By Nelya Rakhimova

There are places on the Earth where winter lasts almost 9 months. Yar-Sale is one of them. Located above the Arctic Circle, it is a small town with population about 5,000 people. It’s the administrative center of Yamal Region, which occupies the whole Yamal Peninsula. It was founded in 1927 by Soviets. In 1932 it became the administrative center in order to the Nenets, nomads who live there. In the Nenets language, Yar-Sale means “Sandy Point” as it is located on a sand island surrounded by endless marshy tundra.

My parents moved to Yar-Sale for several years to earn more money. As they worked in the educational sphere, they couldn’t make much money in the south. Because there is need of education for local nomads, you can easily get good bonuses to your usual salary because of the “hardship” status of the living in the area. I visited my parents for New Year’s.

Visiting the northern nomads—the Nenets Nation—became the best New Year’s present. It was an incredible experience also because one of my classmates, Alexey Serotetto is one of them. He was glad to show me around and to introduce me the wild northern life of his nation.

Getting to Yar-Sale

First of all, it is necessary to say that it is one the places in Russia where it is really hard to get to. I flew from Tyumen to Salehard. Then you have two options to get to Yar-Sale: helicopter or jeep with huge wheels. During the summer you cannot drive cars between towns because there are no roads, only helicopters and boats can be used.

During the winter everything is frozen and only experienced drivers can find the right way. They prefer to drive when it dark because apparently they can see the way better than in daylight. However, it is not a problem in this region, because sunlight appears here only for two to three hours per day in winter. Helicopter pilots, in contrast, prefer to fly during this short sunny time.

I tried both means of transportation. As I landed quite late and I did not want to stay in Salehard for a night, I took an eight-hour jeep ride. Even though it is just 190 km (about 120 miles) it takes a lot of time to cross tundra. There is no road, snow covers traces of cars immediately and it is really easy to get lost. There is one stop on the way—the small town Aksarka—which is a good way to know you’re on the right path.

Nomads in Modern Life

The main purpose of the settlement is to provide local people with education and medicine. Every fall, children are collected by helicopter from the nomad’s camp and are brought here. They stay in a special school for nine months and then go back to their parents’ camps. Usually immigrants work in these organizations; most of the Nenets keep a traditional way of life.  They have a lot of subsidies as they are indigenous peoples. As a result they can get additional equipment to make life a bit more comfortable.

Only some of them try to get political power and defend their rights at the local level. They have apartments and from first glance have the same living conditions as Russian people. However, I realized that it is not really true when I visited my classmate in Yar-Sale. His apartment was organized as a traditional tent with lots of deerskins everywhere. They treated me with raw cut fish and instead of soup they offered me a bowl with reindeer’s blood. I liked it, by the way.

Some Nenets fit into the modern era very well, and some of them can get in real trouble. For example, the biggest problem is alcohol. The Nenets have not adapted to it as we have and it’s really easy for them to become dependent on alcoholic.

Day in the Tundra

Nenets people are really hospitable and they really like to show how they live, entertain and treat their guests. I was told that my classmate’s family participated in a documentary series of BBC ‘Tribe’ when a BBC crew spent about one month with them to make an episode about their tribe.  I had only one day to experience the freezing temperatures and their lifestyle was so unusual for me.

My classmate invited me to visit his relatives that were in 20 km from the town at that time. We met in the morning, while it was still dark. They gave me natural clothes to be comfortable during the trip. They are made from reindeer skins and are really warm and comfortable. The Nenets usually travel by snowmobile from the town to their camps. Camps are setup by families that overtake the reindeer in order provide them with the possibility to find food. As they eat reindeer moss, they need to move all the time. So sometimes people come and stay next to the town to get provisions and see relatives who have changed from the traditional lifestyle.

It took about one hour to get ready and another to get to the camp. We wanted to arrive there when it wasn’t dark so we didn’t have much time. It was amazing for me how the Nenets can find the right direction in the tundra. It is a completely white plain and monotonous landscape. Only sometimes there are some hills and small trees. When we were closer, we met the head of the family and he suggested we take a sled ride.

Sled Ride

The people that we visited didn’t have many reindeer. There were only about 300—they told us that is not a lot. They say that each of them has a special name and they remember each of them. Reindeer here are considered a holy animal for people. Life without them in such a severe climate is not possible; they provide food, clothing, and transportation.

There was only one traditional tent (chum) where people usually stay. Women are responsible for the transporting the tent, as well as setting it up, and what goes on inide. Usually there is an iron stove inside which helps to keep it warm.

The Chum

Inside there a lot of deerskins that are used as carpets and sleeping bags. The woman, host of the chum, treated us with different kinds of raw frozen fish and some vodka. As all Nenets people who complete school can speak Russian, we had nice conversation about their life and how they migrate from the north to the south during the winter and back during the summer. Toilets are situated away from the chums and separated into male and female areas. Their clothes are made in a special way to make it as comfortable as possible. However, I was told that when there is a snowstorm they use a robe to go outside because sometimes people can get lost. They cannot find their way back even if they go only a few meters away from the tent.  Also the Nenets will often take a stick with them to the toilet to fend off any overly-friendly reindeer that are in search of salty fluids.

In general, I was impressed with Nenets’ way of thinking. In the beginning I thought that I am going to meet uneducated people with who I do not have anything to talk about. However, I found out that they are incredible people who live in harmony with nature and who are completely happy to be there in such a cold and severe place. They told me how it is hard for them to live in small apartments, and how they miss the unlimited dark tundra, snow, frost, raw fish and meat.

We came back when it was completely dark. I did not want to give back such warm and comfortable clothes because I was going to stay in Yar-Sale for couple days more, but I did.  I was really happy that I had opportunity to understand these people who live in such a severe climate. It seems so crazy for us, people who are used to hot water from the tap and a heating system during the coldest days.

I understood once again that people can get used to everything and that happiness depends only on our perception of situations and that the endless white plain is one of the most beautiful landscapes that I have ever seen.

If you go

If you want to visit Yar-Sale, you need to have a special permission because this area is considered a pre-border area. I would suggest finding people who can host you there beforehand.

Nelya Rakhimova grew up in the town of Tobolsk, Russia, and moved to Tyumen when she was 15. She has spent the last few years traveling and studying in various countries and has recently completed her Master’s degree in the United States on a Fulbright Scholarship. This is her second feature for GoMad Nomad.

In all my travels, Turkmenistan has been, by far, the oddest place I’ve visited. Culturally, the Turkmens are “cousins” of the Uzbeks, and I found many similarities in the everyday lives and customs with their Central Asian neighbors. The languages are also similar, both routed in Turkish. These are not the reasons I found Turkmenistan odd. Those reasons have to do with the cult of personality surrounding the then-alive Saparmurat Niyazov—also known as Turkmenbashi, or Leader of Turkmens.

He had large golden statues built for himself, renamed the days of the week and months of the year, and placed himself on the national currency. He wrote a book called the Ruhnama, meant for the “spiritual guidance of the nation”. Because he felt that only the Ruhnama and the Koran were necessary for most Turkmen to read, he closed all libraries in the country outside of Ashgabat. In addition to that, he closed all hospitals around the county because he felt all who were ill should come to the capital for treatment. The list of outrageous decrees and laws continues, like outlawing the opera, ballet, and the circus in 2001.

The absurdity of empty multi-lane roads, new still-empty marble-covered high rises, and endless water fountains in an arid land were my lasting impressions of Ashgabat. I would be curious to see how and if the city has changed since I last visited in 2004, especially since the passing of Turkmenbashi.

Click through to my Flickr gallery to see additional photos of Ashgabat.

Text and photos by Stephen Bugno

Submit your photo of the week to be featured at GoMad Nomad with a link back to your blog!  Send a photo with a paragraph or two describing the photo or your experience to gomadnomadtravelmag [@] gmail.com

The Ruhnama

Government buildings in Ashgabat

Two monuments in Ashgabat

The large golden statue of Turkmenbashi, which I believe has been removed.

The monument to Lenin in Ashgabat

The Drama Theater in Ashgabat

By Nelya Rakhimova

The Kremlin in Tobolsk, Russia

Tobolsk is an average Russian town located in the middle of the western Siberian plain. It used to be the capital of the whole of Siberia until the 20^th century when the Trans-Siberian railway was built just south of here, when Tolbolsk reverted to being a small provincial town. Nevertheless, Tobolsk remains an historic capital of Siberia and one of the most beautiful cities for those interested in Russian architecture of the 17^th and 18^th centuries. Architecture here has a particular style that you cannot find in the European part of Russia.

I spent my childhood in Tobolsk and I am used to the cold Siberian winters with lots of snow. White-stone historical buildings look even better during this time of year, adding a magical lightness to the massive structures. I don’t live in Tobolsk anymore but I had a chance to walk around just before Orthodox Christmas and took some pictures to remember how my town looks during the winter.

Tobolsk, as any settlement, has changed over the years and looks totally different than it did when I was young. Now you can find three distinct districts that were formed during different periods: the modern town with boring Soviet architecture of apartment blocks; the historic center, where there is dynamic reconstruction activity; and the old district that was neglected during the Soviet period because of frequent flooding and a damaged drainage system.

Tobolsk’s three districts

The modern town does not attract many tourists because it has a typical modern Soviet development zone with straight blocks and wide roads. There is everything that is usual for such kind of town: blocks of flats, schools and colleges, a shopping center and restaurants, hospitals, etc. There are not many recreational places there. But during the winter an ice fortress is usually built with slides of different sizes where people of all ages can enjoy real Russian wintertime amusement. Other people prefer to go to the historical center to get a view of the Irtysh–one of the biggest Siberian rivers.

Winter in the new town of Tobolsk, Russia

The historical center is concentrated around the stone Kremlin—the elaborate fortress which sits spectacularly on the high river bank. It used to be the center of Tobolsk. It’s composed of white walls and towers with an ensemble of churches and palatial buildings.

The Kremlin was declared a national historical and architectural treasure in 1870; however, during Soviet times it was used for different purposes. One of the most beautiful buildings of the Kremlin is the bell tower which is also the highest structure. It was not used during the Soviet era; I remember that it was a big deal for the whole town when bells were placed back and we heard the first ringing after so many years of silence.

The Monastery of St.John in the outskirts of the Tobolsk, Russia

In the end of the 20^th century it became a third headquarters for the Russian Orthodox Church (ROC) after Moscow and Saint-Petersburg. Now the whole area of the Kremlin is under the ROC’s control; nevertheless it is still open for people to visit, especially during religious holidays.

The last part of the town is located on the low river bank and is not in good condition. It was the living area of the former Siberian capital with many beautiful churches and wooden houses. After the revolution of 1917 the last Russian tsar, Nicolas II was kept there with his family. They stayed in Tobolsk about nine months just before being moved to Yekaterinburg where they were executed in July 1918. The building where they lived is still there with a small chapel where the whole family used to pray every day.

Burned houses and church under construction in old town Tobolsk, Russia

In the 1920’s, the drainage system that spared the town from massive flooding was destroyed and the whole area fell into decay. Now you can see many burned-out houses and neglected buildings. Some areas are still occupied with people who did not want or did not have the opportunity to move to the new town. It looks like a typical Russian village with animals and small vegetable gardens.

Among them you can still see domes of abandoned churches. Some of them were used as storehouses, some were just destroyed. One church, where Mendeleev, the famous Russian chemist who created the periodic table, was baptized, was blown up in the early 1930’s. The monastery that was located in the middle of this part of town was redeveloped into a small factory that is not in operation anymore. During the winter it looks really depressing here, however last year’s city government tried to pay more attention to this area and started some redevelopment projects.

Holy Cross Church

My favorite church, Holy Cross Church (Крестовоздвиженская церковь), is located close to the river in the southwestern part of old town. It was built in 1781. In the 20^th century it was neglected and flooded several times. It is a unique church because it combines different styles of architecture and the interior is not typical for a Russian Orthodox church.

Holy Cross Church in Tobolsk, Russia

I was lucky to see it when I was a teenager and it was possible to go inside all these churches because nobody cared about them. In most of them, all of the insides were destroyed, but Holy Cross Church was the lucky one because stairs to the second floor were totally blocked with crumbled walls and nobody could go there. But if you climb up the bell tower and then walk along the roof, through small windows it is possible to see the unique inner decoration.

There is a famous legend about the church that in the 1930’s people from the Soviet government tried to tear a cross off from the bell tower several times. But it never fell; they only bent it. Then a man climbed to the dome to try one more time and he fell down and died. After this they stopped trying. Now you can still see the bent cross on top of the bell tower. The church was surrounded by a fence the last few years because of its supposed reconstruction; but it’s not possible to see it closely.

View of Irtysh River, frozen, near Tobolsk, Russia

Outside the town there are two monasteries that now are also under control of the ROC. They were nearly rebuilt by monks during the last couple decades. Usually visitors are not allowed to go there, however it is still possible to enjoy the spirit of the impressive structures from outside.

Tourism in Tobolsk

Tobolsk has recently become more popular among international tourists during the summer. However, being situated just off the Trans-Siberian railroad, it still does not get the proper attention from visitors that it deserves. The Russian government promised to invest more to promote the Siberian pearl—then name formerly given to  Tobolsk because of its historical and architectural treasures. However, now more and more people are leaving town because of its ceaseless economical decline. Hopefully in the future Tobolsk will become the tourist capital of Siberia.

If you go

Tobolsk is located 250 km (155 miles) from Tyumen, the capital of Tyumen region, which is located on Trans-Siberian road and has an international airport. You can take the bus from the interurban bus station; the trip lasts about four hours. There are several kinds of trains that go to Tobolsk from Tyumen. The best option is the train that goes once per day without additional stops. It is cheaper than the bus and it takes the same four hours. Because of the economic decline, the crime level in town has been growing during last few years; that is why you need to be careful during the evenings and nights. In general, people in Tobolsk are friendly and open as people from any of the Russian provinces.

Nelya Rakhimova grew up in the town of Tobolsk, Russia, and moved to Tyumen when she was 15. She has spent the last few years traveling and studying in various countries and is now pursuing a master’s degree in the United States on a Fulbright Scholarship. This is her first feature for GoMad Nomad.

If you enjoyed this post, then make sure you subscribe to our monthly newsletter. Enjoy!

These photos were taken at the khachkar field in Noratus, Armenia. It is the largest such concentration of these carved memorial stones, known as khachkars, anywhere in the country. A few years back I was lucky enough to visit an Armenian-Russian friend of mine’s extended family living in Armenia.

The Armenians are some of the friendliest, most hospitable folks I’ve met in my travels. They are a proud people with an ancient culture. So few tourists make it to Armenia, that almost everyone I came in contact with was curious about where I came from and what I was doing there.

The Noratus khachkar field lies close to the shores of Lake Sevan and truly is one of Armenia’s most remarkable sites. The huge cemetery is filled with nearly 900 of these beautifully caved stones, spanning a period from the 10^th to the 17^th century. No two khachkars are identical.

See more photos from Armenia.

Text and photos by Stephen Bugno.

Submit your photo of the week to be featured at GoMad Nomad with a link back to your blog!  Send a photo with a paragraph or two describing the photo or your experience to gomadnomadtravelmag [@] gmail.com

Khachkars are carved memorial stones.

The Field of Khachkars in Armenia

Gergeti Trinity Church on the hill above Kazbegi, Georgia

Georgian culture is completely inseparable from their orthodox Christianity.  The land and people have been Christian since the 4th century.  People walking past a Georgian church stop, face the church, and cross themselves before continuing on their way.  The interior of the churches are dim with painted icons of saints and the holy family on the walls.  Devotees kiss the icon and then dip their forehead to lightly touch the object as they pray.  This is also done on the outside of the church’s gates and the interior corners of the building.  Services are marked by chanting prayers and ethereal singing by the priest and select groups of worshippers.  The Byzantine faces of the art, the candles, and the devotion of the people make the churches much more than a tourist attraction.

Text by Jett Thomason, photos by Stephen Bugno

Submit your photo of the week to be featured at GoMad Nomad with a link back to your blog!  Send a photo with a paragraph or two describing the photo or your experience to gomadnomadtravelmag [@] gmail.com

The Jvari Monestery on the cliff overlooking Mtsketa

By Jett Thomason

A few years back I got the chance to visit the Black Sea coast several miles from the Turkish border in a town called Batumi. Batumi has been a major port since the Russians won the land from the Ottoman Empire in 1877. This was the first port to begin shipping out the Industrial Age petroleum from Baku on the Caspian Sea. The resulting economic boom still defines the city’s architecture, with its crumbling facades resembling Paris much more than Moscow.

Old Turkish fort and orange groves in Batumi, Georgia

The city is hemmed in on two sides by the Black Sea. Since Georgia’s independence from the USSR, petroleum has resumed flowing out to docked European tankers.  The city’s prosperity increases markedly as the streets work their way towards the port area, the source of the Batumi’s wealth.  Heading in the opposite direction, I rode on a bus to some more distant neighborhoods. The simultaneous backdrop of snow-capped pines on the surrounding hills and the sea lapping on the pebble beach is striking.  All the homes in the suburbs have orange groves heavy with fruit. The winter rains swept fruit into the streams and into the ocean, and the ocean swept them in turn onto the high-water point of the stone beaches. Like a dotted orange line, the eye is brought from the washed line of oranges along the Black Sea shore and up through the orchards of the nearby houses.

Getting by with Russian

I was able to get by in Georgia on my grammatically terrible Russian. The Georgian language, however, is very distinct from Russian with a different script in addition to an unrelated linguistic structure. The Georgian alphabet is one of the most beautiful I have ever seen.  Curly and bent letters bear absolutely no resemblance to either the Latin or Russian alphabets and traveling here is an experience with illiteracy. Finding addresses demands multiple requests for directions.  I had to wait for a sympathetic passerby before entering the correct side of a public restroom.

The Orthodox Church of Batumi, Georgia with a port crane in the background

As a devoted coffee drinker, I was exceedingly pleased to land in a country unconquered by Nescafe’s Instant Empire.  Instead, the Georgians take rightful pride in their lovely Turkish-style coffee. The heads of men and women in cafes bounce like oil derricks as everyone sips on the sweet coffee. The head activity is not just the Georgian animated conversation style, but also (as I discovered) the only way to keep the nose clean of the coffee ring around the top of the narrow cups.

Stalin’s Time in Batumi

One of the few tourist sites here is a museum dedicated to Stalin’s short stay in Batumi from 1901 to 1902.  It is impossible to enjoy such an experience – akin to a Hitler museum in Vienna – but it is insightful. Stalin, a Georgian, came to Batumi to organize a Communist cell at the end of 1901.  As far as I could tell from the museum, this work only contributed to a single demonstration in March of 1902 and a few illegal newsletters.

More interesting than the amateur paintings documenting these episodes from Stalin’s youth is the history of the museum itself. Opened during Stalin’s rule in 1936, the building housing the museum was one of his boarding house residences for a few months. The exhibits include a simple bed where he slept and a rag that was apparently a towel indicative of that which he may or may not have used during his time there. These are displayed as venerably as saintly relics in a Catholic church.

A city street in Batumi, Georgia

After his death and denouncement in the mid-1950’s, the museum was closed by Soviet authorities. Georgians still regard Stalin as a great leader and an important native of their land. Despite despising their domination by Russia through Czarist and Soviet times, the Georgians re-opened the museum in 1995. The curator and her husband had nothing but warm regard for the native son who was responsible for tens of millions of Soviet deaths.

Stalin’s Legacy in Georgia

After being led through the museum and fending off all my historically provocative questions, the curator asked me to join her and her husband for coffee in their office dominated by a massive portrait of Stalin. I tried to ask them their opinions of this man that the world finds so hideous. But for them, this was ancient history.

As their single visitor of the day, I instead discussed salaries and housing prices in America, sipped coffee, and ate toasted hazelnuts with my hosts.  As they sent me off with instructions of how to get to the train station, it was impossible to connect them with any of the evil perpetrated by the namesake of the museum. Instead, Batumi is marked for me by the hospitality, and the coffee, of the Georgian people.

This series of photos come from the Fergana Valley of Uzbekistan, a famous producer of fine silk. I had the opportunity to travel to the city of Margilan to visit a silk factory when I served as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Uzbekistan.

At the Yodgorlik silk factory, you can witness the different stages of silk production starting with the unraveling of the silk worm cocoon and continuing to the dying, weaving, and other stages.

Text and photo by Stephen Bugno

Submit your photo of the week to be featured at GoMad Nomad with a link back to your blog!  Send a photo with a paragraph or two describing the photo or your experience to gomadnomadtravelmag [@] gmail.com

A worker at the Yodgorlik silk factory in Margilan, Uzbekistan

Workers at the Yodgorlik silk factory in Margilan, Uzbekistan

A silk weaver at a factory in Margilan, Uzbekistan

Moscow is not the most popular destination for the Christmas and New Year holidays for foreigners. However, during this time you can see a different Moscow; everything is illuminated and Christmas trees are in every corner of the city. Red Square is a place of celebration where you can find a traditional ice skating rink and fireworks. Moscow is not the coldest place in Russia, nevertheless sometimes it is necessary to find a nice cafe and drink hot mulled wine which the best way to get warm. I was lucky to spend several days in Moscow with my friends, walking around and enjoying the festive mood in the heart of Russia that is throbbing fast and shining bright.

Text and photo by Nelya Rakhimova

Submit your photo of the week to be featured at GoMad Nomad with a link back to your blog!  Send a photo with a paragraph or two describing the photo or your experience to gomadnomadtravelmag [@] gmail.com

After an arduous journey by overnight train and long, bumpy van ride, we arrived in Svaneti, a region of the Republic of Georgia surrounded by huge mountain peaks. The region is inhabited by the Svans and is known for the stone watchtowers that fill the villages and for the recent wave of banditry. I wrote a story about my trip to Svaneti on TheExpeditioner. Read Majestic Mountains, Beguiling Towers, And Lawless Bandits, Oh My

Photo and text by Stephen Bugno

Submit your photo of the week to be featured at GoMad Nomad!  Send a photo with a paragraph or two describing the photo or your experience to gomadnomadtravelmag [@] gmail.com

In Honor of International Worker’s Day, here is one of the ubiquitous public mosaics that once adorned buildings and public spaces across the whole of the Soviet Union, many still remaining to this day. Although there has been a trend over the past decade or so to remove some of these monuments and other artistic relics of the Soviet Union, many still remain.

Here a farmer and an industrial worker stand proudly in the shadow of Lenin under the blazing orange sun of the central Asian steppe. This art appeared on the side of an apartment block in a village near Tekeli in southeastern Kazakhstan. I took the photo in 2004 as I made my way through Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, and Azerbaijan.

Text and photo by Stephen Bugno

We took the road south out of At-Bashi immediately passing a huge animal bazaar. Our Kyrgyz driver carefully weaved his way through the cows and horses being led across the main road. We continued, overtaking huge 18-weelers full of Soviet scrap metal, lined up miles before the Torugart Pass border, the back way into China’s Xinjiang province.

We turned east onto a gravel road, passing plenty of yaks before reaching the Tash Rabat Caravansarai. There were a few yurts set up in the grass covered river valley and some horses for riding. The very well preserved stone structure of Tash Rabat is thought to be from the 15^th century, when Silk Road travelers used it as an inn.

Text and photo by Stephen Bugno

By Jett Thomason

My alarm clock goes off at five. It’s been about four hours since I fell asleep. I’ve woken up to go to the early-morning festivities for a neighborhood circumcision ceremony which is locally and collectively referred to as one of several Uzbek “weddings”. I have been a Peace Corps Volunteer in a small provincial town in Uzbekistan for more than a year now. The people of my town are exceedingly friendly and known to be the most festive in the country. If there’s a wedding to go to, it will be a neighbor of mine pouring the vodka and cracking jokes for the table.

An Uzbek man can reasonably expect to be the main participant in four “weddings” in his life. There’s the bishek-toi (new baby wedding), the sunnat-toi (circumcision wedding for boys), the niqoh-toi (marriage wedding), and the final funeral celebration. All of these are pretty similar in the arrangement. Neighbors and friends and recent companions and new acquaintances and coworkers and their families all come out for the bash. Part of the wedding which is limited to men only is the morning plov ceremony that I have woken up so early for.

We can hear the horns before we can see the house. Big bellowing long trumpets announce the opening of the wedding. Guests arrive streaming onto the street. It’s been blocked off to cars and set with plastic tables and chairs. Most everyone is wearing their skullcap with the local evil-eye preventive charms sewn on. The hosts are leading people in, and everyone exchanges head-nods with their hand across their chest in the wonderful Muslim greeting. It expresses piety, modesty, honor and deference all at once.

Once a table is filled, the serving and eating begins. One man pours the tea the requisite three times, another opens the vodka, young boys run around handing out tomato and onion salads. Older boys quickly follow them with plov, the steaming rice, carrot, and meat dish that is ubiquitous in this part of the world. The word is the root for English “rice pilaf”.  Legend states that Alexander the Great’s army chef was puzzled over what to cook with such simple ingredients. Plov, it became, and apparently the soldiers took to it heartily because there’s not a celebration in Central Asia without it. The dish is slightly different every time you have it. Or so I’m told. Plov is like fine French wine, far wiser people than I can detect the subtitles of cooking it in different ways. I just enjoy it and don’t bother with the shades of distinction.

Everyone eats. The plov is packed into spoons or palms and slid into the mouth. Neighbors mutually implore each other to eat. Vodka, tea, soda, and melon are passed from hand to hand to hand and finally to mouth. The plov portion is just finishing up as the young boy of honor is brought out in his turban and robe made of velour and gold trim.

The grandfather holds up his grandchild—today a man. Speeches are made and countless people wish the young lad success, health, and a large family. One of the elders has had a bit more vodka than he should have, and expresses his hope that “what the mullah made short today, may it be much larger in the future!” Great laughs come from the men at the tables, great sighs from the ladies looking out from the doorways.

People begin to finish their meals and work their way into the adjacent park. Today’s wedding is even more noteworthy because there is going to be a ram fight. The hosting family has spent about $10,000 on the prizes for the winning rams.  For perspective this largess is spent in a country where a person pulls down an average monthly salary of $80. All local ram owners have been invited. As such, there’s quite a crowd waiting around the field when we arrive.

As we walk in, we see the rams tied up and waiting for their moment. A few are banging their head against the trunks of trees. These are the berserkers, the ones given their due space. Other rams are congenial enough to be petted. They all have nicknames. Tornado, Gypsy, Super, and several Tysons are all ready to win their masters a rug or maybe the championship prize of a camel.

The park fills up over the course of the hour. The camel is terrified, frothing at the mouth, and difficult to control. Dust piles up around its stamping legs and passersby futilely try to keep their pants clean while inspecting the beast. The musicians have turned the music more upbeat and a costumed girl dances for small notes from the bystanders.

Finally our host comes out and takes the microphone from the band. There are yet more speeches. People are beginning to get tired and are itching to see some action. The rams peacefully look on, grubbing for grass. One man speaks for ten minutes, repeatedly answering his own rhetorical questions. The sun begins to beat down and the vodka fades. I desperately wish for a ram to dash across and butt him off the field. Finally it’s over and the crowd roars relief and satisfaction as the first two rams are brought out.

Someone notices my camera and urges me forward for a better shot.  The aggressive hospitality of the crowd has pushed me right out onto the edge of the field for a front-row view. I’m an honored guest, but having about a thousand people stare at me as I stare at the rams doesn’t feel so honored.  As the rams are squared up, I feel eyes lift from the foreigner to the real sight.

The rams break free of their owners and the heads of the animals smack together.  It sounds like fencing with logs. My unease at watching the fight disappears in the rush of the moment. The rams shake, back up slowly, and run towards each other again for a mighty smack. They back up again, but they’re not walking backwards in perfectly straight lines. They are backing up slowly but surely in my direction. Smack, another shake, another move towards me. I start to look anxiously at the ditches, benches, and speakers blocking me from an easy exit.

Smack, they crash again and one of the rams bows out. The crowd gives its solid approval at the performance, the beaten ram runs back…. towards me. I snap a picture of imminent impact and scramble to get across the ditch. Dust billows up as I try to cross over the side of the field; the shamed loser is scared and looking to get past or through me. I hop up onto a ledge full of people, the ram stops short and nonchalantly strolls in the other direction. I laugh at myself along with the rest and decide that I’ll enjoy the following matches as a local would—on the sidelines.

The other rams are brought out in pairs and steadily the rugs and other prizes are passed out. It comes time to give the camel off. A monster is led onto the field. It’s huge, at least waist high on a tall man and I can’t begin to guess how much it weighs. The horns curl back under and over its ears and the gray wool shines in the sun. He’s the reigning champion. The speaker entreats someone to challenge him. Minutes pass as the speaker assures that the loser will also get a consolation prize. It’s still a while before a smaller ram is led out. The excited owner pulls it by the horn; it’s not as willing.

The animals are arranged in the middle of the field. The speaker calls for the American guest to come out and watch. I’m pushed out to the field again. The large and imposing ram is even more so from close up. Suddenly the white challenger makes a dash at the large one. Smack. Perhaps he can pull it off…they back up, the owners, a few feet away, encourage their beasts with clapping and cursing. Smack, and they bounce off each other. Both shake, back even farther up, and run at it again. Smack, the white ram’s legs buckle but he regains.

The champion doesn’t even appear winded. They hit and retreat again. The white ram backs up, backs up, backs up, and people start falling down as he backs into the crowd. The rams start to dash towards each other from sixty feet away. Simultaneously they both dive into the air. The champion has the mass and the advantage and blows down the smaller ram.

It’s over, the white one turns and runs. For added glory the black champion encourages the flight with a hit to the rear of the failed challenger. The crowd heartily approves. The cheers could be from anywhere and from anytime.

As the prize camel is brought onto the field, the owner beams and the host makes generous gestures. He’s too far on to the pitch to speak into the microphone but it’s not needed. We’ve heard the same lines a thousand times today. The proud winner stands by its owner, avowed champion again. The camel suddenly jumps and spits, the startled winning ram turns tail and runs off the field followed by its owner. The crowd enjoys this sight as much as the fight. Old men turn grinning to each other. “There’s always someone bigger!” they mutually confirm.

I pick my way through the crowd, past the spitting camel, and exit the dusty field. Another wedding, another memory, but this isn’t one I’ll soon forget.

Jett Thomason was a TEFL volunteer in Uzbekistan from 2002- 2004 in the United States Peace Corps.  Since then, he’s worked in Afghanistan and Iraq and traveled extensively throughout Asia, Europe, and the countries of the Former Soviet Union. He lives in Washington, DC.

Photos by Tata Nadaryan

Vasya offers some homemade wine

I am in Moldova. Now a former republic of the Soviet Union, the region has previously been known as Bessarabia and has changed hands between Russian, Austria-Hungarian, Ottoman, and home-grown empires a number of times. The population is largely Romanian in culture and language. The elected Communist government has tried to avoid the forces of “Greater Romania” by insisting on the separation between Moldovan and Romanian. This has even led to a Moldovan-Romanian dictionary. Widely mocked, it’s about the same as writing a dictionary for Californian-New Yorkian.

I came here a bit more than a month ago at the invitation of an old friend. Overall, it’s been a great place to wait out the winter, study Russian, and see a relatively unknown but fascinating corner of Eastern Europe.

I’ve been staying mostly in the capital of Chisinau (pronounced Kishinow). You would have trouble believing it to be the capital of one of Europe’s poorest countries. The nightlife is booming and the cafes are packed with people. New BMWs and Mercedes race the streets and stores are packed with shoppers. Most of the economy is funded by the tremendous quantity of remittances from young Moldovans overseas. While the country’s official population is about four million, a huge portion of the young workforce has left to find work in Russia, Italy, and Spain.

The difference between the small towns and the capital is stark. Essentially the only people left in the villages are the very old and the very young. Once school is completed, people leave for the capital or an overseas job – usually illegally. One result of this mass migration is that Moldovans have a distinct appreciation of the difference between European and their own standard of living. I’ve repeatedly had to assure locals that I wasn’t offended by their less-than-ideal living conditions. Many of the young women have seen how modern Western women enjoy more privileges and balanced roles in the house. These experiences are rapidly changing the traditional culture and gender relations in the country.

a babushka sweeps the snow

A few weeks ago I went to a small village about an hour outside of Chisinau and had a chance to see the rural life first-hand. After a long night of shish kebabs and beer, I was woken up early, given another large meal and strong tea, and led down to the basement for a “quick tour” with the same pride an American might show off their new home theater.

The signature product of Moldova is their wine. The larger wineries have imported modern production techniques and are producing excellent wine at very inexpensive prices. Still, any Moldovan worth their salt has a large store of homemade wine from the massive barrel or two in their basement.

The basement belongs to the Moldovan men just as the kitchen is the preserve of their wives. A single glass is all that they needed to begin showing off the wares. Several pairs of eyes waiting for you to finish the drink inevitably mean the wine is drunk quickly and with vigor. After a few draughts I stopped wondering why they had complained that the two-and-a-half tons of wine they make in the autumn barely lasts the year.

We sampled the open barrel of red wine, the older barrel of red wine, a little bit of the white, a couple drinks from last year’s reserve, a few shots of the grape moonshine steeped in walnut husks (to help settle the stomach), and again a small glass of the red just to round out the visit. I emerged from the basement before noon a little less steady and with my arms full of bottles of the local reserve as well as a hefty jar of salted pig fat known as “sala” – an especially proud local delicacy. (I made a personal note to avoid complimenting the quality of any other local’s sala.)

Posted by Jett Thomason

By Jason Gilpin

Odessa, Ukraine

Odessa has a severely Victorian character about it; the lampposts, sidewalks and infrastructure are something out of 1812 Hyde Park. The train station and opera house are Crimean War-era. The parks are green and manicured. This place is fancy, European, cosmopolitan and cultivated. Fantastic restaurants abound. Foreigners abound, and yet the locals do not stop to gawk at their odd tongue. Still, Odessa does have much more than a hint of Slavic culture, as the suburbs are populated with colorful Cossack cottages, the outskirts are disjointed and unplanned, and the outer skyline is guarded by wall-like concrete Soviet block apartments.

Odessa is a romantic city. Women in expensive fur coats are accompanied by well-dressed men out for a formal walk in a place that oozes a need to see and be seen. Signs advertising “marriage agencies” promised to match attractive young women with wealthy foreigners. Fashionable young couples embrace on the waterfront. They saunter across an unassuming pedestrian overpass festooned with thousands of padlocks professing love, past, present and future.

Although some might call it an industrial eyesore, I found the port area to be a vibrantly colorful picture screen displaying Ukraine’s relationship with the rest of the world; a maritime commercial traffic jam seemed to crowd the waters immediate the port, probably from Turkey, Russia, Georgia, Bulgaria, Crimea. Cargo was hurriedly off-and-on loaded from far flung places all over the world via the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles.

Many Americans are familiar with the word Odessa (although probably can’t tell you where it is), because of New York’s Brighton Beach’s Little Odessa, a district of New York founded by Ukrainian and Russian expats. In fact, America and Odessa have a lot in common. In both lands settlement was founded by diverse gigantic refugee populations.

Odessa’s early 19th century hay day was exactly that; it was founded as a free trade settlement bolstered by grain exports from the Russian Empire. German, Greek, Moldavian, Jewish, Swiss, and Polish mingled comfortably with the Ukrainian and Russian peasants, and the Nogay Tatars from the steppes. It was a city founded and managed by foreigners, existing with some autonomy in the Russian Empire. There seemed to be a very real sense of freedom here at that time.

The forefathers of the United States would have much in common with Odessa’s founder, a Frenchman by the name of Lycee Richelieu. After establishing the city and being credited with its economic success, Richelieu was appointed France’s first Prime Minister after the fall of Napoleon.

Like the Independence Hall crew, Richelieu was a man of the Enlightenment. I rather like the way Neal Ascherson, (author of the Black Sea where much of the historical info for this post comes from), put Richelieu’s character: “…energetic, austere, universal, lonely.”

The city evidently found much in common with her founder.

In my long afternoon stroll in this especially quixotic place, I felt like I did as well.

Jason Gilpin has just returned from being an NGO Facilitator in the US Peace Corps in Sevastopol, Ukraine and is currently an MA candidate (Int’l Administration) at the University of Denver’s Korbel School of International Studies (formerly GSIS). He blogs at Gilpin on the Globe: http://jasongilpin.blogspot.com/

By Jett Thomason

One of the oddest relics of the breakup of the Soviet Union is the Transdniester Moldovan Republic, known locally as Pridnistrovia. As part of the ethnic gerrymandering in the Soviet Union, Moscow added a Russian and Ukrainian populated slice of land on the eastern bank of the Dniester River to the original Moldovan Soviet Republic. This was part of a larger policy of diluting ethnic concentrations in all of the republics to weaken any indigenous nationalism. The majority of the factories and profitable industries were located in this section of Moldova (populated by more loyal Slavic citizens).

Lenin statue in Transnistria

Once the Soviet Union broke apart, the Moldovans began to vigorously exert their control of government to insist on the official use of the Romanian language in all aspects of official and commercial dealings. The Slavic region of Prinistrovia declared independence and fought a small war in 1992. The 14th Russian army supplied their ethnic kinsmen with weapons and a ceasefire has held since then, though both sides wage a cold war of sorts with various economic sanctions that have halted almost all commerce between the two sides.

The result has been an extremely unusual arrangement. Prinistrovia has issued its own rubles, maintains an army, issues passports and is essentially an independent country. A continuing Russian military presence has kept the peace between the two sides. As with most political problems, it is the local people who suffer. Most of them have juggled Russian, Prinistrovian, Ukrainian, and Moldovan passports in order to travel abroad. Considering the extremely small size of the country, traveling abroad usually involves a trip of less than an hour. Meanwhile, ethnic Slavs from Prinistrovia have to deal with unofficial hostility in Moldova and Moldovans deal with the same in Prinistrovia.

The US Embassy doesn’t maintain any presence and is far from enthusiastic about Americans traveling there. Moldovans in Chisinau assured me that in addition to the armed men I would find on the street, the local police would shake me down for bribes on every corner and I’d be lucky to make it without landing in the local KGB interrogation room. Naturally I had to go see for myself.

Arriving at the international border the immigration officers made about a dozen phone calls to authorize my entry. They gave me a bit of a drilling as to the purpose of my journey but were friendly enough and finally gave me a registration document to keep with my passport during my stay.

Despite my cautious welcome, I spent a great weekend in this country that doesn’t officially exist. Once the locals got over the shock of seeing an American everyone was very welcoming and hospitable. A very warm and friendly family whose daughter had been an exchange student in Iowa was kind enough to host me over the weekend.

Prinistrovia has preserved many of the communist organs of government. A large statue of Lenin stands in front of the Supreme Soviet building, the Communist Party publishes a daily Pravda and the streets all have their original soviet names unchanged. These communist trappings lie right alongside the president’s sons’ local business monopoly named “Sheriff”. Sheriff owns the local casinos, all the local sporting teams and betting parlors, the supermarkets, and has a controlling share in every viable enterprise. Underlying the outward polish and modern facades to these enterprises is the unspoken reality that the members of government and their relatives have profited tremendously from the “independence” status quo and that the full force of the state is brought to bear against any competitors.

I had a chance to meet some of the most talented English-speaking high school seniors from the capital, Tiraspol. They all wanted to study in Ukraine or Russia. The state university had previously been just a teacher’s college. Even though additional faculties had been added on post-independence, it was not at the same standard as a university in Odessa or Moscow. A few of the student’s parents had fought in the short conflict and not a single one of them wanted to study in Moldova or identified with the Romanian culture just across the river.

I made my way back to Moldova. It only took fifteen minutes to get through the checkpoints on the return. Moldovan officials maintain that visitors to Prinistrovia are still within Moldova so the customs are much less onerous. It’s an odd arrangement and neither side seems willing to budge. As a result, the people of Prinistrovia will most likely continue to deal with the burden of finding their homes on the wrong side of international, cultural and historical boundaries.

After teaching English in Uzbekistan from 2002- 2004, Jett Thomason set off to visit the rest of the republics of the former Soviet Union. Since then, he’s worked in Afghanistan and Iraq and traveled extensively throughout Asia and Europe. He is currently pursuing a masters degree in public policy from Georgetown University in Washington, DC.

by Jett Thomason

One of the many advantages to living with a host family in Uzbekistan was the free and doting medical care.  Upon arrival at my work site, I discovered this the hard way.  With the cold weather and the throngs of little children extending their germ-ridden hands to greet me each day at school, I quickly took ill.  I called the Peace Corps Medical Officer from the depths of my cold.

“Cold viruses have no cure,” the doctor told me.  “The body just has to learn how to fight the new strains.”

“So there’s nothing I can do?” I ventured.

“Drink lots of liquids and tea.  Some volunteers take several months to adjust to the new situation,” came the cheerful reply.  Did I detect a note of sadistic satisfaction on the end of line?  Must have been the long distance connection.

I sat down to my fortieth cup of tea, shivering and sniffling.  The doctor had delivered tough love and no matter how many generic cold pills I popped from my medical kit, I just had to suffer through the “adjustment.”

In the meantime, my host mom had been pleading to give me her natural medicines.  She said she had been mixing and selling her medicinal teas for years.

“Jett,” Sveta looked at me with sad eyes, “Drink my special teas.  I can’t sleep because I’m so worried about you.”

Well, what volunteer could say no to host mother’s plea like that?  The hell with Peace Corps’ prohibition on local medicine, I decided.  Tea is tea; it’s not medicine.

“All right, Sveta.  I’ll drink your tea.”

I took my first dose that evening.  The taste didn’t even reach me through my stuffy nose.  I went to bed miserable and woke up feeling a thousand times better.  I took the next two servings, and within a day was feeling perfectly healthy.  My host mother just smiled knowingly as I gave her the positive results.

From that day on, I always asked Sveta for one of her teas whenever the worst laid me low.  The colds were milder and my sleeplessness disappeared with one of her blends.  As such, I felt free to ask her any time the slightest illness threatened.

As the weather began to cool again in the fall, I got my first sore throat.  First thing that morning I told Sveta.

“Jett, come to me for some medicine just before bed,” she instructed.  Obediently, I nodded yes.

That evening I went into the kitchen and asked for the tea.

“Not tea, it’s different for a sore throat,” Sveta explained.  “Wait here and I’ll be back with the treatment.”

Curious but confident, I sat down to wait.  A few minutes later Sveta came back.  She had what looked to be a pumpkin wrapped in a wool scarf under her arm.  I wasn’t too sure what to expect, but she hadn’t failed me yet.

As I watched, she opened the cabinet and pulled out a small bowl.  Then a plastic bag.  Then a strip of cheesecloth. Then came the vodka.

Oh God, I thought, her cure for a sore throat is the same as my host dad’s: lots of booze.  I stood up and began to make excuses for not taking that kind of “medicine.”

“Just a minute, Jett.  This isn’t for drinking.”  She nodded at me.  “It’s for your throat.”

I was confused but I sat down again in good faith.  She opened the vodka and poured some into the bowl.  Then she laid the cheesecloth in the bowl and soaked up as much vodka as it would hold.  With the strip saturated and breathing fumes, she folded it and placed it on my throat.

“Hold this,” she said.

Dutifully I held the strip in place.  Sveta then took the plastic bag and folded it several times.  This was placed over the vodka cloth.

“Hold this,” she said.

Again I did as I was told.

With vodka running down the outside of my throat for a change, Sveta pulled the scarf-wrapped object to her.  What could possibly be in there? I wondered.  She unfolded, unfolded, and unfolded the scarf to…nothing.  With a quick whipping action, the scarf was suddenly a thick woolen rope.  Deftly she tied it around my head binding the vodka-soaked cheesecloth to my throat.

“The scarf keeps the vodka in.  That way it works better.”  She confided her trade secret to me.

I had to admit, it was an interesting sensation.  Heavy and cumbersome, hard to breathe, just the thing for swollen glands.  I smiled and nodded, my true thoughts about the process quite concealed.

“Now go to bed, tomorrow you’ll feel much better.”  She smiled at me knowingly.

What to do but as she told me?  As I walked up to my room I reminded myself that the teas had worked before.  That Western medicine didn’t know everything.  That this couldn’t hurt, at least.

Then I saw myself reflected in the window.  I was the Woolly Lion.  I was the Goodyear Tire Christmas Wreath.  I was an astronaut.  I was wearing the world’s longest scarf wrapped around my head holding a vodka cloth to my throat.  I looked ridiculous.

I lay down in bed debating what to do.  Perhaps it would work.  Sveta seemed to know what she was doing.  But I doubted her; I tried to imagine some kind of scientific basis for this simple, yet extravagant, treatment.  I came up with nothing.  The extra padding began putting a kink my neck.  Suddenly, with a burst of free will, I ripped the thing off, took a deep breath and went to sleep.

Later that night, as the last cup of tea worked its way through my body, I awoke from tsunami dreams to a very full bladder.  I got dressed and prepared to go down to the toilet.  I stopped short as I looked into the courtyard.  The light in the kitchen was still on.  It had only been an hour since I had lain down and the family was still up.  Sveta was still up.  How to explain my missing treatment?  I sat down, trying to reconcile my sense of dignity with my bladder’s pressing needs.  I knew the truth, though.  I was going to have to put that scarf back on.

Resigned, I strapped the mass of wool around my head and went to the latrine.  Washing my hands, I dared a look in the mirror.  I was caught in a fuzzy gray cloud.  I was wearing the St. Louis arch on my head.  At no time in my life have I looked or felt more foolish.  Oh well.  My business was finished; I’d soon be in my room and out of sight.

I wobbled out to the courtyard, trying to get used to the unfamiliar weight on my skull.  I had no peripheral vision.  I reeked of vodka.

My host dad and his apprentice suddenly appeared from the side.  I nearly lost my balance craning to look at them with this burden around my skull.

“Sore throat, eh?” my host dad grunted.

Shrugging my shoulders, I nodded at them.  They nodded back.

They returned to their work in the garage.  I crept up to my room to take my medicine.

About the Author:

Jett Thomason was a TEFL volunteer in Uzbekistan from 2002- 2004 in the United States Peace Corps.  Since then, he’s worked in Afghanistan and Iraq and traveled extensively throughout Asia, Europe, and the countries of the Former Soviet Union. He is currently pursuing a masters degree in public policy from Georgetown University in Washington, DC. This story, “A Mother’s Medicine” originally appeared in Americans Do Their Business Abroad, a collection of Peace Corps stories.