Lost and Found

I realized I was lost after ten minutes and my third barren browngrey semi-urban dusty street. My legs, having been thighmastered by the minaret the day before, were sluggish and uncooperative. The packs of passing schoolkids, garbed in shiny black trousers and white shirts, had been replaced by stray dogs and trash heaps. I thought I had been taking a clever shortcut between two major avenues here in Samarkand, but no blue mosques could be seen, only clotheslines, hanging meat from unknown animals, and 70s-style television antennas. I had been following two Russian tourists, eavesdropping on their conversation really, but Russians always walk as if they're in an Olympic race, and soon they were gone. What was I thinking? It's not as if the streets in this 3000 year old city were laid in a Cartesian coordinate system! There was no use backtracking, I stubbornly walked until something familiar became apparent in this Uzbek maze. The sun was tanningbed bright, my sweat glands were on high output and my odor must have been legendary.

My male pride finally succumbed, and since my knowledge of Uzbek rounds to zero, I asked a teenage girl, in Russian, if she knew the way to Ulughbeck Avenue. Her startled look and quick exit were telling as she sprinted up the street. Although I am used to driving off women, this was a little much, and I started to feel dizzy. Behind me came "Hello Senor!" in an uncommonly high voice. I turned around to see a shirtless and impossibly brown boy, maybe ten or eleven years old. He continued "Hello, my name is Arkut, may I help you?". Startled, but on task, I asked him for directions, but he didn't seem to understand. He said "Come", took my hand and tugged on me to walk up the street. He suddenly pushed open a brown creaky door to one of the countless decripit buildings lining the street, revealing a beautiful, green courtyard inside. I suppose I should not have been surprised as this was the Soviet mode of home decor -- ugly, possibly-scary exterior and comfortable, inviting interior.

I didn't really know what was happening. This courtyard was inside the house but seemed like it was outside and I was seated on a wooden bench with extravagant trim and beautiful yellow pillows. Arkut yelled out "We have visitor!". I must have looked as green as I felt because the teenage girl, Guzila, brought a cold cloth for my forehead. But, then again, I had already witnessed the extreme heights of Uzbek hospitality. In a Tashkent restaurant once, I saw a veritable army of male servers approach my bare table and, after a flurry of hands, cloth and utensils, leave with an immaculate six-piece setting.

An older woman, obviously their mother, came out, with three other children creeping behind her, all seemingly comfortable with the foreigner in their midst. As Atkur continued to me in English I realized that's all he could do, speak, and understood no responses back. He was completely aping whatever western culture he had picked up here in Central Uzbekistan. Fortunately his mother spoke Russian, but she kept asking me what kind of meat I wanted. I chokingly said no, trying not to show that patented snarky gnurl of my upper lip when confronted with such thoughts. I knew this was like being at grandmother's house, there was no way to escape without consuming something. I explained that I had just eaten too much watermelon, the only thing that came to mind that second. She countered with drinks and I obliged, juice perhaps.

In two minutes, three glasses of liquid appeared before me; one reddish, one orangish, one brownish. I smiled, drank the lukewarm tomato juice and tried not to grimace. It tasted quite fine but the temperature was not refreshing. Replacing it in my mind with a cool blue frost Gatorade, I downed the brownish one, which might have been something akin to pomegranete, I'm not really sure. All the while I was peppered with Arkut's questions, knowing that I could answer anything and get the same reaction.

Trying to politely wrench myself out of the jaws of hospitality, I asked the mother if she could tell me how to get the big street. She barked something in Uzbek at Arkut, who took me by the hand. I thanked her for her generosity as he tugged me out the door. Perhaps twenty yards up the street, around the corner, there was Ulughbeck Street! I offered the boy a $10 dollar bill, a sizeable sum to these people, and he refused. I insisted and he refused again. Atkur offered "Pleased to meet you, American friend." and ran back home.

Since I'm headed back to Tashkent tomorrow, a mishmash of Samarkand photos: