Flying here from Russia was a shock. Despite its relative affluence, Moscow seemed bleak in spirit, whereas Tashkent was poor but full of warmth. The Fergana Valley is beautiful, with the surrounding mountains jumping up everywhere you look. Life is split between worlds--cars and buses whiz by women carrying water and men in donkey-drawn carts.
The Kalnazarovs have a poster of Arnold Schwarzenegger but that's about it for their contact with Western capitalism. When they saw my business card, they asked what a fax was. They are not Uzbeks but Kazakhs, a minority group here. In that way they're not typical, though socioeconomically they are average.
In other ways the Kalnazarovs are remarkable. They were constantly busy: cutting wood, feeding cattle, getting water from the well across the road, walking to the collective bath a mile away. Saliha is incredibly hard-working. I didn't see one minute of down time. No, there was one--she just put her head in her hand and sat for a moment. Then she was stirring, cooking, picking something up, ordering one kid or another to do something.
It's been very difficult to keep them from trying to entertain us, particularly with food. It's a cultural mandate whenever a guest is in the house. Even when we visit the school it's imperative we stop at the Director's office, where he always prepares tea, cakes and bread, and tomatoes. No matter if we've just eaten lunch; not to partake would be an offense.
A word about bathing facilities. There is a collective bath about two kilometers away that's open two days a week (Thursday and Sunday) for men and two days a week (Friday and Saturday) for women. At home the family members wash their hands with snow or cold water. I haven't seen a bar of soap anywhere.
The concept of having a most valued possession is totally foreign to them. Theirs is a culture where everything is shared. One time I was going outside and couldn't find my boots. After asking, somebody said, "Oh, Bakhit took them, he wanted to see how they felt." Consequently I just grabbed a pair of the rubber shoes to wear and proceeded to head out. Our Western idea of possessions, of having a particular article we value above others, is as foreign to them as a Big Mac.
On the last day it snowed. When we drove up to the Kalnazarov house on Lenin Street a gossamer white blanket covered the yard and trees. What had been a field of mud was as beautiful as anything I'd ever seen.
