I left Tashkent the day before the bombings and was teaching yoga last night in Almaty when they occurred. What can I say? The Uzbek government is nasty, nasty and you too might blow yourself up if you lived under it. No, I do not condone the events but I certainly fathom them.
I’m sitting at Guka’s in her remodeled Soviet flat. A boy is walking around outside yelling into a megaphone: “Apples, tomatoes, eggplants, cucumbers, VERY tasty!” Guka is off with her brother to introduce him to his fiancé’s family. Her high-pressure day affords me some time to finally sit and write and maybe edit the Bukhara photos. Yes, again Bukhara. I cannot understand, much less explain, how I love this city.
An aside: I like to tell New Yorkers about the Bukharan Barber Shop phenomenon (offhand, I recall one in the 50th St. 1,9 station, one in the Columbus Circle station, and another on 18th St. just off Union Square West), which was even more prevalent in Manhattan in the 60s. I came across a recent article about it in the Washington Post while researching the embassy bombings. A Jewish Bukharan shoemaker fixed my camera bag on Thursday and handed me a copy of Time Out Tashkent to read as I waited (I used to work for Time Out). I couldn’t believe it! Too funny. I hadn’t seen it before and Ulugbek had never heard of it. It’s a rip off, of course, and the copy is horrible, but I was entertained and the shoemaker was happy to impress. He didn’t know where to get one, as it was a gift. Like everyone else in Bukhara, he wouldn’t let me pay him for his work, but asked that I come back to visit when I’m back in town. I will, with pleasure. What began with horror when my new (& I trusted Domke®) camera bag crashed to the ground after the strap loop unglued (it was glued?) in the heat somehow became yet another lovely Bukhara moment.
Such gushing kindness does not greet me everywhere. I want more.