit, bread and teapots. The extended family greeted us and encouraged us to eat something. It is very rude not to take a little of most foods to enjoy. We chatted in Tajik and then found out the new bride knew English! Then we chatted with her! It is traditional for her to be covered with a red veil and to bow three times as guests enter. She then sits silently at the table with her head bowed. (I felt sorry for her!). I asked in Tajik if I was allowed to speak to her. They replied of course and that was when we found out she spoke English.
The bride and groom are both students. The groom is returning to his studies in Moscow and he will take his new bride with him. She will also continue her studies in a new university. The young bride was leaving Khojand in one week’s time with her new husband. She would have no family or friends there and a man she has only just begun to know. My heart goes out to her…………………..!!

tajik wedding

Tajik Wedding

Saturday afternoon saw me arriving at the home of Fotima and Bobo, our Tajik family. I was greeted with the usual grin and customary kisses from Fotima, three alternating cheeks.

Fotima hurried me inside the home to sit with the other ladies around the dustahon. The older women of the family were there and gave me the place of honour furthest from the door. I was told ‘take, take’ the words they use to eat from the dustahon. Sambooza, cakes and biscuits, cherries and the usual variety of nuts and candies were present. Tea was plentiful and small talk about families, bazaar prices and weather was plentiful.
The children mainly played outside, some little ones slept and babies were nursed. The hovli was busy with activity. A huge, wood fired, tall kettle was boiling for teapot refills and also the largest ‘osh deg’ was cooking in the garden.

People seemed to come and go. The place was buzzing! I was told I could probably go for 1-2 hours then leave, but this was not the case. It was insisted that I had to stay and later I understood why. The hired plastic tables were soon laden with hundreds of small plates. Four different salads, more sambooza and cake plates, dishes of yoghurt / dill mixture, fruits, sweet meringue in small cups for dipping bread in, the usual trays of nibbles, and on top of this, rounds of non all graced the tables. Room was made for teapots and piolas, the small tea cups used without handles. I counted over a hundred plates on the tables where I was seated, I estimated at least two hundred plates in total. Of course my Tajik family does not own this many plates or teapots! Neighbours all pool these items together and also help with the cooking. It is a great honour to supply a wedding feast with sambooza or non etc. They do this giving with generosity!


Certain family members moved rapidly around the guests, constantly serving them with food. Platter after platter, full of plates and piolas, were carried in and out. Food prepared beforehand, seemed to come from no-where, all hidden away in the bowels of the home.

As we sat and ate, a lady began to make a speech. She was the ‘director’ of this neighbourhood, having an important position of authority and respect. Her friend played the ‘doira’, a round hand held drum made from a stretched skin, and then they began to dance. Soon many women were up dancing. Dancing is incredibly natural and easy for them! Of course I was told to dance. I made my way to the centre of the courtyard with Fotima’s niece guiding me. Everyone watched! I have never been a good dancer; I have no grace for dancing! However I managed to bluff my way through the dance with a big grin, clicking my fingers the way they do. When we had finished they all clapped. I am so sorry that they may think all Aussies dance like me!! The only thing Tajik about my dancing was my finger clicking and the Tajik dress that I wore!

We were served a traditional noodle soup called ‘lagman’ made with home made noodles, then later a potato fried dish with meat on top (goat I’m sure!). Both were tasty!

A prayer was said, and then suddenly everyone was standing and saying good-bye. The appropriate time to leave was made apparent.

Part one of the wedding celebration was over. This was the woman’s special time with Shuhnoza (by the way she looked gorgeous!).

The next day we arrived again at the Tajik family home, this time as a family. Again the four of us were given the privileged place of honour around the dustahon for ‘osh’ and the usual dustahon fare. Tea was given out, but Tim received ‘tea’ from a teapot that poured a clear and cold, liquid suspiciously like ‘vodka’! We chatted with the extended family in our best Tajik language.


The day was warming up quickly. Shuhnoza was not present. We moved outside amongst the other family members and children and waited. Soon the groom arrived with his family in tow. They were beckoned into two guestrooms, one for women, and one for men. They had to be served a candy as they filed in. Gifts to the groom were given; a traditional Tajik overcoat.

Repetitive singing was heard down the street. Shuhnoza was arriving under a special blanket held overhead by the women of the family. There was great celebration as she arrived. She looked stunning. Her eyes were downcast and her face expressionless. This is extremely traditional in Tajik culture. It brings the height of shame to the bride to show any emotion or to look up and cast her eyes on the family and friends surrounding her. She travels slowly and is allowed to look up for a photo.

Inside the hovli she is placed alongside her fiancé and together they are taken into a room behind a quilted screen. The oldest family woman enters the screened area with special prayers said. Smoke arrives from dried herbs on a pan to smoke the couple. Finally they are allowed to leave the hiding screen and it is time to leave the hovli. Shuknoza eyes are downcast; she takes a few steps then bows very slowly and deliberately after each few steps. The groom also is expressionless.

They leave in a wedding car to visit the statues and monuments around the city. This is all recorded by the wedding video man who sits in the back of an open station wagon, tail gate up, to record the journey.

We catch up with the bride and groom at the restaurant reception. This is a city wedding; the villages would never afford a restaurant dinner. The guests quickly file into the restaurant. There is obviously more guests than places set. Chairs are shared, people are counted. We need to share a seat and a plate setting (it is Tajikistan!).
Plates of food are already on the tables. Later buckwheat and meat rissoles are served, and then later still, baked chicken and fries. Music is loud, a band is playing, and speeches are given. Each time a speech is made, the bride and groom stand, then the bride does her slow bow. Neither of them have eaten nor had a drink all day, it would be a disgrace to them.

Fotima gives a short speech. Bobo has remained at home. Later she showers the newly wed couple with somoni notes that the children hungrily dive on. Shuhnoza is led to the centre of the room. Her face is covered with a golden shiny scarf. Prayers are offered up for her. Gifts are placed in front to her path, blankets, kettles, glasses, saucepans etc finally the scarf is removed, she remains motionless and expressionless. The groom joins her, the gifts are whisked away, they leave arm in arm to travel to the husband’s home. Most of the formalities are completed.
We don’t know what happened next but tradition suggests that they will be greeted by the new family with loud music and the blowing of horns as they enter the hovli. The bride’s girlfriends will then ‘steal’ the bride and make the groom ‘pay’ to have her back.

Shuhnoza will stay in the home for 40 days and will not be able to visit her family. She will wear all the beautiful dresses that came with her dowry and the traditional ‘toki’ of the ‘kellin’. A bright sparkling square ‘toki’ hat will be worn for the entire time until the family tell her ‘enough’. Her duties will now be to the in-law family. She will cook and clean etc for her husband and his parents. She will need his permission in future to do many things. Her mother-in-law will also be the one to direct her from now on.
Tim and I pray that God will soften this new husband’s heart so that Shuhnoza’s life will be good. We also pray that the groom’s family will be kind.

A walk in the mountains

We bumped and bounced our way, weaving between pot holes in the road just waiting to swallow our little car, towards the mountains. We skirted the city of Khujand passing derelict buildings and industry buildings lay like carcasses picked clean, leaving a skeleton of structures once fruitful places of manufacturing, now like barren and desolate graveyards.

A gravel path leads straight towards the mountains. Shuhkrat, our driver, guide and Tajik friend, made his way cautiously along the beaten track. Sheep with lambs and goat herds lined the hillsides picking at the first tinge of green on the rocky slopes.

We arrived at a small, grassy pastureland moistened by a small spring that had appeared out of the rocks. The spring meandered its way down the slopes providing excellent watering spots for the mixed flocks.

We enjoyed a picnic lunch under the few existing trees, Tajik hamburgers washed down with RC (Coke).

A small group of cows laid in a sheltered cove. Shuhkrat lay amongst them. They were not disturbed by his presence at all.

Then it was a scramble towards the ridge to survey the view. Small tumbled rocks were scattered all over the mountains sides, with the tiniest of cactus plants and succulents erupting through the rough ground for the first time since being beneath feet of snow. The climbing was steep, but the reward when we reached the ridge was impressive. The wind blasted over the edge as we stood on the ridge top. Beneath us the mountain dropped away to black /green hills stretching for miles towards the river system. This is the river that we live beside, making its way towards Uzbekistan. But the most spectacular sight of all was the majestic peaks that soared so high in the distance with snowy peaks. The high altitude mountains could just be viewed in the distance; way above the clouds they seemed surreal as if out of place, they were far too high! The clouds and sunshine illuminated them for brief periods but the camera failed to give any justice to their incredible size and presence. The haze moved in as the temperature warmed up and then they were gone.

The rocky escarpments behind us were also very beautiful, rugged and colourful with different minerals.
We witnessed the flocks of sheep and goats moving over a ridge and scattering down into two valleys. The shepherds were moving them to watering holes and the herd seemed to move like multi coloured clouds over the ridges. The animals were black, brown and white and it was an interesting sight watching them stream over the ridges like water pouring down the sides of the mountain. They continued until they reached our initial pastured picnic spot. We were viewing them from way above on the windy ridge we had climbed.




The boys were in their element, exploring the rock formations, finding tiny spring flowers, beetles and conifer type seedlings. Every rock outcrop called to them to be discovered. They enjoyed themselves so much they dunked their heads under the spring to cool off on the way home.

We returned home amusing ourselves with the ‘roller coaster ride’ in our ‘rocket’, in reality, bumping along in the beaten up, team car.

Kite Day!

The news was out. The boys kite flying competition was to be held on Sunday. The weather was warm and the typical Khujand wind was strong.

We arrived at the venue, a large vacant ground alongside apartment blocks beneath the major university in town. People were out in force soaking up the carnival atmosphere. Shasliks were being cooked, drinks served, ice creams scooped and even white fairy floss were being consumed. Boys everywhere were tending their homemade kites. Clear plastic kites ranging in size, from A3 paper size, to gigantic kites, 3m X 2m. Sticks and string had been collected, knot tying was practised and the skills of kite flying had been honed over the last few weeks. There were even some made from hessian bags that flew really well.

Kite paths criss-crossed, with strings entangling. The solution cut the string! Some kites were way up in the sky while others crashed. Some massive kites held the awe of the entire crowd. Boys everywhere rushed to ‘downed’ kites. One kite was torn to pieces in an aggressive fight; such was the competitiveness of the competition. We were proudly shown the winning certificate by a boy on his way home.

The evidence of kite flying practise was obvious around the mulhalas (residential areas). Kites entwined in power lines were everywhere. Boys flew the kites by the river, on top of roofs, in sheep paddocks, just about anywhere!

No girls flew kites, but their competition was in the skipping ring. A large painted circle designated the space for a girl to skip, while her arms were crossed out in front. The number of skips was counted out aloud. Each girl had a turn with great determination.

The regional TV crew were out filming. They spotted the foreigners and requested an interview! This was the 3rd time in 3 weeks that our team had been on television; Mr. Tim at the tree buying festival, Cindy and Aaron on Women’s Day delivering supplies to the Maternity Hospital and now Mr. Fred at the kite festival. A Tajik lady sent her daughters to request a photo. I (Susie) held the Tajik baby; Fred held his son and the Tajik family gathered around, such is the curiosity of ‘foreigners’. With only 16 adult and 8 children foreigners in the whole of Khojand we tend to stand out!

Ever wondered about Buskashi?

Accurate information was hard to come by, speculation, gossip, and hear say were rampant! When was the byzkatchi to be played? We knew the venue but not the day or time. Accurate news is often difficult to come by in Tajikistan until the last minute.

Buskashi is the ‘game’ played on horseback with over a hundred riders. They kill a goat, then ‘play’ for the carcass (without a head). The object of the game is to take the goat from one end of the arena to the other and land it within a short distance of a determined ‘goal’ area. The goat weighs approx. 50kg and everyman plays for himself. However there are times when ‘chinos’ (relationship / friendship) between plays helps a player win a goal. Prizes are given for each score.

After negotiating closed roads for the Tajikistan President, our ‘taxi’ arrived at the playing field. Huge Kamas trucks lined an arena cut out of a hillside. The arena was circled by a steep gradient where the spectators watched, either on top of the Kamas or skirted around the field on the ground.

Men and horses were everywhere. Thousands had turned out. We were the only foreigners and the three of us ‘foreigner ladies’ were amongst a handful of women on the site. This was a man’s sport, a national sport and widely loved by village horse men. (Foreign women can get away with much more!)

We waited an hour and a half for the President to arrive and begin the events. (He was late!). We stood amongst Tajik men, who curiously looked at us, then curiosity aside, the questions flew. They are fascinated with ‘foreigners’! Especially ones that speak Tajik!

To have guests in their country is very special and it was not long before they kindly found us a bench seat to sit upon. Most others sat on the dusty ground or stood. We were treated with kindness and received special treatment. It was very much appreciated after the wait.

Of course the conversation centred around the ‘who, what why, where’ questions and then the marriage offers began for one of our single Canadian team mates. Our other British team mate had not spoken a word of Tajik although she has worked in the country for 5 years!! She knew the ropes too well.

The President arrived, his entourage with him. The police presence was very evident to control the crowd. Crowds here are very well behaved we thought. There was no alcohol consumed because of Muslim law and so the men amused themselves with conversations and speculation as to which horses were best.

Horse races began. Each race was 2km, twice around the track. Horse fitness varied, but the best were easy to recognise. We watched six races. Prizes were given, a carpet, a television, a DVD player, or a goat. Even a young calf was a prize! These prizes were all proudly carried by the horseman while mounted. Some not such an easy prize to carry!! One rider had two live goats balanced across his horse’s neck as he rode proudly off the arena!

The horns trumpeted. The buskashi would begin! A hundred or so horseman entered the arena. Suddenly there was a made dash as some horses galloped across the playing field. The goat swung from one rider’s side. The rider leaned heavily to balance his horse. The first score was made. To collect the goat from the ground proved the greatest challenge. The rider would have to swoop down upon the goat and hoist it up, quickly wrapping the goat’s leg around his own to secure the goat to his side. The beginning of each new match had twenty or so riders all jostling for this initial swoop on the goat. Then the dash would be made and the intercepting would be attempted.

Horses strained at the bit as they were galloped across the field. Dust flying from their hooves. The buskashi lasted for over an hour and the prizes increased in dollar value as the game continued.

It truly was a Central Asian experience, a spectacular display of horsemanship. It was also encouraging to see so many horses in fine condition, especially after a harsh winter. Each mount had been well fed and cared for. Good horses are highly valued and being expensive possessions are worth caring for. A day we won’t forget!

Tajikistan a land full of surprises!

You never quite know what you’ll come across in Tajikistan. Surprises are everywhere, unfamiliar scenes, chance meetings, bazaar events…..do you get the picture?

This afternoon was no exception.

The snow was crunching rhythmically under our feet as we walked briskly along the road running parallel to the Syr Dyer River. Its banks were ice shelfs. Dislodged ice chunks floated like island platforms down river in the swift current. Occasionally birds perched on these icy rafts and effortlessly travelled downstream.
The waterbirds are plentiful this winter. Sometimes they create tracks in fresh snow, feed on the limited vegetation, or even paddle vigorously against the current. Watching them paddling wildly against the current is most amusing. Their feet paddle quickly but the swift current causes them to remain ‘stationary’. I’m puzzled by their effort because it usually ends in them beating their wings and taking flight. Was that for exercise? Who knows their logic?

Looking up ahead a gathering of Tajik men and boys are watching the river intently. They are silent and focused. Our curiosity was aroused. As we neared the group we spotted a curious sight.

Three Tajik men were sitting silently in a tiny boat, just over 1 ½ metres long. They were drawn alongside the ice flow and were silent and still. Curiosity got the better of me. I asked in simple Tajik words, “They fish or birds?” (My language skills had not learnt the verbs for fishing or hunting). ‘Birds’, they replied!

Suddenly the men raised their weapons, ‘slingshots’ and hurled the birds repeatedly with rock, ammunition fire from both the boat and the shore alongside me. The ducks seemed confused by the raining of rocks but not terribly frightened. They seemed blindly ignorant of their dangerous predicament. The marsh hens and ducks were almost 20 metres away from the boat, but over 30metres from the man next to me. He took aim carefully and was often within a short distance from hitting a bird. His slingshot was large, elastic and powerful.

A direct hit! A poor bird flapped about pitifully in the icy water, visibly distressed. The men paddled their tiny craft and plucked the bird from the water, twisted its head off quickly and relished the thought of meat for dinner.

I asked the onlookers, “Is the bird ‘bomazza?’” Ahh yes! Bomazza, delicious!

Quietly the three boating hunters returned to their original position and within a short time the ducks and marsh hens returned. Slingshots ready, the whole scene was repeated.

We walked on…what was around the next bend in the river?