Taxi Traveling (and You Thought Traffic was Bad)
An Uzbek Telling
It is time for a road trip back to my Peace Corps site after a conference in Uzbekistan’s capital city, Tashkent. A site mate and I now have the daunting task of choosing a taxi driver and negotiating a price. Our arrival at the taxi station is cause for mass hysteria among the drivers’ frontmen, the individuals who collect a commission to round up passengers. Our assortment of fancy-looking luggage includes Michael’s* newly purchased stereo system and in total we have more baggage then we can hang on to. We’re clearly not from around town.
The most common tactic of the frontmen is for several to each immediately grab a piece of your property and scurry off to a different vehicle, forcing travelers to choose among those who were fast enough to win an item. Other frontmen call out seat prices or expound on the quality of their driver’s car. Acknowledging the efficiency of divide and conquer, they swiftly break us apart and work on Michael and I individually. I try to take a firm stand by repeating the price I want and saying nothing else. Michael loses his cool when someone goes for his stereo. In a flash he’s at my elbow, directing me to the back seat of the car he last saw his stereo disappear into. He disengages from my grip the only item I’d been able to cling to and with what I perceive as gentlemanly care sets it in the trunk. He rounds up our other possessions and arranges for their placement in our chosen vehicle. That done we take off.
As the car pulls out of the lot my site mate says in a completely offhand and matter-of-fact way, “I think it’s good there’s a sheep in the back.”
Since he’d said it so casually it takes a moment to sink in. Then,
“There’s a sheep?”
“Yeah.”
“In the back? You mean the trunk?”
“Uh huh.”
I swear I can actually feel the mechanical movement of my brain turning this concept over a few times.
Then, “It’s dead…yeah?”
Michael replies, “It’s like the fat.”
This incomplete answer is accepted momentarily because, well, nothing makes sense in Uzbekistan.
Then he adds, “I put your bag on it.”
“WHAT?!”
“Don’t worry, it’s fine.”
“My bag is on sheep fat?”
“Well, it’s a whole sheep.”
I stare out the window as the buildings of Tashkent give way to the cotton fields outside the city, wondering what I am supposed to do next. This is when I remember that an animal is typically skinned shortly after being butchered. The recollection worries me.
“It has wool?” I timidly venture to inquire.
“Naw. It’s just the fat or whatever.”
“Is there a sheet covering it?”
“No. Just your bag.”
“MICHAEL! That’s disgusting!!!”
“Is it?”
“My bag is on a dead sheep!” Righteous indignation overcomes me and I command, “You tell the driver to stop the car right this instant — we are moving my bag!”
Very annoyed: “Are you serious?”
Cowed, I spend the subsequent several hours wondering if I’ve been unreasonable and coming to terms with the fact that I’d just lost control over yet another aspect of my life. Later, when we stop for a break, I enjoy the small but not insignificant satisfaction of informing my site mate that it is not a dead, skinned, (and headless, by the way) sheep, but a goat. Michael is rather unimpressed with my knowledge of dead skinned and headless herd animals, but I take personal fulfillment wherever I can get it. I also move my bag on top of his in the hopes of transferring some dead ungulate cooties.
- Spring 2003
*Name changed, of course.
The Uzbek Tellings are true tales of my time living and serving in Uzbekistan as a Peace Corps volunteer. This one is dedicated to My Snookums — thank you for the nudge ;-)
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Other Uzbek Tellings:
- How I Became the Family Dog — You don’t always get to choose where you fit into other people’s lives.
- Finding the Switch — Sometimes losing control, means finding your sense of peace.
