The Drysdales

A visit to Mascho

2008-08-31T18:48:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-13T04:49:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-10T00:40:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-25T01:53:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-03-25T01:49:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-03-22T08:53:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-01-23T03:38:00.000-08:00

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?

Skating on ice!

2008-01-13T08:24:00.000-08:00

Slip sliding around on ice, you either love it or fear it! The boys love it; I have learnt too quickly it is not for me. One clumsy fall was all that was needed to remind me of how treacherous ice can be.
The foot paths are half covered in ice slicks. Tajik boys are often seen sliding along in their winter shoes. One family finds a slipping lane near the enormous Lenin statue. Even the Tajik lady enjoys a slip, rehearsing her childhood days. The ‘bacha’ (boys) come and chat with me. They are curious of the lady who speaks broken Tajik. They find out I am a teacher from Australia, their eyes widen. They had been slipping expertly along the ice until we came along. Now they find speaking with us has much more entertainment.

Tajik and Russian men blend together in winter. They all wear these fur style hats as seen in the photo. Tim desires one, of course. I tell him I think he will look ridiculous! The boys think they are great. Hmmm!
The Tajik men also wear these long coats, some are quilted style fabric and look like dressing gown robes. They are always in very dark colours, usually black. If you wear black you blend right in!

Winter in Khojand

2008-01-13T08:10:00.000-08:00

Winter has arrived. Every puddle is an ice skating rink, every down pipe holds icicles, every journey outside is attempted in layer upon layer of jumpers, coats, hats, gloves and scarves, every snow drift pile holds a potential snowball.
The mountains look beautiful in their ‘icing sugar dusting’!

There is a pipe that dribbles and sprays water constantly near our home. It is now the most amazing icicle creation. The boys love it.
So how cold is it? During the day it is below zero, usually around -5 to -10 we think. When the wind blows we are sure it drops drastically it is ssoooo cold. Some locals said there were reports of --20 overnight at times.

Today the wind bit right through your clothes. The skin on your face quickly reddened and went numb. Within a short time my fingers are stinging with the cold regardless of the gloves I’m wearing. I flick them, rub them, and move them to no avail. They feel like they are going to snap and shatter they feel like ice.

Why is winter in Khojand so difficult for locals?
The lack of power and fuel are the most difficult problems.
Most of the city is rationed with electricity. The kindergarten project for the disabled children had some hiccups yesterday. It had no electricity for three days to light or heat the rooms. They were told yesterday that there will be no electricity until April. It seems the electricity provider is unable to provide power consistently and just shuts off areas. The whole city is affected like this. Only 3 children arrived for kinder, then in the 2nd group only one child, the reason being it was just too cold. A local school of 220 had only 30 students turn up. Parents are afraid their children will become sick in the cold and prefer to keep them at home rugged up. Tim went with a Tajik man hunting for a coal heater or a gas heater from a balloon or the like. They hunted the whole city and finally found one left that runs from compressed gas. Of course it was now double the price. Heaters that run from anything other than electricity are as scarce as hens’ teeth! Some friends have power for only 2hrs in the morning and then again in the evening. A lady that has just arrived from Dushanbe and is now living in this apartment, she said it was like living in an iceberg.
The clothes needed to stay warm in these conditions are expensive but necessary and even with thermal layers, polar fleece etc you are still cold where the skin is exposed. Who could afford these technological clothes, let alone source them in Tajikistan. Cheap imports from China and Uzbekistan line all the stall. The products are basic, inferior and remind you of the last stock remaining that would not make the grade with Western consumers.
Windows are often taped up with clear plastic to help stop drafts but poor insulation, if any at all, does nothing against the cold.
Food is more expensive. The cost of flour and oil has risen considerably. These are the staple ingredients, for non, tajik bread. Some food has just frozen and spoiled. Tim bought a large pumpkin only to find ½ of it frozen solid when he returned home.

Christmas in Khojand

2008-01-13T08:00:00.000-08:00

Our first Christmas celebrated in the winter of the northern hemisphere was in Khojand, Tajikistan.
The morning began with some phone calls home to Australia. That was the hard part! Knowing they had already celebrated Christmas without us didn’t feel so good.

This was a Christmas with many differences. It was a celebration with our team mates, we hosted.
The doorbell was soon buzzing with cheerful faces and Christmas wishes.

We ate our way through 4 roast chickens. The biggest chicken you can get is 1.1kg! There was stuffing, roast vegetables and cranberry sauce, imported of course! We made a Christmas pudding, with a few adaptations but it worked!! I (Susie) was so excited that it turned out well with my ingredient swapping. (Even the suet came from a butcher at the bazaar!) We poured some whiskey over the pudding which was studded in almonds and lit it for affect. For some of our team this was their first taste of Plum Pudding! We also enjoyed pumpkin pie and pecan / (walnut really) pie.

Our Christmas tree was ‘homemade’ from some tree prunings, biscuit decorations and paper snowflakes with a few baubles tossed in for colour.
The boys enjoyed their presents, their favourite being a board game that had been brought in from England from a fellow traveller. That was a great surprise.
We enjoyed a Christmas Kris Kringle, with the swapping game attached and all went a way with a small gift. The funniest time was when Debra opened her ‘Christmas tablecloth’ to find it was a Christmas curtain, just what she needed?
We played games, chatted and nibbled all the way through the afternoon into the evening.
It was a lovely day!

2007-12-05T01:39:00.000-08:00

IT’S SNOWING!

Right on cue, winter arrived over night for the 1st of December! We woke up to a new Tajikistan wrapped in a pristine blanket of white. It was beautiful and so refreshing from the grey and dust. An amazing contrast!

The roof tops had a puffy thick layer of fresh snow and the limbs of trees were frosted and white. Persimmons still hang on bare branches like orange round lanterns, and icicles were beginning to form as water dripped from the gutters and downpipes.

The boys whooped for joy with their first glimpses out of their bedroom window. They rushed to get dressed to experience their first white Tajikistan snowfall. Snowballs, snowmen, and a slip on the tiles were the first activities.
Both Bebe and Bobo grinned with the words ‘Barf! Barf!’ exclaimed with much delight. They knew we had been asking when would it snow….soon? They enjoyed reminding us it was the first day of winter!

The purity of the snow, its crispness and whiteness, is a stark contrast to what lies beneath. The Botanical gardens turned into a different world, one like Narnia, beautiful, clean and so pretty. It’s an amazing transition! Surely God wanted to remind us of how quickly he can change circumstances. I love the verse that says ‘he makes our sins as white as snow’.

We spent the morning sledding in the Botanical gardens. We all had great fun. We had joined Peter and his two young children, who are also from Australia. Woolly hats, mittens, scarves and jackets kept us warm for a short while. It wasn’t long before snow worked its way inside shoes and clothes, making noses red and running and fingers and toes numb with cold, but it was worth it!
A military guard proudly walked past with a large, black crow tucked under his arm. Apparently it had fallen from a tree. He was happy to show us his prize bird. The military are scattered around the gardens for security, but we think it just makes them look like they are doing something important because apart from us the gardens are deserted. Four military men guard the front entrance gate as we leave.

A hot lunch, a cup of tea and dry clothes are enjoyed back at Lutfi (the teamhouse). By 2:30pm the power goes out. Thankfully the house is warm and tummies are fed! What a blessing today has been!

(We wonder how long before we look forward to summer again!)

A Tajikistan bird bazaar

2007-11-28T02:20:00.000-08:00

THE BIRD BAZAAR

With a tap on our window Dayler beckoned us to leave for the bird bazaar. It was early Sunday morning. There was no time to lose so breakfast had to wait.

One trolley bus and one marshooka ride later we found ourselves in the midst of the Dushanbe bird bazaar. There was no doubting where you were as parrots squawked, canaries whistled and roosters crowed.

We wandered around numerous cages. Budgerigars were plentiful in various colours and sizes, pigeons were jammed packed in low boxes, and the classic Tajik partridges in their traditional round houses graced the south wall. We saw finches, love birds, African parrots and cockatiels.

Numerous young boys walked past holding their prize roosters tightly, another lady passed us holding three chickens by the feet so they swung upside down quite calmly. Huge turkeys were tethered down with one leg tied; others had a heavy hand upon their backs to avoid their leaving. Many chickens were engulfed by wheat bags with just their heads protruding.

Two young boys displayed their feisty roosters with a short fight, the winning owner proudly displaying the plucked feathers from the neighbour’s rooster.

We discovered cardboard boxes holding many rabbits from young ones to large males. I’m afraid they are usually raised up for eating, pets being a luxury.

The market was almost completely male. Men and boys dominated here, but a few Russian women had animals for sale. One lady had a small kitten inside her coat, another, a puppy on a lead. Thankfully the puppies looked well cared for and in good condition.

Our favourite stall was an older Russian woman with a number of fluffy, furry hamsters. They called them ‘pamiris’. (Some research later found them to be Syrinian long haired hamsters) They were complete fluff balls, no tails, tiny ears, and about the size of a child’s fist. They were very cute and not expensive. We were tempted! Dayler said they are not good because they can scurry down the holes in your floor! If you have holes in your floor like Tajik homes often do. But hamsters will have to wait.

‘In chund pul’ was our favourite phrase, ‘How much does it cost?’ The huge surprise was the price on a canary head with a beautiful song, a whopping 400 somoni, about $130US!! In Tajik terms, 2 -3 months wages, if you are lucky enough to have a good job.

It was a great experience!

A Journey West

2007-11-14T00:47:00.000-08:00

It was all set, after our language lesson I would be off to see some of the work the Community Development programmes were doing in the west of Tajikistan. My two Tajik guides arrived at the gate.

The car was a little S.U.V. style Chevrolet. As is typical here in Tajikistan no-body wears seat belts. I sat in the back and found half of the belt but not the other half. So I had to go as the Tajik’s do, risk life and limb to these guys who were my guides.

Ten kilometres out of the city gates we turned towards the west. Immediately off the main road the surface of the road deteriorated so that the game of dodging the potholes became one of survival rather than that of fun.
For the first 10km close to the river area, fields of cotton were grown, other areas had crops that had long been gone. The cows graze on the stubble left behind; the dry ground and dust are all that remain.

A group of women and girls are bent over in the fields picking the white blooms of cotton in the fields. The scarves covering their heads offered some protection from the sun and the dust that rises with every movement. The cotton plants look parched. I keep in mind that the last time it rained it was June or so and now it is the end of October.

There are donkeys now on the roadside some with a pack and others just wandering and picking out some thing to eat in the thickets and salt bush. A little girl leads a donkey with large drums strapped to its sides filled with water. In most villages there is only one tap and it is usually fed by a tank.
As we venture further from the river and into the hill country the land becomes even more arid. The hills are covered with animal tracks; it seems that there is a path on every part of the hill. This leaves the steep sides of the hills without any vegetation at all, only dusty tracks.

Ahead in the distance a cloud of dust rises. Soon I can make out the distinct shape of a shepherd on horse back and a flock of sheep and goats being led. The baaing and bleating flock soon descend onto the road. Our driver gives a small toot to let them know of our approach. The shepherd scratches his staff along the road to make a scary sound to separate the sheep. We are soon enveloped by the flock. The goats and sheep are combined; mostly dark fleeced faces greet me as I look out of the window. Large horns on the male goats reach up to the sky some 50-60cm long. Their long coats protect them from the sun and cold. Many of the sheep have burrs trapped in their fleece.

The faces of the men and boys show the lifestyle of the shepherd, dry and tough. The dust churned up as the flock moved, covering the shepherds in a thick cloud.

Our road wandered past Russian army camps. The Russian soldiers settle there to train in conjunction with the Tajik forces. A bridge that was there before the spring rain is now somewhere further downstream, washed away by the torrential floods that happened in the spring, snow melt. Our little SUV came in handy as we ventured down into the river bed and crawled back up the other side. Not a drop of water was seen in the river bed’s base.

Little villages, a shop and a cluster of houses, all made of mud, cling to the roadsides. They disappear as quickly as they come. Sometimes it was smoother to drive off the road rather to drive on the broken bitumen surface. By now the guide in the passenger seat was fast asleep and his head was wildly rocking back and forth as we dodge the potholes in the road.

Several more flocks of sheep and goats are either on the road or on top of the hills nearby. Elderly men and boys walking with their staffs gently direct the flock. Large dogs trot along side the flock keeping them together and protecting them.

Very soon the car takes a sharp turn to the south and starts to wind along the foothills. Where are we going? Before we know it we will be on the sharp side of the large mountains looming before us. A few small mud houses grace the side of the road; clinging to an existence from where? Where I do not know!
A small village comes into view, it is here we stop and the two large blue steel gates are opened to reveal the “Maktab” The school with its white washed walls and grey roof appear stark and clean compared to the mud houses that surround it. This soon reveals it self to just be a façade. We are met by the head of the school, a man in a blue suit, dusty from the normal duties of the daily chores he performs. We are guided to the model class room where the furniture has been renovated. Plywood seat bases have replaced the broken Russian seats and new table tops have replaced the broken tops that were unusable. The floor a neat concrete pad is covered in a thick layer of dust brought in by the feet of the students. This is inevitable. I am shown the staff room, a stark reminder to the lack of recourses available to the teachers, 1 large table and 2 chairs for 18 teachers. “How many students are at the school” I ask. Proudly the head master replies “we have 326 students.” They come in 2 groups, 220 in the morning session and another 100 or so in the afternoon session.

They ask if I would like to see some of the other class rooms, Of course I thought! Smiling faces of children appear as we enter the classroom, they spring to their feet with a greeting of Asalom, the children’s faces beam at the presence of a visitor. I asked if I could take a photo of the class. This was greeted with a prompt response of enthusiasm. The instant the photo was taken the children all leapt forward to see the photo. The amazing thing with digital photography was evident in the smiling faces of the children seeing themselves, perhaps for the first time.

The tour of the school continued. The floors were no longer concrete, but uneven packed mud surfaces with the familiar layer of dust covering it. It seemed that there was not a window that didn’t need fixing in one way or the other. All had missing panes of glass or needing the timber work repairing. I asked about the oncoming winter and the effect of the snow soon to fall. I was told that the students would still come to school even when it snowed, sitting in the classroom doing a normal days study. I asked about the coats that they would be wearing, enquiring if they were thick coats. The reply bought a shudder to my spine, “most of the children do not have coats to keep them warm”! I guess it is a privilege to be able to come to school. What a difference to the way children complain about school in the west.

We delivered more of the material used for the repair of the desks and chairs. I inspected the store room and the tools that were given to the staff to repair the desks. All the tools were hand tools of inferior quality which would only make the repair job just that bit more difficult.

We said our good-bys and headed back down the bumpy road that we arrived on. I was asked if I would like to see the irrigation / water supply project that had recently been completed. We travelled further west to the border of Uzbekistan. The mountains on the Uzbek side soon revealed themselves and the large river valley flowing from Dushanbe gave me an awesome sight in the afternoon sun. The mud village soon came into view, with the bright new school building painted stark white stood as the centre piece of the community. Operation Mercy had built the school over the last year. My eyes were directed to the large steel tank high on the hill. This tank provided water to the village. A blessing, instead of having to saddle up the donkey and heading for the river to fill the large plastic drums, all you had to do was turn on the tap!

I asked about the pump and the housing to protect it from the dust and the coming winter weather. I was soon directed to the pump, a large electric motor connected to the pump sitting out in the open paddock. The inlet for the pump was fed by an irrigation channel, which to my astonishment was now dry! Apparently it had been dry for several days due to the need for irrigation water further up the stream for the valuable cotton crop.

Within days the tank would be empty and the village people would have to return to the age old method that never seems to fail here, “The Donkey.”

We headed for home. The bumpy road, the driver swerving the potholes the sleeping passenger, all seemed too familiar and exciting? The herds of sheep and the dusty shepherds reminded me so much of the biblical times described in the later chapters of Genesis. The dusty faces of the old men with large beards and the brown, dirty faces of the boys seemed to be an amazing way of life. These shepherds move over the plains and hills of Tajikistan searching for the ever elusive Promised Land. A shepherd motions to us for water, his throat as dry as the surrounding hills, his face covered with a thick blanket of dust.

A story was related to me by the driver who had grown up in the mountain regions of the Pamirs, His cousin was tending the sheep and goats one night and a large bear came and took one of the large goats by the horns, as the bear dragged the struggling goat, this man so incensed by the bear taking one of his precious flock he pursued it. He caught up to it and thus began a tug of war with the bear. The bear had the goat securely by the horns and the shepherd had the goat by the rear hoof. The struggle continued neither quarry wanting to relinquish his prize. The struggle ended with another of the shepherds appearing with a gun and firing it into the air was able to scare off the bear. This was an amazing story of struggle and commitment by the shepherd and his way of life. Unfortunately the goat was later killed, due to its injury’s being severe. It was used to feed both the shepherds and the dogs that travelled with them.

Arriving back into the thriving, confusing chaos of Dushanbe, with thick pollution covering the city like a blanket, I couldn’t help but think I was travelling into a different century. I had travelled through time in the 50km journey to see a school in the west.

Tim Drysdale
1/11/07

South to Kergen Teppa

2007-10-31T04:32:00.001-07:00

Kergen Teppa is 200km off the Afghanistan northern border. Between Dushanbe and Kergen Teppa, there was a number of interesting valleys and hills. It took around 1 and 1/2 hours to travel by road.

Suddenly a huge cloud of dust was seen as we rounded a corner. A herd of cattle and goats were being shifted. They were soon to cross our road. Tim leapt out of the car to capture the scene. The dust was incredible! The animals were walking calmly but the dryness of the ground was evident. The dust just rose up before our eyes cutting visiblity down to metres. The animals crossed the road. Behind the herd this boy (photo) had the privledged place above the rest atop his donkey. A woman and other children followed behind within the swirl of dust. It was like a scene from a movie.

Gulbahor's Birthday

2007-10-31T04:30:00.000-07:00

The Kallin is very excited she will turn twenty on Dushanbe (Monday). There was a count down during the week. This will be an ‘osh’ celebration where Gulbahor will treat her family to a dustahon filled with goodies, then the finale, ‘Osh!’

Sunday evening came and Gulbahor’s sister in law, Holida, arrived with her daughter. Holida was here to help and enjoy the celebration. After dinner, Gulbahor sat in the lounge room with 3kg of cooked potatoes, 2kg of cooked carrots, 2 kg of cooked beetroots, 4 hard boiled eggs and one grater. She proceeded to grate all of the ingredients, one by one! I assumed she was making a winter salad…………..Later that evening, there was a discussion about a torte. Gulbahor would cut the torte tomorrow but make it tonight. Chocolate, hazelnut torte floated through my mind, or maybe layered citrus torte, vanilla, strawberry torte…what would it be?
Before heading off to bed I enquired on the salad. It was not a winter salad at all but a layered vegetable torte!! A large rectangle, beginning with a potato layer then carrot, a mayonnaise layer, a beetroot layer, topped with ‘tinned fish like kippers’ (sprats in oil) and finished with grated egg. The birthday cake! Can you imagine serving this up in Australia with birthday best wishes? It weighed about 8kg as Tim helped with the tray. Don’t drop it Tim!

We have bought Gulbahor a birthday present. A hand towel filled with creams, nail polish, soap, shampoo and conditioner. A practical gift but LOVED by Tajik women. Morgan and Kyle are excited about giving her the gift tomorrow. It even has a large, yellow, flower bow which we bought for about 15c! You pulled the middle ribbon and it all bunched into a lovely decorative ribbon. Perfect.

THE DAY!!
At 3pm we returned home from our Tajik lesson. Fotima was sending messages to me to come quickly! I slipped on a corta and headed to the Mexmonhona (the guestroom, a room for entertaining guests). I sailed in through the door to be greeted by almost twenty pairs of eyes. Twenty Tajik women were sitting quietly around the dustahon (the floor tablecloth). All eyes were on me. I smiled and greeted them with ‘Asalom’ as I placed my hand over to my heart. This is the traditional polite practise. They beckoned me to sit and join them. The dustahon was laden with plates. At one stage I began counting the plates and teacups, but after 25 just in the first half metre I gave up and guessed there was over 150 dishes set out for tea, biscuits, torte, salad (the birthday vegetable cake), chuck chuck (the sticky fried honey dough with walnuts), sambooza, chocolates, nuts and fruits. It was a major celebration.

(The neighbourhood helps out with dishes, teapots etc. They all lend one another what is needed. Some of the family guests bring special goodies. It is traditional to arrive as a guest with something as well as two non.)

The women discussed information about me in Tajik. They want to know where I am from, how old I am, how many children, what I am doing in Tajikistan etc. Fotima gives all the details and they all smile at me. They laugh and say something about ‘she needs some daughters to take home from Tajikistan’. I’m not sure if they mean I should have more children or if they think they have suitable wives in the future for my boys!!

The meal ended with a prayer. A blessing was said for Gulbahor, a pregnant lady and me. They all giggled!

People continued to drop in over the next few hours, each invited to the dustahon where we would sit. The children, Morgan and Kyle included, were invited in. They were impressed and hoed into some cakes and sticky chuck chuck! Gulbahor opened and inspected her presents with the family watching.

The evening finished with our family and our Tajik family finishing off the osh together for the evening meal.

The Mexmonhona was cleared of food and dishes. This time I was allowed to help transport dishes to the kitchen and arrange food onto different plates for storage. I was forbidden to wash dishes!! Gulbahor said each time I arrived with dishes “large thank you’ in Tajik! She must be so tired!
Gulbahor was satisfied that she had had a wonderful day !!

silony bazaar

2007-10-31T04:15:00.000-07:00

A short marshooka ride from home found us at the ‘green bazaar’, Silony bazaar, a produce bazaar. We were greeted with colourful, busy stalls.
We began in the candy section. Wrapped lollies in every colour were displayed in baskets, they ranged from mini suckers to large wrapped bombs. You buy them by the kilo, approx. $2 US or less a kilo. A dentist’s delight? Walking on we found my favourite section…the nuts and dried fruit! Stall holders are keen for you to sample their goods so you might buy from them. Walnuts look fat and golden, priced at $10/kilo to $7/kilo for ones in shells. There are a variety of almonds, in all sorts of sizes, shelled, unshelled, covered in white sweet yoghurt candy, sesame seed toffee, max. price $6US/kg. Pistachios mmm… again in different forms, very cheap, almost the cheapest nuts! I found pecans, hazelnuts, crisp chickpeas, peanuts, then loads of dried fruits. Fruits are usually dried whole with kernels inside. There’s apricots, peaches, figs, dates etc. Some look a lot darker than home, true sun dried I’d imagine.

Next was the salami sausage. We are offered samples…I decline, the others have a hesitant nibble. You could choose from beef no fat, beef with fat, chicken, pork! horse! sheep. They look like salami.

Turning the corner we meet the egg ladies. Trays and trays of eggs. Flat trays of 36 per tray. They’re approx. 50c each, there is duck, chicken, small and large, and what looks like quail eggs or bird eggs. You tell them how many you want and they put them in a bag! You carry them carefully!

You can’t miss the next stall, it’s the butcher aisle. Meat is laid out on benches and hangs from poles. Its beef, goat and mutton. There are an assortment of cuts, some gruesome others actually don’t look too bad. There were not many flies so it was a good day to buy. (but not for us today). We see some bullock tongues, kidneys and livers, four cow shins with hooves attached all furry, and a poor cows head for view on the bench. The boys eyes boggle in wonder and shock but decided…..well…that’s meat I guess.
Rice stalls are amazing. There are so many varieties, from short and long grains from different neighbouring countries. You need to wash the rice and I’ve watched the older ladies comb through it looking for stones before making osh.
Each aisle is repetitious. All the rice vendors are in the same aisle selling the same goods, with an occasional odd addition.
Spices are nearby. You buy these in newspaper cones by the scoop. However they also have packaged spices. I have seen cumin and curry powder, citric acid and curry leaves, plus many I can’t recognise! Vanilla is sold in a packet as a vanillin sugar. Coconut is found in a small packet, maybe 50g. They obviously don’t use a lot of it in cooking, although Gulbahor made a cake the other night with dates and walnuts sprinkled with coconut on top. Very good!
Fruits and vegetables win the stalls for colour!
A corner is dominated by a ‘halva’ stall. It comes in huge quantites, in a greyish colour. It is about $2 /kg. The halva like home is flaky and sweet, but you can also buy it light brown with roasted sesame seeds spread through it. It’s sticky and hard like toffee/nougat. Our family is divided. Two for hard and sticky, two for flakey! Apparently after Ramadam there will be a chocolate style halva.

Salom from Tajikistan : A journey to Hissar

2007-10-26T22:54:00.001-07:00

Tajikistan, a Central Asian country. A population of seven million, made up of Tajiks, Uzbeks and Russian people groups.
So here we are! The Drysdale family in Tajikistan!
Read on to hear of our impressions, experiences, insights etc on Tajik life.

A journey to Hissar.

On the 19th day of September we ventured out to Hissar. Shams our driver drove us there. We visited the museum and looked at old costumes, footwear, earthen wear and even the chain mail and sword of a warrior. There was a paved courtyard with many small, off shoot rooms. Some of the embroidery work was in interesting and colourful designs. The doors leading into the museum were wooden and carved with detail. It cost 9 somoni for our family to visit. Across the road was the ancient (17th century) gatehouse to the fortress. The surrounding walls were evident. We climbed the hill top and could clearly make out the fortress walls. There was a water source too because there were areas of green lush vegetation. This certainly caught our eye as the surrounding hills and mountains continue to barren and dry. The summer haze is thick and makes long distance viewing difficult.
During the trip we saw cotton fields with pickers, truck with cotton loads, goat and sheep herders, many mud houses, a brick works and the usual sellers on the street edges.