my 15 minutes

How odd that I have already lived Saturday, and yours is just beginning.

You know how we all get our 15 minutes of fame? Who knew mine would be in a hardly known little town in central Uzbekistan? It happened today, so sorry you missed it.

The day began with a taxi ride to the avtovoksal, the bus station-one of them anyway. My taxi driver, who I think is the hotel owner's father, is a colorful character, perhaps 80 years of age and full of vinegar. He kept up a fairly steady conversation in spite of little common language.  When I didn't understand his question, he would repeat it more loudly, and then do little motions like in a game of charades until I got it.

We came to an intersection where a long line of cars were waiting to turn left. He went around them all and just pulled into the front of the line, as I slunk down in my seat. He seems to be enjoying the prerogatives of old age.

He asked if I was from Germany, Australia? I cut off the guessing with an answer, knowing he would not even suggest American. No one does. In fact, as I walked back to my hotel a few minutes ago, three Frenchmen called out to me, "Bonjour", and asked if I spoke French. I think they were a few bottles of something in, but I humored them, and entertained myself as well. They kept trying French, so I asked in German if they spoke German, then in Spanish if they spoke Spanish. Alas, they spoke only French, thus aborting a perhaps entertaining conversation. But I digress. Back to my moments of fame.

I caught a minibus ride from the station, packed in the way back.  My taxi driver apparently thought I wanted to go to the ceramics workshop, so he told the van driver that. And so I was dropped off at that spot but no way to tell the driver that wasn't what I wanted, because what did I want?  Just the middle of town, wherever that was. So instead I walked, following the way the van went after dropping me off. I had decided that Gijduvan was a backwater town with no real center, until I stumbled on the bozor (bazaar).

It seems like most towns have one, and it's the center of life for the town's occupants. Of course, that's why I like them. This was a mad crush of people through the mostly shaded walkways between densely packed stalls. People were going all directions, carts and men with loads yelling to get through, transactions under way all around. I was entranced and then eventually felt a little claustrophobic. The press of the crowd never let up
and there were no pockets of room to stand aside and let those with real business through. So I mentally latched on to the woman in front of me, and just followed her straight forward. I knew eventually we would have to come out one side or another, which of course we did. It felt a little like I had suddenly jumped out of a dark hole into the light.

On both sides of me I saw restaurants, all open air, with some kind of shade above. I hesitated, and a woman on my right gestured me in, and I stepped toward her. She and two men showed me two plates of fish, and I thought I was being asked which I wanted, so I just pointed. One of the men broke off a piece with his fingers and handed it to me to try. Then the woman said more things, including a word I knew, shashlik. I nodded my head at shashlik, and she pointed me to a table. Chai?, she said and I said yes.

The whole place wouldn't last a minute in our world. The tables and chairs have years of grime, plus the last customer's crumbs. I can't really do it justice with words. The two cooks were frying fish in hot oil, and I had to duck past the free standing chimney from their charcoal fire as I went.  You're wondering about the fame, I know. I'm getting to that.  Be glad that I'm omitting the bathroom description this time.

I got my food and chai, and commenced eating. In a short while, one of the women working there sat at an empty table beside me and struck up a conversation with me. She spoke almost no English, but by now I know the typical questions and so sometimes I just guess at what the question is. Also, charades are useful. I am constantly amazed at how much is communicated in these exchanges where we don't speak a common language.

Anyway, she found out I am American (sharp intake of breath at this), and name, that I'm sleeping/staying in Bukhara (two hands with head laid on it, to indicate sleeping, I guessed correctly at the where part), and I think she asked if I had children, which I answered with two fingers and then my palm face down and my hand out to the side and rising, I indicated that they were grown.

A young girl had joined us by then. They left after this and went to a man who appeared to be in charge. I heard "tourist" and "America", and suddenly the place was abuzz. The family at the next table got interested, the young man sitting there came over and asked me a couple of questions, then reported back to his family. Everyone openly stared, but it seemed friendly, and besides it was really funny. So I smiled and waved at anyone I made eye contact with. It was unbelievable. They don't seem to have met an American before.

And then someone wanted to take my picture with my camera, and then they all wanted me to take their photos. Several gave me their first names, which I duly recorded in my notebook. Mr Boss, whose name is Utta Beg, asked me by gestures to take him back to America with me. He kept it up until I left. Then the two cooks got in on the photo action. As I took each photo, I would pull it up and show them their picture, which invariably made them smile and make comments.

By this time, everyone at the restaurant and at the one next door was standing and watching. The goodbyes took several turns, and I walked away with a big grin on my face. One woman selling nan nearby had seen this and wanted me to take her photo as well. I included her friend next to her in the shot, and when I showed them, they both giggled and put their hands over their mouths in embarrassed enjoyment.

Part of me wanted to stay longer, but I've heard it said that you should leave on a high note. And because I was done with lunch.

I wondered why tourists don't come to places like this market. Ruins and historical sites are interesting, but this is everyday Uzbekistan, and I love it.  I'll post some of the photos here in a bit, more on Picasa. I've been adding photos to Picasa almost daily, so if you haven't looked in a while there will be a bunch.

And now I can take my ease, knowing my 15 minutes have come and gone.