A Shisha Sunset

by Kate O'Toole (Germany)

Making a local connection Tajikistan

Mehron and I were smoking barberry-flavored shisha, on the balcony, overlooking Dushanbe. Tajikistan. I never thought I would be here. A solo female traveler in Central Asia. My Russian friends often joked before my adventure, that I would be married upon my return to Moscow. However, I stumbled on something magical. Mehron blew on the coals; the embers perfectly blending into the warm evening’s sun. It was something he often did for me in Moscow when I first met him as a waiter at my favourite restaurant. Shisha was the bridge to our friendship. My desire to go to Tajikistan was second. “Kate,” he said. “Just write me.” It sounded to me as though we would meet once, for perhaps an evening of plov, the delicious lamb dish that is best eaten with your hand. The right one, of course. However, when I did finally arrive to Dushanbe in a dusty marshrutka from the seemingly never-ending mountainous journey with no seatbelt in sight, I was in for a surprise. “Kate, of course,” Mehron got out of his black Mercedes, which was also covered in dust. “You can stay with me and my family for as long as you want.” Those first nine days in Dushanbe, beginning from seeing the world's second largest flagpole to ending with my second bout of food poisoning were otherworldly. Mahena, his sister, was telling me about her future wedding. "We haven’t talked so much but he is Mehron’s friend and he will let me continue my studies. After all, I am almost 20! I need to get married.” She briskly told me as she poured tea. We drove to their grandmother’s house, abundant with persimmon trees. There I met their uncle, who insisted that I didn’t understand his English because he spoke British and I spoke American. “How do you do!” he proudly shouted in what was apparently British English while handing me yet another shot of Stolichnaya vodka. Their grandmother was especially fun. A smile filled with silver and gold teeth and eyes that radiated kindness. Their Aiya, the Tajik word for mother, adopted me as one of her own. She took me to the main shopping center to buy the always coveted gold jewellery (for a good price!) for my newly pierced ears. Mehron blew perfect o’s, as usual, on the balcony. He handed the water pipe to me. “Kate, take a deep breath,” He said. “Come on, you can do it.” Everything was the same and yet everything had changed. Mahena got married. Her husband was nice enough. Her mother-in-law was, however, a monster. Their one-year old baby girl was cute, but in Tajikistan, girls have only the future to get married and raise kids. They wanted a boy. Mehron got married. I was there. She was beautiful. Manizha. She looked sad on the wedding day, but it was tradition. Be grateful to your husband’s mother. After all, you will be living with her. Their four-month old baby cried in the distance. “Manizha!” Mehron called for his wife to check on the baby while Rihanna played in the background. Mehron gestured for me to give back the shisha. We had just visited the grandmother, but instead of at her home, she was stuck in a Soviet-era hospital, hooked to an IV. It was a hard thing to see - the sparse room, with four twin beds and one IV, a woman with her gold and silver teeth, in such pain. The Tajikistan I knew - the grandiose image of the 26 year president, Emomali Rahmon, plastered everywhere, the delicious food and amazing hospitality suddenly collided with the real life that Tajiks had to face. Dushanbe is changing. Every time I go back to my second home, there are the signs of a global world. The sun had set. The shisha had finished. More than enough tea had been drunk. The baby was crying and once again Mehron yelled for his wife. I closed my eyes and tried to savor the moment. There was beauty in the simplicity. Every time I go back home and think of my nonsensical worries, I remember this moment. “Kate, take a deep breath. Come on, you can do it.”