ItamI met him when he came to pick me up from the Soviet-era sanatorium where
I had spent my first three days in Kazakhstan, learning as quickly as
possible some of the complexities of this vast country. I hadn’t known a
word in Russian before I arrived, and I struggled to pronounce properly my
simple greeting to him and his wife Farida.
“Zdravstvuite,
menya zovut Jeff.” (Hello, my name is Jeff.)
They
both smiled politely and introduced themselves, but said nothing more.
It
was early June, but already hot. The ride to my new home, a village on the
edge of the foothills to the snow-peaked Tian Shan (Celestial Mountains),
took two hours. Along the way, Farida stopped to do some shopping. While
we waited, Itam played a battered tape of ethnic Uighur music, which I
liked.
Here
we first used the goulash of languages that would see us through the next
two and a half months of my training—a mix of Russian, English, German,
and gesture. Itam had studied German at university many years before, and
I had taken a semester of it nearly as long ago. He had picked up some
English from his two sons who were studying it, while I took Russian
lessons every day.
He
always spoke slowly and clearly to me in Russian, which I appreciated.
But, like many people, he also had the peculiar habit of speaking
extremely loudly, as if sheer volume would somehow help me understand
better.
“Jeffrey,
come!” he boomed at mealtimes, his light green eyes laughing. “Kushai,
kushai!” It would become a familiar refrain—eat, eat!—along with
chai pei (drink tea) and chut-chut. Literally, this means
“a little,” but in Kazakhstan there’s no such thing as a little when
it comes to food or drink. Though Kazakhstan is a Muslim country, much of
the population drinks, perhaps a hangover from Soviet times. While Itam
occasionally enjoyed vodka, he did so moderately, and he never pressured
me to join him.
I
called him my host father, but he was only eight years older than me, so
he was really more like a protective older brother. He taught me the finer
points about local customs, gently chiding me for shaking water from my
hands after I washed them (Uighurs believe this brings misfortune) and
showing me how to give handshakes the Central Asian way—lightly but
warmly, with free hands holding each other’s forearms to show respect.
When
I discovered that I had forgotten to bring a handkerchief with me, he gave
me one of his. In every way, he made a special effort to include me in his
life and the life of his family.
“Jeffrey!”
he boomed. “You, me, go arbeiten.” He always used the German
for “to work,” though I understood the Russian—rabotat—just
as well. He was a veterinarian, and I would watch as he peered into
cows’ eyes, administered shots, and rubbed ointment into their sores.
Another
time, he and Farida had me dress in my best for a Uighur wedding.
Ethnic
Uighurs trace their roots to the primarily Muslim Xinjiang province of
China and are closely related to the Turkic peoples of Central Asia. This
wedding featured some folk music similar to that I had heard on my first
ride with Itam. They also played Russian rock and roll and, more than
once, the extended live version of the Eagles’ “Hotel California.”
At
first, I felt shy and resisted invitations to join in the dancing. I sat
on the periphery and watched, enjoying the seemingly bottomless portions
of salads and appetizers that were a meal to me, though they were really
just the warm-up to the actual meal. Eventually, I was moved to join the
happy throng, the men in suits, the women in glittering dresses, their
arms gracefully twining and untwining above their heads. We danced all
through the evening and into the next morning.
♦♦♦
The days moved slowly that summer in my village. It wasn’t exactly a
place that time had passed by, but certainly only fingers of modernity had
managed to slip in under the blanket of time. My family had electricity
and a television, but, like most of their fellow villagers, no telephone.
Water had to be carried from a well half a kilometer away; hot water was
made by boiling it or, for outdoor showers, leaving a barrel exposed to
the sun all day.
The
family’s fortune, if counted in hard currency, was a trifle. Itam’s
income barely met their needs. But as with Central Asian peoples since
before recorded history, their real wealth was measured in the richness of
their family life and in animals—in their case, sheep.
Toward
the end of my stay, they needed to sell five sheep from their flock to pay
for their children’s education for the coming year. I was invited along
to help catch them. We hopped onto a small horse-drawn cart and slowly
clopped up the road to the pasture where two pastukhi, or
shepherds, were overseeing the common herd. Itam’s father-in-law, who
knew the exact age, sex, and condition of each of their animals by sight,
chose the best from among them. Itam, his sons, and I chased them down,
tied them up, and placed them in the cart.
Clouds
of dust rose into the sky, the sun fell toward the horizon, and the nearby
mountains faded into a hazy blue and then an indistinct shadow. It was
dark when we rode back down the road toward home. I felt bad for the poor
sheep lying next to me, but I felt good knowing that we were taking part
in a cycle of life that had been played out for centuries here—knowing
that Malik and Adik would be able to continue studying English, that
Takmina would gain a marketable skill in learning to cut and style hair
before eventually going on to university as well.
I
also sensed that Itam was proud of me for helping his family in this way.
My feeling of this only increased on his forty-fifth birthday, the first
and only time I ever saw him drunk.
He
came in late for dinner, having been out celebrating with two friends from
his university days. While Farida ladled out soup and prepared a pot of
strong black tea, Itam rambled on, more emotional than usual. His family,
unaccustomed to this, largely remained quiet. Finally, he put down his
spoon and looked directly at me, struggling for words.
“Moe
serdtse…” he said at last, pressing his hand to his chest. When I
said I didn’t understand, he repeated it in English.
“My…
my heart…”
I
was touched. He was trying to tell me how much he would miss me. I placed
my hand on his forearm and squeezed.
♦♦♦
My
training was over, and the time to leave for my assignment as a
full-fledged Volunteer had arrived. All the family came to see me off, all
except for Itam. He had planned his vacation for this time and was away
again with his university friends.
I
tried to give back Itam’s handkerchief, but Farida refused, saying that
I would need it. She also promised that Itam would meet me at the train
station.
To
my disappointment, he never showed up. But I left with hugs from the rest
of the family and more memories than it seemed two and a half months could
possibly provide.
After
a fifteen-hour train ride, I arrived at my new home, Shymkent. Far from
being the dangerous place I had been warned of (“Texas” my family
called it, for they believed it was like the Wild West), I found this
sprawling, low-rise city colorful and friendly. Its tree-lined streets
were cool and dotted with many interesting ethnic cafes. The university
where I would teach was small, but its students were enthusiastic. I
looked forward to a bright two years of work.
This
exciting time was darkened by some terrible news: Itam had died the day
after I left. Previously unknown to everyone, he’d had a heart
condition, which became lethal when combined with his recent celebrations.
I
remembered him talking of his heart and was shocked to realize he had been
trying to tell us of feeling pains in his chest. In hindsight, it seems we
might have caught this, but at the time it was the farthest notion from
our minds. He was middle-aged and seemingly in perfect health. Only days
before I had wrestled sheep to the ground with him.
I
learned another hard lesson in hindsight when I found that I didn’t have
a single photograph of Itam. I had photos of the rest of the family, my
Peace Corps friends, some village children, my pupils, even a few random
pastukhi. I must have assumed that Itam would always be around,
that I would have plenty of chances to catch him in just the right moment.
The
only tangible remembrance I had was his handkerchief.
It’s
funny how small, seemingly insignificant moments in our lives can take on
such meaning later. If I had brought a handkerchief with me to Kazakhstan,
then I would have nothing to remember Itam by.
There’s
nothing obviously extraordinary about it. It’s just a simple piece of
cloth, probably bought at the local bazaar for a few tenge coins.
Yet when I look at it, I see pictures woven into the cotton: I see
laughing light green eyes and in them the reflection of lush green
foothills, snow-peaked mountains, dusty pastures, hazy steppe sunsets. And
darkness. But in that darkness rings the clip-clop of horse’s hooves,
the trill of Uighur wedding music, a voice booming “Jeffrey!”, and I
feel that at any moment I might stand up and dance.
Originally published in A Life Inspired: Tales of
Peace Corps Service
Copyright © 2006 by Jeff Fearnside
