Continuing my series of Layover Adventures, this week I want to share some memories from two long layovers I had in Brussels, Belgium back in the summer of 2014, on my way to Africa.
Continue reading “6 Hours In Brussels: A Destination and Layover Guide”
Some of you may recall my post last summer called Attack of the Tajik Tummy in which I recounted in lady-like detail my first encounter with the vagaries of Tajikistan’s many gastrointestinal flora. Well, after discussing my symptoms with a travel doctor, apparently, the 25 hours I spent in bed with an insane fever, migrane, inability to retain anything in either end, and a general feeling of death, were actually the result of typhoid. Hooray, I got an illness that I only knew of because of the many hours spent playing Oregon Trail as a kid!
On August 1st, which I remember because it was National Day in Switzerland, my host mother came into my bedroom not long after dinner, just after dark as was typical during Ramadan. Her tone a combination of excited urgency, she said “Some foreigners just came by and they were speaking English and I think they needed help.” Not one to skip an adventure, I grabbed my book and set out in the direction she had pointed me. Two blocks up, sure enough, was a short young Irish woman with a rolling suitcase staring confusedly at her map in the dark. Her husband soon joined from down the street, where he was trying to get directions in his very good Russian. In what was likely one of the weirdest moments of their trip, the white guy (me) walked up to them and began speaking to them in English.
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.
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It’s 3:10 in the morning, and in the starlight, I can make out the outline on the tablecloth of bread, teacups, a tub of Turkish Nutella, and two bowls of “shirchai,” a warm soup made from whole milk, butter, and tea leaves. I sit in the darkness with my host grandmother, and as I eat my fill of the smorgasbord, I can hear the soft clinking of forks, knives, and spoons against bowls and plates across our neighborhood and across Dushanbe, the capital of the small mountainous republic of Tajikistan.
We saw this today… A Lada full of matching melons.
That is all.
Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later, but I finally got sick. But the ever-discussed “Tajik Tummy,” the fear of which has been struck into us for over a month now as one by one each of us has fallen, is quite an adventure to behold here in the global capital of gastrointestinal illness. Continue reading “Attack of the Tajik Tummy”
Remember how I was waxing poetic about Dushanbe’s marshrutka system? I really glossed over a lot of the other routes of transportation. In particular, I did not do justice to Dushanbe’s beautiful rusty old trolleybus network. My love for this relic of Soviet Russia has grown many times like flower in pot. These elegant green and white and iron oxide colored buses quickly whisk people from one stop to the next, manned by a driver and a fare collector who rides in the door and tells the driver whether to stop and mercifully wait for people running for the bus or to drive by completely without stopping. In general, they are far more eager to take an extra one Somoni fare from a passenger than to maintain a “schedule,” though, so I rarely miss them like in the US. Here are some of my favorite stories about the trolleybuses so far.
Continue reading “Tales From The Trolleybuses of Tajikistan”
Many in our Tajik classes are not too thrilled to be diverting attention to the local dialect of Persian here in Tajikistan. As security studies majors, they see it as a little-needed language that will not help them outside of communicating with their host families here. When their hair falls out because they couldn’t read the label on a shampoo bottle, the rest of us will be laughing, but in all honesty, I actually really enjoy our Tajik classes, partially because most of my language practice here is actually in Tajik, not Farsi, and partially because our Tajik teacher is so hysterically funny. Continue reading “In Tajikistan, “It’s A Thing” Is A Thing”
Yesterday was by far one of the most spontaneous and interesting days we have had since arriving in Tajikistan. June 27th is National Unity Day, and marks the anniversary of the signing of the peace accord that ended Tajikistan’s brutal civil war that devastated the country from 1992-1997. On that day 16 years ago, representatives from the government and the opposition met in Moscow under UN supervision to sign an accord and begin a process of reconciliation that seems to me to have brought a national pride and unity to the country. I’m sure that somewhere, people are unhappy, but that’s the way that countries work. In any case, it is an important day to Tajiks, and serves as a solemn reminder of their country’s suffering on its journey to independence. Continue reading “Tajik National Unity Day”
