The Uzbeki Tales Part I

Crooked Officer: He spotted me attempting to leave his city unscatched and cut me off, letting the crowd flow around him as he crossed the stairwell to corner me between himself and an armed soldier. With a smile he asked for a passport in well tailored English and presented identification only long enough to demonstrate it was entirely in Russian. Placed so that my options were him, the guard and a tiny room, he led me off to his associate in charge of monetary evaluation. Following well rehearsed orders to empty all pockets and all common hiding places he began scrounging through my baggage, barking, 'what is this!' and keeping an eye on the numerous folks walking through the adjoining hallway. Once his associate was done fanning out, counting, holding my money to the ceiling light and pocketing $30 he smiled again, paused, and said I could go. At the first hint that I was counting my money he got a bit agitated and hastened to fill my arms with baggage, still opened and piled that which he had taken out on top. Mustering up a friendly attitude he helped me with my backpack and pushed me out the door, one arm pinned in a twisted strap, fistfull of cash and a duffel bag about to spill everywhere. Will he get in trouble, probably not. I made a verbal report to the U.S. Consul, but they won't lift a finger until I go back and file a report on official stationary. Will the government get in trouble, probably so, enough consulates complained last time he and his now unemployed friends started up before, unfortunately for me, most people tend to report crimes to the Lonely Planet website rather than to their consulate.

Boy on Bus: As though the stars had come into alignment, the bus had an empty seat, which was soon switched with the filled seat of a young boy eager to sit next to a foreigner and about wetting his pants when he discovered he was sitting next to an american. Zero knowledge of English did not prevent him from extracting information and encouraging a coupling with his older sister. The boy was on the return leg of a long haul to Tashkent for matters unknown, possible even to him. His sister, much older, had a handful of babies and needed her little brother, even though the extent of his parenting skills were 1) hold baby, 2) put pasifier in mouth if baby is not happy. Anything beyond that and he handed the baby back to his sister, even if she was buried in the corner breastfeeding. He was nothing but smiles when it came to me. He walked me through everything, patient to wait for signs of help and eager to help when they came. At the truck stop he helped me pick up a bottle of water. A loud drunk got rough when I didn't 'tip' him, but the kid just ignored the guy. He had all my trust and not understanding a word he said, the fact that he had an answer for why the soldier confiscated my passport was comfort enough and we drove off, me empty handed. It was returned later for reasons he explained, in Russian of course. He woke me up in the morning and helped me off the bus and into a cab, waved goodbye, and ran back to catch the babies falling out of his sister's arms.

Adel: Adel, pronounced with an emphatic D, is a 12 year old man of the house. He runs a tea house as well as a bed and breakfast. For special guests, and specifically when the B and B is full, he also hosts a slumber party with his little brother in the tea house. The little brother usually goes home though. His mother cooks breakfast at home, lunch and dinner at the tea house. She appears only with food, and never with a smile. His sister occasionally hangs around the tea house peeling cucumbers or cutting onions, even though she's supposed to be next door working at the museum. Other than food prep he handles all other matters. Finding the place is easiest through his sister, but she'll refer you to Adel. In the evenings, the mother will sometimes handle matters with businessmen intimidated by little giants, but Adel is not an entrepeneur, life is still a big game to him, and paying guests are little more than guests. In between all this work one might think he plays, but his definition of that is far removed from a playground. Sometimes he can be found selling bottled water or grilling kebabs for passers-by. If you mention the magic words he will even change money with you. Late at night I found him staffing a public toilet, but he let me use it for free, accomadating for the fact that the tea house slumber party did not come with a restroom. I asked once why he changes money. He didn't have an answer till the next day and he said his father just tells him to. That was the only mention of his father.

Three Married Ladies of 29: The Ichon Qala in Khiva is an entire city preserved as a historic monument. About one fourth of the buildings are museums, staffed by uniformed women wearing a black and white version of the psychedelic national silk dresses. Sometimes they charge for entering the museum, but only when they happen to be present when you enter or exit. When I entered a mosque two happened to be present; only one was supposed to be there so some other museum was free for now. As soon as I paid they disappeared and I wandered around in silence. They said it was OK if I climbed the minaret so of course I did. I found the two, plus a third, Adel's sister, sitting up top. There are four windows, and we slowly revolved around. They made sure I spent time gazing in all four direction. There time was an impromptu break lasting indefinitely. The oldest acting asked the usual first meeting questions: what is your name? do you have kids? are you married? They were all married with one or two children. Someone down below was selling cassettes, and therefore as a requirement for sales was blasting one of his wares through a set of concert size speakers. When I wasn't looking all three danced to Uzbek techno in traditional styles. When I was looking only the tallest continued and cast her gaze at me provocatively to ruffle my feathers, striving for a cute foreigner blush. Occasionally they yelled at folks from the minaret, waving, smiling, saying hello, saying look at me. When I finished my rounds I returned to the stairwell and left them to their gossip, finding a dozen or so tourists looking around corners for someone to pay the entrance fee to.

Three Single Ladies of 9: Uzbek people are anything. They bridge the gap between Europe and Asia and all groups of friends look like posters against discrimination. The only thing distinctly Uzbek at that all kids are small adults. Unlike most children elsewhere, it is so obvious what they will look like when they grow up. It's quite shocking. These three were no different and will all be gorgeous once they grow up, unfortunately they will probably do away with the cute boy haircuts little Uzbek girls tend to hold on to all through their prepubescent lifes. These three spotted me and quickly conjured up a reason to sit precariously close to me and act as though they have some important business to discuss. The only thing girly were the dresses; however, they did have holes that showed their kneecaps and coughed up dust as they walked. The leader of the three finally meandered over, 'happening' to cross my path and asked the usual - name, babies, wife, then returned to relay everything the other two girls had already heard anyway. They were sitting next to me after all. A group of boys decided it would be most practical to have a sword fight nearest the three ladies. Quite unsettling, the swords were more like long pieces of nasty wire, but thankfully the sword fight was done in slow motion to preserve safety. The fist fighting that followed was done at full speed, pulling back only for manly poses and cries of fury. The ladies, watched, observed, discussed, commented. I asked, 'are you choosing who you will marry?' The leader paused briefly to say, 'yes', and then ignored me for the duration of my stay, returning to more important matters.