The other day, I was on my way to an evening at Public Pub, which is this lovely Irish pub (of which there are, unbelievably, two in downtown Dushanbe) where we like to have a beer every so often.  As usual, I stood on the side of Rudaki, waiting patiently for a car (or even better, a Lada) drive up with a nice big laminated “3” in the front window.  In minutes I was speeding down the road in my own private Mercedes (for the grand cost of 3 Somonis, or about 60 US cents), when we were flagged down again.  I watched incredulously as three other men my age climbed in and sat on the bench next to me, two more crammed into the front seat, and three others climbed in on top of us, to put a total of what must have been 9 or 10 people in a relatively small sedan.

They were all laughing boisterously and blasting the Pussycat Dolls on their iPhones, and they began speaking to me in Russian (Russian is the go-to language when they see a man of my skin tone).  At this point I was trying not to break into laughter at the absurdity of the clown car scenario I had found myself in as we continued the Mario-Kart style road rally that is driving in Tajikistan.

This was not the first time that I found myself humming the theme song from “Moo Moo Farm” or “Choco Mountain” as we zigzagged in and out of cars and SUV’s down Rudaki, but it was one of the weirder times.  I said to the boys that I speak Tajik, and that I don’t understand Russian, which shocked and delighted them, and they proceeded to continue talking to me in Tajik and talking about me in Russian.  I hardly remember any of the details, just the sheer absurdity of what I was experiencing.

Within just a few minutes, though, I was bidding my new acquaintances farewell, and I watched as the car full of people drove off down Rudaki as I walked over to join my classmates, another new memory in tow.