Cultural Adventures

Geography matters. Is the country surrounded by benevolent neighbours or are they historically worrisome? Is the country big enough to throw its weight around in world forums or too small to speak up and be taken seriously? Does the population have access to any sizable body of water? Does it connect easily to any ocean? These questions were swirling in my head as I pondered the history of Uzbekistan. It is a double land-locked country separated from Russia by the enormous landmass of Kazakhstan. Despite this natural barrier, the presence of the Russian Bear is still felt. Even though Uzbekistan gained its independence from the Soviet Union some thirty years ago, becoming truly independent of its former master has been a slow process. It did not help that, for most of those years, shepherding the country to democracy fell into the iron grip of the former Communist Karimov. Talk about appointing a goat to be the gardener! 

Under Stalin-ruled Uzbekistan, just like many other Central Asian Republics, it became a dumping ground for any ‘undesirables.’ To this day one of the largest minorities dating from those terrible times are Koreans. Every time I walk from school to the downtown, I am reminded of history as I pass several Korean stores including the beauty salon with its typical flowery Korean decorations and elaborate fragile looking fans of which even Japanese geishas would approve. 

And all shops in town, maybe except hardware stores, sell Kimchi. Kimchi is a traditional Korean dish that is made of cabbage, spices and garlic. Unquestionably, garlic rules. The aroma of Kimchi is so powerful that I need to keep it in a sealed glass jar and enclose the jar in not one but three layers of ziplock bags. Should I fail to do that, my entire fridge would very quickly become kimchi territory. I only indulge on weekends because I like my students and try not to inflict unnecessary suffering on them. If you have a truly thick skin and don’t mind antagonizing people, eating Kimchi would ensure plenty of personal space even in the most crowded environment. 

I choose to eat my kimchi on the balcony because I don’t want to stink up my whole room. It is a standing joke for Dave and me. “When are you coming in?” Dave would call through the glass door. “When I finish eating this toxic waste,” is my standard answer. Despite its incredibly strong smell, it tastes wonderful, and it’s loaded with vitamins. I don’t really mind its smell while eating it, what I don’t like is living in the aftermath. 

In the spirit of promoting Global Citizenship (one of our school’s ‘values’) each of our grades was tasked with preparing a short presentation on a country of their choice. During the Monday Morning Assembly, Grade 11 students kicked off Korean Week with a little skit. Six students entered the hall marching to military music, and saluted to the North Korean dictator Kim Jong, impersonated by Manzur, who is not as porky-looking as the real Jong but chubby enough to make him a rarity amongst our students and perfect for the role. With relish they were all throwing some paper missiles out into the audience when Nuri, the class clown, ran to the front shouting. “Stop, stop. You blew it. It’s supposed to be South Korea Week.” They have a good sense of humour! 

And the good humour is not restricted to the students only. I noticed a significant difference between the Western ability to actively self-entertain and the one I find here. Uzbeks seem to be more willing to put themselves out there, and to actively participate in creating fun. Every October we celebrate ‘Teacher’s Day.’ It is one of those rare occasions when we actually get a day off that we don’t have to make up for later. The evening before that precious day, all the staff gets together in a restaurant and we do what one would expect. Eat, drink and dance too much. The entertainment part is where it becomes interesting and unexpected. One of the local staff members organizes some party games and skits. Not only does he choose most of the ‘volunteers’ for his activities but, when he picks people, they participate with zest, clearly enjoying it. I have never come across such level of active participation, sometimes involving getting silly, in the West. My International colleagues seem much more rigid and self-conscious by comparison. 

During one of these activities a quiz question asked about what games kids play. Answers shouted out were typical; hopscotch, hide and seek, musical chairs, the usual. It only made me reflect on how many of them are common across cultures. I had the urge to shout ‘doctor,’ but restrained myself. Would they really know this game? And, no, I did not want to be asked to explain it. 

Being more open to self-entertainment might be because in the past, under the Soviet yoke, humour would be a release valve. It worked that way for the Czechs. Many jokes and truly hilarious exchanges with political undertones had been created when times had been hard. 

Making fun of all the hardship that life brings is one thing. Another, but just as unintended, side effect of having spent too much time not being able to freely express themselves is Uzbeks’ lack of initiative. The attitude of ‘don’t stick your head out and you’ll live longer’ is still prevalent. I thought about this while unwrapping a new chair in the Teacher’s Room. This is not my favorite place because it can get noisy and distracting, which doesn’t help my ‘fruit fly’ attention span. For several days I had passed the open door and puzzled over a dozen brand new chairs, still shrouded in their plastic wraps, with the teachers sitting on the plastic. When will they get finally unveiled? I wondered. Will there be some unveiling ceremony? My sarcastic side was getting the better of me. But the funny mental image was not entirely unfounded because Uzbeks love their certificates and diplomas and enjoy little ceremonies when receiving them. Afterwards they display them in their classrooms above teachers desks the same way some people collect and display butterflies or beer caps. I giggled to myself imagining the same ritual applied to unwrapping new chairs. 

Then one afternoon I had to use the Teacher’s Room. “Why is the plastic on? I asked the three teachers seated on plastic covered chairs working there. They just shrugged. The first thing I did before sitting down was to rip off all the plastic from one of the chairs. The other teachers seemed uninterested in my proceeding. However, when I returned from a visit to the loo, all the chairs had been rendered naked. No more plastic! I sighed happily. But why did it take them several days and one International teacher to make it happen? 

There are so many wonderful things to be amused by if one pays attention to her surroundings. The Berdaq Museum, with its gorgeous tiled, domed roof and massive carved doors, is a pretty sight. It would fit well as a backdrop to the One Thousand and One Nights. Therefore, the scene which sprang up in front of it, seemingly overnight, is incongruous to say the least. It happened a few months back and its source is still unknown. 

To experience Scheherazade the unsuspecting visitor to the Museum must now first navigate Alice’s Wonderland by circling a herd of placid looking deer lying on the ground, flanked on both sides by several just as tacky-looking garden gnomes. The whole setup, liberally sprinkled with poisonous mushrooms, is dominated by several tall mountain goats with perfectly symmetrical curved horns. The ubiquitous flock of pink flamingos completes the unreal scene. All in all there are about forty of these new improbable creations. In the Western world I would peg it as an attempt at a Nouveau Art installation by some misunderstood artist; here I am just baffled. They all look like something made of paper mâché in an Art class for the Esthetically Challenged but, when I tried to lift one of the Smurfs, it turned out they were solid and heavy. Nobody would run away with these guys, went through my head. Who would want to, was my second thought. The puzzle of these figurines occupying a big part of the square in front of the Museum is still unsolved. For a while I believed that perhaps it was one of those mysteries only locals could unlock but, one sunny afternoon, I saw a family taking pictures with the mountain goats so I asked about the purpose of the display. “Maybe you can buy one of these?” I said tentatively. The man just shrugged. “But where is the seller?” I persisted. Now the woman shrugged as well. Obviously, they were as clueless as I. 

In a more ‘developed’ country the figurines wouldn’t survive one night without their appearance being altered with spray paint, or even losing a limb or two. But vandalism is practically nonexistent here. I am not naïve, I realize that Uzbekistan must have their own share of petty criminals, but it seems to me that there are less of them compared to the West. Maybe this is because of the previous president Karimov, who was heavy handed with punishments. Or perhaps because the communities, starting with families, are still closely-knitted, resulting in the raising of more respectful youth. 

“I came up with a new name for the square in front of the museum,” I told Dave. “Oh yeah? What?” “Berdaq’s Square of Kitsch.” “Cute.” Dave chuckled. It takes a lot to give Dave a hearty laugh, but I think he appreciate my sense of humour in his own way.