Botkin Cemetery

Tashkent summers bring the kind of heat where everything seems to sag and wilt. It's so hot, the wind blows halfheartedly, and sweat and tears evaporate like they never existed. The sun lays down a heavy blanket of UV rays, the color of an overexposed photo. Not a single soul moves faster than they need to, unless of course, they are driving. Sidewalks might exist or might not, and the roads are a constant work in progress, so it is anybody's guess to how a neighborhood walk might go. Even though wearing a mask and hat should in no way hinder my ability to walk around potholes, roots, and chunks of broken sidewalk, I struggle to keep my bearings underneath all the fabric. I'm pretty sure locals understand exactly how awkward I feel, but then maybe they smirk because no sane person should meander in such heat without purpose.

I had no purpose on this particular Sunday other than to get out of the house, lest I explode on my family for doing what all normal people should be doing on the weekend: relaxing  I don't relax particularly well. Leaving in a huff propelled me down a road that was lined with stores selling construction materials and home furnishings. I passed mechanics, for-hire laborers wearing rubber sandals, and women selling packs of gum and sweets from their two wheeled carts. Hugging any shade I could find, I turned a corner and walked beside a blissfully cool wall surrounding the Botkin Cemetery where flower and headstone vendors were in full swing. The sharp noise of faces and names getting engraved onto pieces of granite cut through the non-moving air.

When I lived in Namibia, a touristy visit to a cemetery was never encouraged - they were supposed to be places where people visit perhaps annually and/or during solemn ceremonies. But here, there were visitors gardening, picnicking, and even napping in the shade. A clarinet busker played near the fountains used to fill up jugs of water meant for gladiolas and mums, though a number of people were washing their shoes too. Two young women were changing into long skirts outside the Orthodox church entrance and a cyclist was making a delivery to the tiny store selling religious relics. Most of the headstones had the deceased's face and/or entire body etched onto them. Some displayed Orthodox crosses and others had red stars. Most plots were cordoned off with wrought iron fences and nearly all of them had had visitors at some point. I wound my way through narrow paths avoiding jagged edges of unmaintained fences, crunching through waist high yellow grass and had to talk myself down from panic when I thought there might be snakes or lions hiding in the brush. Funny how old habits die hard. 

I realized perhaps my panic might have been related to sun exposure and dehydration. But I had no money and no water to safely drink. In a full on rage of immaturity, I had skulked off with only a phone which meant I had a lovely time making my way home, blistered, sunburned, and thirsty, and a tail between my legs.