Uzbekistan Unplugged

2006-11-14T09:49:00.000+05:00

I thought I should share some images of my afternoon at "Televishka," one in a series of giant, Communist-constructed television towers worldwide. The obligatory "dinner" in the rotating restaurant of the observation deck was enough of a rip-off that I'm glad we kindly refused to pay the bribe the elevator woman expected if we wanted to ascend any higher. In the photos, I am with Tashkenter friends Tanya, who is of Korean descent, Olga, who is Russian, and Nilufar, who is Uzbek with Persian roots. Eat your heart out, American melting pot.

2006-08-23T23:03:00.000+05:00

Scenes from the ZdravPlus office in Ferghana follow. As you can see, it has a more leisurely character than its counterpart in Tashkent.

The office cook made "osh" (the delicious, homemade antecedent of our rice pilaf) in honor of my last day in Ferghana. News of my consumption of two heaping plates of the stuff made its way to Tashkent and has turned me into a minor legend.

The drivers and guards routinely pass their days playing backgammon in the courtyard, as they do in Tashkent. What makes Ferghana different, though, is that the more white-collar workers in the office would often join them, especially after lunch.

The flora of Ferghana never failed to capture my admiration.

Munira volunteers at ZdravPlus and (like so many) hopes one day to study in the U.S.

Shuhrat's 1967 Volga was my favorite means of getting acround town. Of course, I didn't actually drive it, but I did observe anxiously as the old chariot broke down on the outskirts of town after dark one night. Shuhrat rolled up his sleeves, popped the hood, and had the obdurate machine working again in no time (but not without a few fits and starts).

The Feghana Valley is separated from the rest of Uzbekistan by a "minor" mountain range that is an offshoot of the Tian Shan of western China as well as the Himalayas.

The driver who took me back to Tashkent, an otherwise mild-mannered, older Muslim gentleman, nearly killed us both at least a dozen times by propelling our car up and down narrow, winding mountain roads at impossible speeds. Needless to say, I was thrilled when I saw the gigantic, stenciled sign proclaiming: "Toshkentga Xush Kelibsiz" or "Welcome to Tashkent."

2006-08-01T14:52:00.000+05:00

After my two-day whirlwind of in-depth interviews, which involved trips to three rural clinics, a hospital and the province health department, I managed to find some time to explore Ferghana City. It's a small, relatively quiet city with more trees and flowers than the rest of the cities in Uzbekistan put together, it seems. Planned by Russians during the Tsarist era (hence only about 100 years old), the city benefits from a logically designed, if vaguely artificial, street grid. There is also a leisurely pace to the way of life there (my colleagues took frequent backgammon breaks). If I can be allowed a grossly inadequate comparison, I would say that if Tashkent is the New York of this country, then Ferghana is the Atlanta.

First, a monumental statue of the ninth-century scholar Al-Farghani, named after the valley of his birth, whose works influenced Dante:

My hotel, at which I rescued a very kind French journalist from the perils of traveler's diarrhea with my reserve of Immodium:

The regional "hakimiyat"--a sort of state capitol:

Street scenes (stunning roses grow wild in neglected parks):

The local branch of the ex-Soviet department store system (there's an even bigger one next to the opera house in Tashkent), with the boat-shaped Admiral Cafe in front:

Independence Street (Mustaqillik Ko'chasi), which spans the width of the city center, is a pedestrian zone:

No Central Asian town is complete without a central bazaar:

Shashlik and osh (grilled kebabs and a kind of rice pilaf--the two national staples) are always on offer:

And yet, the best meal I had all week was a homemade Korean dinner, prepared by Lena (on the left), an old friend of Shuhrat:

2006-07-25T12:37:00.000+05:00

Last week, I traveled to the Ferghana Valley, a beautiful, green, fertile region that is actually divided among Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and the Kyrgyz Republic, thanks to Soviet masterminds and their "divide-and-conquer" approach to Central Asia's ethnic checkerboard. En route, we passed through seven or eight roadside checkpoints (run by the national police, not paramilitary or rebel groups), and I was required to get out of the car for a brief interrogation and passport registration only once. Much of the heightened security is doubtlessly a result of last year's violence in Andijan, which lies in the "Uzbek" patch of the valley.

The purpose of my trip--which was so rewarding, professionally and personally--was to visit three rural clinics in Ferghana province, where many components of the national health care reform have been piloted. I interviewed the chief physician and head nurse in each of the clinics, and I was simply astounded and humbled by the improvements that they have delivered to their patients and communities in such a short amount of time (four years) and with modest financial means.

Zarkent was my first stop. The first photo shows the main entrance, while in the second the chief physician and head nurse pose with a bulletin board that displays some of the goals and results of quality improvement (QI) activities in their clinic :

On the steps of the clinic at Birlik with the chief physician there, followed by the chief and a nurse posing in the lobby:

My final stop was Qo'rg'oncha, where we were served cookies and candies in addition to the customary pot of green tea. The chief physician stands in the lab, where blood glucose and hemoglobin levels now can be reliably measured, in the first photo. Then, he and the head nurse pose with graphs meant to inform patients of the prevalence of priority diseases in their community over time, followed by a poster, produced entirely by hand, describing the stages and consequences of arterial hypertension. Lastly, a nurse sits in the "pre-physician exam room" (in the U.S., we might call it "triage," though it's not exactly that), where nearly all patients go first to have their blood pressure and other vital signs checked--a simple screening process that is, in fact, a major achievement of the reforms.

Finally, Shuhrat, the local QI specialist (and my unofficial guide for the week), and I stand in front of the ZdravPlus office in Ferghana, then again in the inner courtyard with my "team": Ikrom, my interpreter, and Munira, a volunteer who agreed to be my note-taker:

I also interviewed officials at the Central District Hospital and the Province Health Department (including the chief), but these experiences left me a little underwhelmed.

2006-07-12T12:42:00.000+05:00

The ZdravPlus office is hardly all work and no play; my female colleagues (all of whom are doctors and respected figures in national health care reform) periodically close themselves in the conference room with their boom box and practice the latest classical Uzbek dance routines they've learned. Here are two of them (Nilufar and Feruza), helping me consolidate my takeover of the director's office while he is on vacation in Turkey:

The night of the World Cup final (which I missed--I just couldn't bring myself to go to a bar at midnight, nor could I bear to watch Italy win), I threw a dinner party for some of my friends in Tashkent. I prepared green bell peppers stuffed with ground meat, rice, onions, tomatoes and herbs, along with a traditional salad (tomatoes and cucumbers, always) and a pitcher of makeshift sangria. There was fruit salad (thanks to Nilufar) and baklava (thanks to the Turkish supermarket) with coffee for dessert. We had a wonderful time, and my guests seemed very happy to recline in my living room, sipping cool beverages while a man prepared a home-cooked meal for them in the kitchen.

Some of my other culinary endeavors here have involved pasta with a homemade ragu as well as pancakes from scratch.

By the way, I discovered I was slightly off the mark about the Baltica beer numbering system. Although #9 is, indeed, stronger than #7, it turns out #6 is a porter. Yum.

2006-07-04T14:43:00.000+05:00

As my colleagues in Tashkent wish me a happy Independence Day (and I lick my emotional wounds after having been snubbed by the U.S. Embassy for its reception tonight), I am reminded of some of the things that make Americans so lucky: journalists don't go to prison when they criticize the government, homosexuals don't (usually) get harrassed and beaten by the police, and chicken is refrigerated before it is sold.

It also occurs to me that I have more pictures of Bukhara to share. It's been a week since my return to Tashkent (a journey that ended with my head hanging over a toilet again, this time from air sickness), and I am still marveling at how these two cities seem to inhabit different centuries. I wish I had been able to take photos of the rickety minivans overbrimming with passengers that substitute for buses (aboard which my earring and English drew many a quiet stare) or of the interior of the opulently, yet traditionally decorated house into which Jalol and I were illicitly invited by some local girls Jalol knew at school on the eve of one of their weddings, where we drank Fanta and my eyes and smile apparently became objects of admiration, until an old woman appeared and urgently told us to leave because the men of the house were coming home. (According to Jalol, this infiltration made us very "brave"). Alas, photos of friends and sites will have to do.

The entrance to the Mokhi Khossa, the summer palace of the last emir, Alim Khan, which was outfitted with every comfort the late nineteenth century had to offer on the eve of Bukhara's Russification:

Ready to luxuriate in the summer palace with my newly acquired, traditional-style fan:

A free-range peacock picking a fight with a caged turkey on the palace grounds (a photo which Jalol snapped surreptitiously after I told the woman at the desk I had no camera to avoid having to pay another thousand soum):

A hidden, unstaffed cafe on a second-floor terrace in the old harem:

A message from the Uzbek government: (As best I can translate, it proclaims, "Our purpose: That our homeland be free, our country flourish and our future be prosperous.") It's interesting that few signs other than those erected by the government (e.g., signs on roads and government buildings) are in the Latin alphabet; Cyrillic is still the norm for daily business (both in Bukhara and Tashkent).

A very friendly married couple whose table at the bazaar neighbors that of Jalol's parents (who are in the background); they insisted on giving me free candy and green tea whenever I stopped by:

Jalol's building (he and his grandmother share an apartment here):

The back street where Jalol's family lives (at night, many women and children gather around the benches here):

At home with Jalol, his grandmother and great aunt, seated at the dining table where I took all my meals:

My new Bukhara family:

A view from the Soviet-era winged box that masqueraded as an airplane, some miles east of Bukhara:

2006-06-28T15:30:00.000+05:00

My 25th year of life is off to an auspicious start here in Tashkent. My colleagues bought me two multi-layered birthday cakes, which we shared after lunch, along with a bottle of German sparkling wine the director, Peter, had been saving in his office (which very much excited Lucy, the cook). Both Peter and Nilufar (my two closest colleagues on the QI project) honored me with touching and sincere toasts, then Nilufar, Feruza and Elena, who have been taking a class on traditional Uzbek dance, performed two dance numbers for the occasion in our conference room, much to everyone's delight. Unfortunately, my camera batteries chose this inopportune moment to die (a little warning next time, please?), but the memory is seared onto my mind's eye.

Now for an occasion for which I do have photos: my weekend trip to Bukhara. I traveled to Bukhara with a Persian guy named Jalol, who works in the restaurant at the Grand Orzu Hotel while studying English and Spanish at a university here. Jalol's family, especially his grandmother, were incredibly hospitable, even when I threw up all over their bathroom after unwittingly imbibing far too much vodka for any foreign liver to handle at a wedding party on Saturday night.

Below are pictures from Saturday (with Sunday to follow in the next post). As I hope you will see, Bukhara has a life, identity and history all its own. After all, it had been a kingdom (or emirate) unto itself for centuries; what we now call Uzbekistan has only existed for the last hundred years.

First, a view of the old city:

The inner courtyard of Nadir Divanbegi madrassah, originally designed as a caravan serai (or boarding house slash place of business for Silk Road merchants), but Nadir was forced to turn it into a madrassah (or school) when the khan mistakenly thought it was such (and no one contradicted the khan and lived to tell!):

Jalol, sporting my hat, which he really seemed to admire, at Labi Hauz (literally "poolside"), the "it" cafe in the old town (with Nadir Divanbegi Khanagha in background):

The Nadir Divanbegi Khanagha, built to be a shelter for the poor and disabled:

The old moneychangers' bazaar (still the site of a currency exchange office!):

The Magok-i-Attari mosque is one of the oldest in Central Asia. It stands atop the reuins of an ancient Zoroastrian temple:

The stately Ulugbeg madrassah, named after an emir (a sort of military king) who was also an astronomer and scientist (incidentally, Ulugbeg is now a very common name in Uzbekistan):

The doors of the Mir-i-Arab madrassah (or religious school) are open to students again, a symbol of Uzbekistan's Islamic reawakening after decades of Soviet policies and campaigns against religion:

View of the Kalon Minaret (also known as the Tower of Death for its function as execution platform) from the Juma (Friday) mosque, which accommodates 10,000 worshippers (Genghis Khan, when he stormed into town, believed it to be the palace):

The 16th and 21st centuries collide in Bukhara:

A view of a mini-chaikhane ("tea house") within the corridors of the Juma mosque; men gather on cushioned wooden platforms like this one and share a pot of green tea as they discuss the state of the world:

"The Bug Pit" at Zindon, the horrific prison for Bukhara's worst offenders, is a dark, forbidding ditch that was covered by a grate and accessed only by a six-meter rope in its functional days.

"The Ark", at once palace and citadel (and now museum), has guarded the city for hundreds of years. For some reason, this structure seemed to attract local visitors rather than the smattering of foreign tourists found at the other, more impressive sites. Even Jalol regarded it as the "most important" thing to see on our tour, whereas I didn't even get to it when I was here five years ago.

Bukhara wedding revelry (photos snapped post-vodka intake):

More to come!

2006-06-23T11:42:00.000+05:00

On Sunday, I moved into my very own house, which ZdravPlus is renting for me from a Canadian couple (from New Brunswick, of all places!) for the rest of my time here. The house is in a very quiet, residential area at the end of a little street that dead-ends into the outer wall of a veritable palace, which apparently hosts visiting dignitaries and the like. In fact, I was quite alarmed to step outside my door Wednesay morning to find a car filled with four policemen parked squarely in front of my house. I wonder, who was in town?

Enjoy the photos. The McCleods, who bought the house a year ago, have done intentionally little to "jazz it up" in a swanky, ex-pat style. Therefore, the house, complete with inner courtyard (or outdoor "foyer"), feels very authentic to me. There is also a piano, for which I bought some sheet music at a used bookstore. (For some reason, everyone keeps thinking that I'm saying "sheep music.") I am currently learning Mozart's Sonata No. 10 in my spare time. Also note my laundry on the line, the product of a three-hour battle of wits with the washing machine. ("Oh, it's so easy to use!" the owner had exclaimed.)

That night, I went out to dinner with Anna and Larissa, two Russian girls who are Tashkent natives. Anna and I had sat next to each other on the Istanbul-to-Tashkent flight and helped one another navigate the Uzbek customs forms. In the photo, we are at an outdoor restaurant behind the train station, and we've just enjoyed a yummy dinner of chicken and pork shashlik (grilled meat) wrapped in Armenian flat bread, washed down with cold (OK, luke warm) Baltica beer. In true Soviet fashion, the varieties of Baltica are explicitly ranked according to alcohol content; the restaurant was out of Baltica #9 (the strongest), so we settled for #7.

2006-06-22T12:49:00.000+05:00

"Cosmo kitsch" probably better describes Kosmonavtlar, the Metro station that sends me off to work every morning, welcomes me home at night, and never fails to make me chuckle. Of course, neither photo (for which I am grateful to two anonymous--and daring--fellow travelers with web pages of their own) does justice to this endlessly amusing station, but please enjoy as best you can.

2006-06-21T17:04:00.000+05:00

The Tashkent Metro is unexpectedly pleasant and efficient. Photography is forbidden (probably because of two bombings in 1998), and the entire system is teeming with police, so I daren't push the envelope. The police are infamous for their extortion of foreigners in the Metro, but supposedly President Karimov threatened punitive action if the corruption didn't let up. Apparently, police are now more likely to ask for your "papers" (which implies a cocktail of documents, including passport, visa, registration, customs form and currency exchange receipts) than to expect a bribe. I take the Metro to and from work every day and have yet to be stopped.

Some of the Metro stations are actually quite beautiful; many were designed by local artists. Despite the photography ban, there are extant pictures on the Internet. Below are two of the nicer ones. The first (Alisher Navoiy) is where I transfer trains every day. The second lies beneath Tashkent's shamelessly monumentalist Mustaqillik Maydoni (Independence Square).

I will continue searching for a shot of the station closest to my house, named Kosmonavtlar in honor of Soviet astronauts, because it is just too amazing a throwback to a sort of Futurist aesthetic.

2006-06-19T13:29:00.000+05:00

My office is on the northeastern fringe of town, on Bo'zbozor Street, so named for the informal bazaar (market) that takes place just around the corner, where women and men from the villages set up shop on the ground (literally), lining the sidewalk with their blankets, on which products as various as apricots, small chickens, and plastic coat hangers are displayed. The nearby Metro stop, Buyuk Ipak Yoli (Great Silk Road), was so re-named (like so many roads and stations here) after its former Russian label (Maxim Gorky, after the author) was deemed politically undesirable.

2006-06-17T19:31:00.000+05:00

Greetings from the Silk Road (or what's left of it)! As most anyone who would view this blog already knows, I am living in Tashkent, Uzbekistan, this summer, working with a USAID-funded health care reform project called ZdravPlus. My role is to design and conduct a case study of one of the project's pilot programs in health care quality improvement (QI) for adult hypertension in Ferghana oblast (province).

I've created this blog largely to share photos with you, my friends and family. I can talk and type until my face is blue and my fingers sore (as I have to my Dad and Carlos), but the proverbial picture is worth a thousand words.

Without further verbiage, then, here are some photos of scenes from my daily life for the last ten days.

The hotel to which I relocated without a word, after three nights (and three wretched breakfasts of fly-infested cottage cheese topped with luke-warm sour cream) in the lowsy, ex-Soviet Hotel "Miracle", is the much more modern Grand Orzu Hotel on the south side of town, near Bobur Park and the Caravan Art Cafe:

And here are some scenes from the street and area around the hotel, including the salon (right edge of second photo) where I got my first Uzbek haircut (which was very meticulously executed by an attractive 25-year-old female stylist who wanted my name and number):

Nice park, isn't it? Tashkent has random sites of urban grandeur like this one, but all in all the city cannot seem to escape the insipid, depressed aesthetic unleashed by decades of Communism and subsequent authoritarianism.