United Airlines flight 604 from O’Hare to Reagan National. Mom was flying down the Kennedy because we left at 6:45am and I had an 8:00 flight. It turned out that we got to O’Hare ate 7:30 am. All was well. They put my red duffel into a plastic bag – I suspect that they saw the bottle of Listerine and worried that it would spill.

United put my bag on another flight and I had to wait another 45 minutes for that flight to arrive. ARGH! Of course, it’s not a big deal, really. When I got to the hotel, I was in room 205. My roommate seems sort of freaked out about going. Her sister is here, too. They seem very down to earth. Oh boy! I have to call grandma. I have to call Yo, too. Oh, and I have to call Deb. Aiee!

Haylow Sharron! Yay! I am so happy for you! Wow, Uzbekistan. I’m definitely going to visit. That’s great. Well my friend, I wish you a great and safe trip. Avez-vous un bon trip (is that right?). I’ll be sure to write! - Asmarelda

We finished the staging today. My little sister’s car broke down after she picked up my original papers and left me a double dutch rope. It’s a light rope, but I hope that if it’s doubled up (maybe tripled), I can use it. Otherwise, it will make a good laundry line. Anyway, after two hours, we got the car moving. I still haven’t called Grandma. I will from Frankfurt. I still have 75 minutes on the calling card, so I think that I can get her at Frankfurt. Maybe even from Istanbul, though by then I doubt that I’ll ever get 10 minutes out of the card. Oh crud! What is the International access code?

Good morning! I have my string, my unbalanced, oversized luggage, my passport, photo, etc. I am sitting behind a group of my fellow colleagues. I admit that the problem simply is that I have a very low tolerance for chitchat, but I prefer to write in my book. As for the problem of laundry, I asked one of the returning volunteers and was told that his group never washed anything in the training site – Chircheek – because they were only there five days. Now, I know darn well that people didn’t walk around for a week without changing underwear. Well, maybe some would. Anyway, I’ll see when I get there. I’ll use the laundry soap. I’m nervous rather than uptight, but it’s time to be outgoing. I can’t wait to meet my host family. I hope they have class. At the airport Ok, after an hour and a half in line just to get a ticket, I have tried to finish Burger King chicken – I failed, but at least I tried. So now it’s the wait for the plane. I had “lunch” with ------. I have to write the names down or I’ll forget them. I should find a phone bank and call Grandmother. Well, I’ll write her a letter with a pressed flower or something. I can’t afford to start mailing papers from my journal, but the first thing I’ll have to do is find a camera, grab a few postcards and write home. I’ll be very glad to see the various communities of Uzbekistan and learn something about their interactions with each other and the outside world.

Wow! The first day in Uzbekistan! The various peoples of Uzbekistan look a LOT like Native Americans and Mexicans (especially when they are young and have more tilted eyes). There are Slavs as well. Basically, I would describe Central Asians as Asians with some Slavic blood. Tashkent is very Soviet – down to the uniforms and buildings. I wonder how long it will be before the architecture is rearranged. It felt weird. The airport bathroom had no tp, so I used a page from my book. All those stories Dad told about people in the South using catalogs paid off. When we left the airport for the bus we were met first by the local cab drivers. That’s when I found out that a lot of Uzbeks (don’t know which nationality) are fairly tall. I wonder if they’ll be the next set of former Soviet s being drafted onto U.S. basketball teams. The comments they made were no worse than anything you hear going down the street in Chicago. So we got to the sanatorium. I took the coldest bath of my life, hung things too dry on the pipes and hit the sack. The carpets are beautiful. After a nap, my roommate and I had a vegetarian breakfast. Unfortunately vegetarianism is lost on the Uzbeks, just as the Spanish didn’t get it. At least here I won’t chew a slab of bacon by accident. We saw a play/display of Uzbek ethnic culture – this includes the Uzbeks, Tajiks, Kazakhs, etc. It was nice. Afterwards [some of us] walked the grounds. I think there are people living here as well. It looks like the dying industrial towns of Ohio and Pennsylvania or East Chicago. The fact that so many Uzbek women have gold teeth isn’t real shocking when you consider what is happening in the South. I know Uzbekistan is different, but right now it feels like a music video from some of the Southern rappers. After our walk, we came back to a group of PCV’s talking to the Uzbek ladies and I was told that they were curious about my scarf. I and another PCV took pictures with the ladies. She seemed annoyed, but I enjoyed it. Difference makes the human quilt beautiful. I know I want a picture of the ladies with their eyebrows drawn in. It was great to see that in person. Well, I’m tired now. Good night.

Tashkent is a very foreign city at first sight. It was small and open with rigid lines and gray, iron buildings. The city has few trees, mostly in the Central Park, where a gargantuan monument of Amir Timur (the famous Tameralane) dominated the view. Looking at his helm, chain mail and flowing cloak invoked images of warriors and swords, murder and conquest. These faults seem to destroy nation after nation. Still, Amir Timur was not nearly as impressive as Alexander Sergei Pushkin, the greatest writer that Russia ever produced. The grandson of an Ethiopian; the poet who dominates squares, bookstores and classrooms 165 years after his death. It makes me wonder why 137 years after the Civil War; there are no national statues of Ellington or Bassie, America’s greatest musicians.

My roommate did not return last night. That was the first thing on my mind when I woke that morning. The bee or fly trapped behind the curtain; whether I had picked up a disease when something tried to fly into my mouth the night before – these were my concerns that morning. The day before, I had, I believed, successfully avoided being paired off with a yig’it – a boyfriend. I was not yet sure of what part of Uzbek culture this was, but I had read of the tendency to “match make.” I had hoped that telling people that my parents only want me to study would work. I think it just encourages people to marry me off. I can only laugh. So far, I have learned to like Uzbekistan. This morning, my double dutch friends had stopped me on the street while buying vegetables. They are my “little cousins.” More later.

Today was the best. That was my thought after watching soccer and chatting with the boys of Qibray and watching a play and dancing. I played double dutch with the ladies in the lobby. They find the bouncing method of keeping rhythm funny. Today was truly one of the best days of my life.

The PCT’s had decided to teach the Uzbeks about the U.S. via a play, much as they had taught us. I was asked to teach double dutch. I promised nothing, as the play was in two days and I was the only person who could play. It was fun trying. J gave me an evil eye necklace.

The game was a success. Of course, the Uzbeks out jumped us – who wouldn’t; we didn’t do much except Mambo’s One and Little Sally walker. I was so happy when the little girl tore it up. I hear that the crowd really loved it. I had fun dancing and the kids gave me their addresses.

I met my host-family, the Rustamov’s, today. My Opa is Rano and my Aka is Shahobbidin; my singilim is Barno and my ukam is Zahiriddin. They seem nice, but a little overwhelmed. They had a Volunteer last year. They asked me to teach Zohrir English in return for Uzbek. Of course I will. I want to use the bathroom, but I’m afraid of falling into the pit toilet, so I’m going to sleep now.

Mustakallik Bairam Mubarak Uzbekistan! Happy 11th Independence Day! I was worrying about the first bell in the morning, but after reflection I got it together. Rano opa offered Barno as my laundress. I don’t mind if she does my shirts and skirts, but I feel a little odd about someone else doing my undies. I think I’ll do those. At 6pm, the Rustamov’s (the whole family, including the cousins) had a barbecue in the courtyard. I was down with a headache/panic attack about the first bell. Rano opa’s brother is an electrician and will get me overhead light in the next few days. More later

I have been to Samarkand! How well I remember the way my eyes lit up at the word Samarkand when I was first applying to the Peace Corps and now I have been! Me! A beautiful gypsy child tried to hypnotize me. I had been wondering who the very deep brown complexioned people were. They had curly black hair and clear skin. For some reason, the “gypsies” kept targeting me, maybe I look kind; maybe I look like a richer cousin. I visited Bukhari mosque. The mosque has a black stone and you walk around it seven times. I still don’t have a camera. I’m going to the Chorsu bazaar to see if I can get one before next weekend.

My hair is really growing. I haven’t written any poetry or stories in some time and I need to. On the night of the 23rd, I had sheep intestines stuffed with rice. That’s right, I had chitlins. I really try not to think about it. On the night of the 24th we had a sheep’s head. I was given some sort of sphincter and a part of the face. The hoof had boiled coagulated blood. Today a boy on the street called another one Negr. I asked him why he did it and told him that the other boy was very handsome. I start Tajik tomorrow.

Whatever may be said about the feminist movement; it’s certainly needed in Uzbekistan. I keep trying to remind myself that there are many good people in this country because there are. Today I was groped and had my bag slashed. It helps me understand why some foreigners avoid our neighborhoods. The funny thing is, I had envisioned this as the best day of my life. I filled out an incident report, including both the slashing and the groping. I’m much less upset than I had been. I told my host family and learned to cuss in three languages. I laughed with my host mom and sister about how to use a purse as a deadly weapon. Apparently, Uzbek men are not taught to keep their hands to themselves. So the next time a jinneh, ifloss haivon touches me, I will shout Dameengol! And Kazyol! More later

Development work is difficult for many reasons. The two main reasons being as follows: 1) People do not like to change. This is because change requires an adjustment of worldview, ethos and beliefs and admitting that your way may not only not be completely perfect, but could be completely wrong; 2) people like to take the easy way out. Therefore, rather than relative hardship and develop slowly but steadily, people would rather be given money. This does not help the economy because the source of income is temporary and not localized (indigenous).

When I woke up this morning, the power was out. My gut is stopped up and my bladder control isn’t what it used to be. That last part really concerns me because I’m afraid that there is something in the food or the gas in the house that is affecting me. I’m as bad as an old lady! I started teaching today and that accounts for some of my nervousness, but I‘m also worried about moving into my own place. I want my own place. The Safarov’s are nice enough, but I want to eat when and what I feel like – more importantly, I want to not eat foods that just aren’t good for me. I’ve been eating peanuts lately and I think that’s part of the problem with my gut. I know that the problem with a new apartment will be more people asking for favors and no family barrier between me and the rest of Uzbekistan. However, I want my space and I want to cook. You’d be amazed by how much I just want to make a good salad. Sometimes I want to be magically transported to the comforts of home – including fasting when I want; just eating soup when I want and being a 30 year old woman again – for a weekend.

Yesterday I went to the English Club again. By the way, I don’t want to punish my students who don’t come to class, but they still ought to come. The problem with the lyceum is that they “teach to the test,” so the students never really learn the material.

Today had to be the most embarrassing and yet the best day I have had in Uzbekistan. First, this morning I had a nightmare, so I locked the bedroom door. Because that lock doesn’t always work, I only turned it once. Unfortunately, when I woke up the lock wouldn’t turn. I tried it once, twice, three times. No luck. Nothing for it but to slip out of the window. Aka Davlat was coming up the path to check the new heater and he asked me to open the door. I told him I had a problem and he said, “Ok, open the door.” The problem was, of course, that both doors were locked. So, while Mahsuda opa watched, he climbed in through the window, onto the desk and opened the door. It turns out that the lock is so old that it sticks and should never be used. They had a good laugh about it and I did too – later.

Nothing exciting or unusual happened today, but it’s 8:30pm and I’m feeling the need to write in the journal. I have so many project opportunities now that I need to take a step back and remember that I will be here for two years. The cat has fallen in love with me because I feed it meat on the sly and I let it sleep in my room. It’s a relatively clean cat.

Today is Kurbon Hayeet, the Feast commemorating Abraham of the Chaldees’ near-sacrifice of his own son. It is by its very nature a bloodthirsty holiday. However, which holidays are not? Maybe it’s the relish with which the families regard the slaughter. Perhaps I am unrealistic. After all, a sheep really is nothing but a meal on feet – to wolves, lions and people. Unfortunately, Its fear is real, too. No matter. It will be sacrificed and Aka Davlat will feel that God is pleased with him for being soaked in the blood of a sheep. However, since Abraham was (it is said) asked to sacrifice that which was most precious to him, why not remember the event by giving charity or devoting the day to prayer? What is the spiritual benefit of killing an animal so that you can have a barbecue in the evening? 9:15am The sheep is dead. Aka Davlat is skinning it; the dog is barking madly, begging to be invited to the slaughter; the cat has given up. Certainly some animals seem to have been meant for slaughter, but Tashkent’s zoo shows that even lions can subsist on bread. If human beings can make vegetarians out of lions, why can we not make vegetarians out of ourselves? Perhaps because the fear in meat makes it addictive. Perhaps in tasting fear, humans feel powerful. I prayed this morning. No one else did, so I don’t understand why everyone had to get up. The girls put usma on their eyebrows to blacken them further and make them meet. I declined. Maybe next time. The women of the house think that I am “chicken,” and maybe I am. But I can’t wait for the photo of the girls with henna and usma.

I can now squat with knees together and feet flat on the ground. This may not sound earthshaking, but it is the fulfillment of an 18 year wish. From the first day I set eyes on the white haired ladies in my Chinatown neighborhood sitting in the comfortable frog-like position, I had to try it. And try I did, managing to draw cackles of laughter or eye-rolling derision as I repeatedly over balanced in one direction or another, ending up either hopping like the frog I was trying to imitate, or sitting down hard on the curb. Until the day when I unconsciously moved from a ball of foot squat to a flat foot one. I was down there frogging it for the better part of a minute before I realized what had happened. My heart leapt, my instep strained, but I held steady. I dared move my arms from my knees and… it worked! Now I realize why every other nation on earth bypasses the commode in favor of a pit! It develops the leg muscles and the constant fight not to fall in improves balance. Eureka! Cross-cultural exchange has finally taken place.

I saw a Black man today in Uzbekistan. Not African American or Latin American, or even Indian. I saw an Uzbek- or maybe Tajik- in traditional dress with a white beard, who was absolutely black in the reddish way that most Uzbeks are brown. I was so excited I almost opened my card door and hailed him. What stopped me? I don’t know. Probably the fact that I have never been in a country besides Uzbekistan in which people regularly ask about ethnicity. Still, that aqsaqal was why I wanted to travel out here. I’ve been looking for the famed (perhaps infamous) Black people of Turkestan and there are still a few (very few) around.

Last Saturday was Last Bell and the students put on a performance. First foreign language, then history, then phys-math, then math-foreign. Several students gave me flowers, so perhaps I’ve been a good teacher after all. I’m happy.