Tea and Friendship in Arslanbob

by Nathan Anderson (United States of America)

Making a local connection Kyrgyzstan

The most poignant travel experiences aren’t always the most exciting. Sometimes, the memories which have the biggest impact are the ones which make us appreciate something we might’ve taken for granted. I had one of those experiences years ago while staying with a family in the tiny Uzbek village of Arslanbob in Kyrgyzstan... “Come, join us!” my host’s friend beckoned, pointing to a colorful cushion on the veranda. It was a beautiful September day, with the leaves of the walnut trees Arslanbob is famous for beginning to change color. A nearby brook babbled nearby. I sat where he’d indicated -- next to my host, Abdul. Both men had grey hair frosted with white, just about their only similar feature. Abdul was short, heavy-set, and wore a taqiyah, while his friend was tall, lean, and sported a fedora. “We were classmates a long time ago,” the friend informed me. “Now we are still friends. What is your name?” “Nathan,” I replied, leaning across the table to clasp his hand. “I am Ibrahim,” he replied, touching his chest. “Vodka?” Abdul held aloft a partially consumed bottle of vodka and an empty teacup, grinning eagerly. “Sure.” After all, it was past noon… barely. Abdul poured a shot and set it in front of me. I let it sit for a few minutes, electing to nibble on some apples and flat bread first. “Have some fish. It’s special fish, for vodka,” Ibrahim pushed forward plate piled high with dried fish. “It’s from Uzbekistan.” I thanked them both and started eating, immediately choking on some tiny bones. I took a small sip of vodka to help it go down, only to have Abdul whisk the cup away. He topped it off and set it in front of Ibrahim. “To your health,” Ibrahim said solemnly, raising the cup in my direction. Abdul took the teacup and poured himself a few fingers. My host lifted his shot and said something eloquent in Uzbek. He gestured to Ibrahim – whose eyes sparkled with fondness as he inclined his head – then to me. I followed Ibrahim’s example and nodded my thanks as Abdul drained the cup. Then it came, once more, to me. Realizing I’d erred in sipping without toasting before, I tried to think of a suitable toast. “May your lives be full of happiness, and your homes full of laughter,” I said, looking at each man as I did so. Ibrahim translated and Abdul unleashed another grin, giving me a hearty slap on the shoulder. “Are you married?” Ibrahim asked. “No,” I chuckled. “You must move to Arlsanbob. We will find you a beautiful girl, the best girl for a wife. And I will build you a house!” I said the first thing that came to mind. “That sounds really nice.” Ibrahim and Abdul burst out laughing. The cup went ’round the table a few more times, and the fish disappeared. “My friend,” Ibrahim clasped my hand, “if it is God’s will, I hope we will meet again. If not, I wish you the best life.” “Thank you,” I replied, “I wish the same for you.” With that, the two men stood and walked away, leaning on each other for support. They joked with each other all the way down the driveway as Abdul’s wife and I shared a smile. I had a feeling she had watched this scene unfold countless times over the years. “Good friends,” I remarked. She laughed and nodded her agreement, then we watched in silence as the two disappeared. Maybe it was after experiencing the time-tested friendship of Ibrahim and Abdul. Or perhaps it was due to the time that had elapsed since I’d been home. Then again, it could have just been the vodka. Whatever the reason, I was suddenly, acutely aware of how much I missed my friends. I come back to this story now and again, usually when I’m homesick. Even now, years later, I can’t help but feel grateful when I remember the friendship of Abdul and Ibrahim -- grateful for a chance to witness their friendship. Even more so, for the friendships I am lucky enough to call my own.