Qishloq in Tajik (and Russian too, I presume) is a ‘village’ and this is where we went to a small village called Turveq, just outside Dushanbe. We went by car with her classmates, with four girls eventually squished into the back, all in their finest glad rags (I do not include me in the glad rags status, but I did my best)! We stopped for a while waiting for what I knew not, until a convoy of cars caught up with us to arrive in the village together.
I was introduced to many of her classmates, of which it seems that G. has some of the best English. Even though we couldn’t communicate except on the most basic of levels, I still garnered a few invitations to people’s homes – bless them! All the boys were wearing the normal college attire, that is a suit. I couldn’t believe that they were forced to wear this to college every day. Girls seem to be able to get away with a bit more and could wear what they wanted. Funny to compare these suited and booted young men to UK students expressing their identity and just dressing how they like.
We arrived at the wedding which was in a house in the village with a band playing outside and people crowding around. We picked our way, G’s friends taking my arm, the others in the highest of heels, across the yard and were quickly ushered into a small room with a feast laid out on the floor and sat cross legged on the ground. All her classmates and me fitted snugly into this long and narrow room - just the size for 15-20 people round a cloth the width of a table.
We ate with our fingers mostly tearing off parts of enormous chapatti – which is also what they call it, and using it to pick meat and gravy from the stew. The gravy was fatty and delicious, for Tajiks, with herbs swimming in the grease. The lamb was tender and served with tasty onions. We also had another similar soup, fruit, sweets, sambusa (which is similar to what we know as a samosa, but with a more doughy outer covering), and Fanta and grape juice to drink.
There was much laughter and M, who is G’s best friend, and also from the Pamirs, introduced me to “my future husband!” indicating a brown haired smiling boy sitting next to her.
After the food was the dancing, which was great fun, the motion is in the arms and hands which twirl around each other, as dancers circle one another. It seems men and women are able to dance together. Sometimes one person is in the centre and the others surround them, clapping.
Unfortunately for those in heels the ground was uneven and difficult to dance. I was glad of my flip flops. This put a slight dampener on the two women whom I knew loved dancing. We stayed to watch the groom’s hair being cut by his father to much applause, while wedding guest filled the inner pockets of his suit with money. He was seated on an armchair placed on a carpet, which somehow, outside, looked like a throne.
On the way home we were stopped by the police, I was slightly nervous as I had no identity papers on me at all, not even a copy of my passport. He wanted a fine as we were travelling with four in the back of the car. But somehow the combination of the driver and a couple of pretty girls persuaded the policeman, and convinced him that we should be allowed to go on our way. We weren’t going much further anyway.
“Dushanbe I love you!” called out M, dressed in a sparkling yellow outfit, “this is my city.”
Later, this evening, I was looking at G’s photos of her family, it is interesting how many of them were taken in front of the Somoni statue. When asked about it, she couldn’t really explain why, it just seemed like a good place to go, a worthy backdrop for the family photo. There was also one photo taken in front of the Ibn Sina statue, but many more with Ismoil towering in the background.
It was also interesting seeing G in lots of western clothes as I have only seen her wearing traditional dress. However this is, I think, just in the summer, when it is so much cooler to wear a loose long dress and trousers. In winter she is in knee length skirts, boots and leather jackets.
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