Watermelon (and Men of) in Uzbekistan

Tis nearly the end of melon season and nobody is as regretful about it than I am. Every September, I find myself in an angsty teenage phase where I am unable to appreciate the next round of late-summer fruits, like plums and figs. Though delicious, these purple-hued mini treats don't hold a candle to the mouth feel or sweetness of watermelon, and it makes me feel like Sadness.

The roadside vendors don't have the same draw either. Melon men: they cradle their giant fruits, bending over in denim jeans, stacking melons into tidy piles. Some like to knock on the rind when choosing the perfect one, others prefer to shine them with cotton towels, like Jesus Quintana before presenting them for inspection and purchase. Glistening with sweat and effort, they sell these Hulked-out pieces of sweet, chin-dripping flesh like it's going out of fashion.

We tried twice to grow watermelon from seed in our patch of grass at home, but to no avail. We just don't have the touch, so I will impatiently wait for their return next summer and I can horrify my children again with my nightly rendition of eating the famous Great Outdoors 96-ounce steak - but with watermelon.

 

Yangiobod Flea Market

I am glad to report that both of my kids take Halloween planning very seriously. They enjoy being creepy and scary as much as I do, so when Deets asked if we could find a gas mask as part of his costume, I eagerly agreed. It gave me an excuse to return to the Yangiobod Flea Market, one of my favorite jaunts in the city. It's rowdy, dusty, and always stuffed with people on the weekends. Most of the market is divided into reasonable sections. One alley is specifically for selling only gas stoves, another for doors and windows. Rotors live in one section and wires/cables are in another. Antiques, clothing, and cell phone stalls are in between the food stalls selling drums of sunflower oil, shashleek grilled on aluminum spears, somsa, and plov. Above the melee, faded signs of good looking white people warning others to wear masks and stand 2 meters apart are totally ignored - Margo commented how this could be useful information for archeologists to discern human behaviors and value systems several hundred years from now. 

We cruised the aisles, eyes scanning for anything resembling military and found all the camouflage and lace up boots one could want. Rubber gas masks galore too. In a matter of minutes, Deets found what he was looking for. In a matter of minutes, Deets found that wearing a gas mask might not have the best "breathing material" for his Halloween costume. Braving the bargaining process on his own, he bought one anyway and opted to create a different costume for next month's holiday to avoid suffocating himself. Retro gas masks are about 5 USD these days, and he also bought an army issued aluminum canteen for the same price. He was pretty darn pleased with himself. Me too, actually.

On the way out, I stopped in my tracks to peruse the table selling surgical instruments. It was all I could do to not buy a box of expired suture, a glass syringe, metal tongue depressor, or a tenaculum clamp. You never know when you might need to perform emergency GYN surgery... for various... reasons...

Lenin items everywhere. 
EVERYWHERE.

Cable district.

Accordions, cameras, and clocks.

Antique hall.

Historic newspapers and fabrics.

Surgical delight.

Food court.

Face rugs and oil paintings.

Tashkent TV Tower

Do you own a tower with a public observation deck for tourists? Have you measured its height and included distinguishable characteristics such as King Kong traipsing around its pointy top, have elevator speeds that even Aerosmith wouldn't be able to keep up with, or hydrate with a 32 dollar G&T? If you can say yes to these questions, you too can apply to join the World Federation of Great Towers, all for a small fee of 2,000-3,500 dollars/year! (Most of the towers on this list cost millions, even billions of dollars to construct, so three grand is a drop in the bucket...)

The Tashkent TV Tower happens to be an exclusive, elite member of the WFGT, with 50 other proud members. Over 1,200 feet tall, the tower is responsible for broadcasting radio and tv throughout the province and a wee bit of Kazakhstan. There's even a hydro-meteorologic monitoring device perched on top. If the day is clear (which it usually isn't) the blue, white, and green stripes of the Uzbek flag are seen on the exterior of the observation decks/restaurants. At night, the tower lights up, shining more brilliantly than the entirety of Rod Roddy's suit collection. 

After walking through security checks, handing my Swiss army knife and surgical scissors over for safekeeping, and paying a 4 dollar entry fee, we enjoyed looking at mini tower replicas, post-Soviet decoration, and 360 degree views of the hazy city before sitting down for a snack in the rotating restaurant, 8 floors high above the world. Steve Winwood covers played while we waited 45 minutes for beers and defrosted pizza, and we practiced fixing our gazes upon non-moving objects to stave off nausea as we drifted around. We made it three quarters of the way around before the restaurant started back in reverse, making that our cue to exit. 

7th floor

 Museum and Monument of the Oppressed 

Ladies Trip!

Elevator anteroom

Fancyish restaurant with not-so-fancy food
on the 8th floor.

Missouri Summer 2022

Cycling in the Missouri hills is a special kind of torture. Instead of slow, thigh burning climbs and long descents like we get in Colorado, we get short steep hills that result in disorganized pedal strokes and spiking heart rates without any real reprieve. That and armadillo carcasses splatter the asphalt everywhere make for some interesting gore to navigate around. However, since biking and more family visits were a must, onward we went to Grandmother's house.

Dismantling four bikes meant for creative packing in the car, but our efforts were rewarded by riding bikes with Grandpa along the James River, through the Battle of Wilson's Creek, and down nameless country roads. In between spandex shorts washings, we took advantage of getting into the water as much as possible because Missouri in July means sweltering heat, the kind that leaves you saying "that's gonna leave a mark" immediately after you leave the air conditioning. We canoed, fished, boated, floated, water-parked, and swam. We went camping where the temperature never dropped below 90F but still had to sleep in tents because Missouri mosquitos take prisoners. 

These trips in the great outdoors were especially fun because their Uncle Danny joined. Usually, he worked long hours at the bar he owned, or had projects that demanded attention: remodeling his house, planting his garden, or planning his next big idea. Danny always had something going on, so the fact that he took off some time to spend with his niece and nephew meant a lot. He taught them how to throw a proper frisbee. At least tried to. He glowed when Deets caught a huge fish and cheered on Margo when they avoided dumping their canoe over a river drop. The kids died of laughter when Uncle Danny showed up to a bonfire night wearing choo-choo train overalls without shirt, and we made ourselves sick eating s'mores.

Childhood friends of Mark's heard we had returned to the great Midwest, so they threw their kids in the truck and drove up from Dallas on a whim to introduce their kids to our kids, and remember the glory days of Oregon. These guys are the raucous kind who skateboard in random and dumb places, just because it is something to do. Natural thrill seekers, they grew up jumping from roofs, skipping over fences into private pools, and getting mullet haircuts purely based on a dare, and they probably parkour too. The children of Mark's buddies are the exact same. On this heart filled reunion, we all piled into the J.O.B. public house, Danny's bar, and an evening of chucking frisbees at each other began.  Even when a frisbee hit the one of the boys' faces, the debauchery continued with laughter, beer drinking, and making suicides from the soda gun. 

Missouri meant reconnecting with grandparents, friends, and neighbors who owned heavy machinery. The kids went to their first baseball game, drove their first backhoe, and burned their feet on the waterpark sidewalks after frost-burning their tongues on Dippin' Dots - giving them a pretty good sense of what it means to spend summer in Midwest America. 

Neighbor Steve's Backhoe

Battle of Wilson's Creek. The North lost. 

J.O.B. under David's plaque:
"This Spot Reserved for David Thomas Schlink,
July 7, 2031"

Morning mist on the North Fork

Camping when it was so hot. Too hot, probably. 
But we were too proud to admit it.

Gramps

Unca' Danny with the kids

Brothers gon' fishing

Rooftoppin' at the J.O.B.

Colorado Summer 2022

Arriving to America was a virulent and sad affair. The Embassy held its usual Independence Day Celebration shortly before many families departed the country, resulting in many of us getting sick with upon arrival. It later became known as The Great 2022 Tashkent Super Spreader Extravaganza. We tried to avoid spreading it, but it also got to my parents (whom I am indebted to for their forgiveness). As if the multi-day trip wasn't hard enough, we also received news from my dad that our dog, Jim, had to be put to sleep after getting bitten by a rattlesnake outside their house. He lived a fabulous 15 years, the last two of which he lived with my parents because, well, pandemics ruin everything. Jim was a very good boy.

We made the best of it, leaning hard into the excitement and joy of reuniting with my family after two years. Everyone's health eventually improved, and we did all the Colorado things we possibly could, starting with massive amounts of bike riding. I maaaaay have purchased a new road bike (n+1, people) so obviously, we HAD to ride. Every day. Up mountains. Through snow, rain, wind, and very affronted drivers. Other activities included hiking, beer drinking, and rafting, roller skating, Pride, but the familying and friending was where we made serious efforts to make up for lost time.

Foreign Service allows us to make friends throughout the world, but the range in Colorado feels especially unique, probably because we crossed numerous paths in one location: childhood peeps, family friends,  university cronies, Denver stoop chums, pals from soccer, and those we made through skiing. My brother and his wife (another ski-nurse-friend) hooked up after I forced them to eat corn chowder while watching the AFC Championship on a 16" tv in my tiny Denver condo 16 years ago. Now they live in Montana with our niece and nephew, but they came down for a REAL family reunion! It's a tradition I look forward to keeping, considering it was only second time the kids got to connect with their cousins. 

Centennial Cone Park

Denver Pride 

Jim loved the snow.

Breckenridge.

Margo's 1st MLS game,
followed by the state's largest fireworks show.

Uncle Gabe!

Turning 12 and 45 means you must 
celebrate with white water rafting.

Meow Cat with my bestie.

Fireworks from the Colorado Rapids pitch.

Cousins! 

36 Hours of Fergana Valley

Terrain view of the Fergana Valley - you can see a
surprisingly well defined area of green space.

Back in the day, Fergana Valley must have been an oasis for fatigued travelers on the Silk Road. After trudging through vast stretches of parched, brown desert and scaling over precarious, snow capped mountain peaks that stood 22,000 feet tall, in Fergana, travelers could enjoy 8,500 square miles of fertile green hills, abundant fruits and vegetables, healthy fat livestock, and a hotspot of ethnically diverse locals, languages, and customs. The exchange of information and knowledge must have been abundant as people rested, replenished, and reset before moving onto the next destination.

Nowadays, the region continues to be densely populated with 30% of Uzbekistan's people. The big economic drivers in this region are cotton, agriculture, and small scale manufacturing so it is no surprise that it is also famous for its artisanal experts, particularly with silk, ceramics, and knives. On a recent 36-hour trip to the Fergana Valley we did all the touristy activities that involved just that.

Driving through an uncharacteristic 24 hour downpour, we headed into the mountains where the roadsides were lined with tea houses, rhubarb and flower vendors, and unfinished runaway truck lanes. Down the mountain pass, the roadsides were lined with rocking horse and toy vendors, and bread stands where old women scrupulously picked through rows and rows of fresh baked patir.

The mountain descent led us to Kokand, home to the Khudoyan-Khan Palace, probably the fanciest building in the country. It was built in 1873 was meant to house the Khan, his mother, his large collection of women, staff, and yes-men, but he was forced into exile two years after its completion. Today, it's a Kokand history museum.

Less than an hour from Kokand is the town of Rishtan, located only 500 meters from the Kyrgyz border. It is famous for ceramic pottery- so much so, that studios like Rustam Usmanov and Alisher Nazirov have received the UNESCO Seal of Excellence for their handcrafted products. People buy from all over the world, but I learned that for about five dollars, they will courier any desired piece to Tashkent via taxi. If I like the product, I simply hand over cash to the driver, who would then deliver it back to the studio. Communication is done almost exclusively via Telegram and is considered a very normal transaction in Uzbekistan.

The process of taking a lump of clay and finishing with a painted vase is nothing short of impressive, but it's silk making that really takes the cake in regards to patience and skill. Most internet searches oversimplify the process into 5 "easy steps" going from caterpillars eating mulberry leaves, to cocoons, to thread, to spinning, to dyeing. They fail to mention the intense number of woman and man-hours put into each step. Hours spent in hot water carefully extracting the silk, the hours drying the silk and gathering into skeins, the hours of making patterns using scotch tape, the backbreaking and repetitive nature of using a loom. Then there's the dying, washing, and shaving of the weaved product before it goes to market. The Yodgorlik Silk Factory tour in Margilan gives visitors an appreciation for the process, but also (hopefully) respect for the people who are doing all the work so you can at last, have a silk rug with grandma's face on it.

At the last minute, we made a detour to visit Chust, a 3,500 year old city famous for its knives and apprenticeship programs. Suzangars (blacksmiths) study for 1-2 years learning how to perfect the characteristic, curved tip of Central Asian knives, and attaching them to handles made from wood, horn, bone, or plastic. Good quality knives will have the blade bound through the entire handle, will balance easily in the hand, and of course, cut with minimal effort.

According to the pin drop, we thought we were headed to a storefront for easy shopping. Instead, we ended up in a huge, packed bazaar searching for the famous Chust knife stalls. After a few wrong turns in the sweltering heat and throngs of people, we found them. Dazzled with daggers and bewildered with blades, choosing a knife proved to be very difficult and overwhelming. A suzangar led us into his basement storage closet/office that was located under the bazaar. With a single bulb lighting the way, it felt a bit dungeon-ey, but in the quiet and damp room, we could think and bargain (kind of - neither Mark nor I are good at it). We ended up buying three and celebrating with lamb shashleek (kabobs) and cold draft beer before making the long drive home to Tashkent.

Dehoon Bazaar for all your kniving needs.

The Suzangar's (craftman's) personal knife warehouse, 
located underneath the bazaar.

The knife storage unit was no bigger
than 8' x 3' x 6'.

On the way to Chust, we passed a 9th century mud fort in Aksikhet.
We paid 20 cents for entry, and like other other historic forts,
you can wander all over the preserved land. Millions of pieces of clay pots
litter the grounds and most of them are a thousand years old.
 The photo shows clay pipes that enabled citizens to have indoor water.

Palace decor

Taxidermy with painted ceilings

Drawing only a few stares

Trademark blue and turquoise ceramics

Extracting silk from the cocoons to is an early step 
out of many in the process 

Typical rockstar mom multitasking.

Osh sits at the border in Kyrgyzstan, about 6.5 hours from Tashkent.
Kashgar is the western most city in China, about 9-10 hours from Tashkent.
Photo: Mark

Patir shopping