‘URGENT! The Khiva Presidential School is coming to visit tomorrow. Can you please contribute some money to the feast we are providing, and can some of you play volleyball? After the meal there will be a friendly volleyball game. Thank you.’ I finished reading the message from our VP and shook my head. This was so typical. Didn’t the Admin know about the visit in advance? Why this ‘rush, rush?’ It reminded me of the time, a few weeks earlier, when we were told on Wednesday that we had to vacate the school for the entire weekend so it could be disinfected and sanitized. Evidently several complaints about Jerry, the resident mouse, had finally forced the maintenance manager’s hand. But wouldn’t it be nice to have a few days’ notice so people could actually do some planning? Sometimes it feels like even big events happen on the spur of the moment here, and the world’s only hope is that Uzbekistan will never host the Olympic Games.
Even the order of the planned events was far from ideal. Why should we have a huge lunch first, followed immediately by a ‘spirited’ volleyball match? “I am so full that I will need an elevator to get to the top of the net,” I jokingly suggested to my colleague at the end of our meal.
Earlier, we had assembled a motley crew with some volleyball skills and, since we were given no time to practice, we hoped for the best. Aygul, the gym teacher with a disconcerting habit of cleaning her ear while talking, was our secret weapon. Rumor had it that she was a Karakalpak basketball champ back in the day and, hopefully, some of those skills transferred to volleyball. After our male colleagues lost to the Khiva team in a rapid succession of two sad-to-watch matches it was our turn. When I saw the opposing female team, with two players in what appeared to be skirts, my first thought was that we were in for an easy win. My second thought was that they were probably told about the volleyball match with even less advance notice than us, maybe on the bus. I could almost visualize the scene. The bus interior shaking, the VP standing up, clutching the seat in front of her as she announces, “Oh, by the way colleagues, we are going to play volleyball with the Nukus team after lunch. You don’t have a change of clothes? No matter. You will be just fine. Those skirts look wide enough. Make us proud!” ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’ proved to be true again. The two women dressed in the most inappropriate clothes turned out to be Khiva’s strongest players. We salvaged our school’s injured pride by winning at least one of our two matches. We couldn’t have done it without Aygul who, despite her early pregnancy, was still our best player.
“We had a great game,” I asked Nadira, my wonderful co-teacher, to translate. “And, Aygul, I just found out that you are expecting. Congratulations!” Nadira obligingly translated. “I know how much you wanted to add a boy to your girls.” I smiled at her and added, “Hope it will work out this time.” Despite my personal dislike of the fact that the Uzbek society, like all of Central Asia, still prefers boys, I understand the rationale. This is a poor country by Western standards, with an insufficient pension system, and having a boy is one way to augment it since the youngest boy is traditionally obliged to take care of the elderly parents. Recently, though, I was told by a colleague that the rule is not strictly adhered to anymore and that, in practice, the duty now falls on the child who earns the most.
After our Khiva colleagues departed, I went home to soak my feet. I knew already that evening that I would pay for this impromptu friendly game the following day. And I was right. Even before I went to bed, I was already able to truthfully inform Dave, “I have rediscovered some of my long-forgotten muscles.” Luckily, I had something to look forward to. The following morning I was going to have my first massage in six months. Perfect timing, went through my mind as I limped to bed.
I lost Dinara, the masseuse I had used in the past, to pregnancy. I really valued Dinara after having had a couple of less than successful massage experiences before I found her. The most memorable one happened during my first year in Nukus. At that time, while walking in the downtown area, I noticed a store window sign advertising massage. On entering, I quickly realized that the place looked a bit sketchy, but I gave it the benefit of the doubt and made an appointment. When I returned on Saturday morning for my scheduled massage the door was locked. Slightly discouraged, but not giving up easily, I pounded on the door and a very young woman, perhaps even a teen, appeared. After I explained to her about the appointment, she let me enter and began leading me to the back of the store. On our way we passed no less than three guys sleeping on mattresses placed on the floor in the main area. ‘What have I stumbled into?’ went through my head. But that was just the beginning. She opened the door to the massage room. True, the massage table was there, but it already had an occupant. A young man was still asleep on it. The woman said something to him, and he quickly rolled up his bedding and disappeared. At that point I did not have just second thoughts but third and fourth. But my curiosity was insatiable. ‘What else will I see this morning?’ I pondered. The answer came quickly. That same child-looking woman put a new sheet on the table and said something I did not understand but to which I responded, “Where is the woman with whom I talked yesterday?” she pointed to herself, indicating that she would give me the massage. That was the last straw.
I realize that Asian women do tend to look younger but still… Do I want to be arrested for child labor? “Maybe I will come back next time, when the woman is back,” I said while backing out. If it was any other activity but a massage, I might have gone for it. It was evident that the group needed money, but when it comes to a massage I am a stickler for cleanliness and for staying out of prison. ‘How many people had used that sheet before me?’ I wondered while closing the door behind me.
Dinara’s place was always clean and, as far as I know, she did not rent it out for sleepovers. That is why I was pleased for her when she shared with me her happy baby news, but sad news for me. ‘Where will I find another masseuse?’ I could not help but wonder. Enter Barb, my colleague. When I told her how I had lost Dinara she said, “You should try the place I go to.”
It is always refreshing to deal with someone even worse at giving directions than me. When Barb tried to persuade me that the road to the airport was parallel to the one running by our school I, as hopeless as I am with directions, knew I could not rely on her. I made my first appointment by phone and, when the morning of the massage came, I ended up calling the masseuse and let her explain to the driver where to go.
The new place was not a beauty salon but a ‘Klinik’ and, judging from some pictures on the walls, it was offering many different procedures. It made me somewhat wary because, aside from my sore muscles, there was nothing wrong with me. The last and only time I had a massage at a clinic, things did not go too well for me. It was back in Edmonton and the masseuse, who was a bear of a woman with paw-like hands, gave me a massage that left me in pain for days afterwards. Remembering that incident, I played it safe and stressed to my new masseuse Zuhrya that I did not want a deep massage. My fingers, imitating kneading, and my face, mimicking pain plus a resounding NO, conveyed the message: Take it easy on me!
Of course, I was aware that Zuhrya was a small woman from the moment I lay my eyes on her, but the full realization came only after I placed my flipper sized shoes next to her Barbie slippers, which she kept in the room. After I assumed my regular position lying on my tummy, Zuhrya instructed me to turn over. What? That’s unusual, was my first thought. Then she placed a basin with warm water at the end of the massage table and directed me to position my feet in it. Since that first time I have had several massages and Zahrya always starts with soaking and washing my feet. I have not given a single sermon and I get this treatment, I smiled smugly the first time she did this.
Lying there, with my feet soaking, reminded me of another occasion where I ended up with feet as clean as a whistle. At that time, we worked in the UAE. One of our favorite weekend activities was camping on a relatively secluded beach by the Indian Ocean. Jessie was around five and we tended to go with other families and their small children. But one weekend we were joined by two other families with their teens. We all shared our food in a massive potluck, but each family brought their own water and other beverages of choice. With so many people the camp site could become a bit chaotic, but it was always fun. The camp was on the beach, and it was our habit to have a water bottle by the entrance to the tent to rinse our feet of sand before entering our tent. During the day the three teens, like most teens in the entitled parts of the world, hung around by themselves but, in the evening, they joined all of us socializing around the campfire. The weather was perfect, but it was winter and the sun set early. Having a small child, lots of exercise and hot sun proved exhausting and we hit the sack by ten. The teens, being more energetic, stayed around the fire longer.
Around midnight I obeyed the call of nature and exited the tent quietly. Of course, I rinsed my feet thoroughly before re-entering just as stealthily. I had trouble falling asleep again when I overheard some voices approaching. Soon I recognized as one of them Sam, the oldest teen of the group. He sounded intense. “Where did you hide that vodka?”
“It was in the water bottle,” came the answer from Ricky, who was Sam’s school friend.
“Yeah, I know. But where is it?”
“Somewhere here,”
“Where, you idiot?”
“I could swear I left it around here.”
An amusing thought materialized out of nowhere and I quietly sat up and bent my right leg so the foot almost touched my nose. Yes, I could still do that at that time. Sure enough, my suspicion was confirmed. My feet could not get any cleaner, short of using peroxide on them. The whispering grew fainter as the teens expanded their search. I could have told them what had happened to their vodka, but I was quite happy to just chuckle and finally go back to sleep.
I zoned out under the spell of Zuhrya’s deft fingers and soothing music. But my train of thought down Memory Lane was derailed after a strange sound began coming from one corner. It seemed like a kettle was slowly gaining temperature, accompanied with the appropriate sound effects. After a while I could not resist and lifted my head. Sure enough, the sound was coming from a kettle sitting on a small table. Immediately, sadness washed over me. My session was likely drawing to its end and Zuhrya had probably already started a kettle for tea with her colleague. And they will enjoy it the moment I exit, probably discussing the huge feet of the new foreign client. My depressing thought was interrupted by Zuhrya saying a complicated sentence from which I caught only one word, “hot.” Before I had a chance to ponder it further, I felt a hot stone on my back. Then it hit me. I stumbled onto a hot stone massage! My session was not about to end … it had reached its best part!