Open Mic Night in Moscow

by Audrey Murray

  The one person everyone in the Pamir mountains does know is the Aga Khan, a wealthy celebrity who breeds horses and attends star-studded galas and still finds time to lead a spiritual movement.

  The Aga Khan’s development foundation was one of the first NGOs to come into eastern Tajikistan and provide aid, and it continues to implement relief projects today. Pamiris, in turn, feel understandable gratitude toward the Aga Khan, who, in all fairness, seems like he does a lot of good work, even though he marries models and hangs out on yachts.

  Many Pamiri families hang a photo of the Aga Khan in a location that suggests he’s a member of the family, which is incredibly confusing, because he’s visibly not Pamiri. For the first few days, I’m baffled—do all these families have a middle-aged European son?—and then Vianney explains who he is.

  It’s well past lunchtime, and my rumbling stomach is starting to sour my mood. Januzak’s keeping an eye out for a yurt in which we can stop and grab a bite, and he seems anxious, like he’s picked up on my hunger-fueled aggravation.

  “Dear guests, are you okay?” he asks. “I notice, you are not talking.”

  “Oh, I’m more than okay,” Vianney assures him. “I’ve just been reading and dreaming about this place for twenty years. It’s so amazing to be here.” He turns to me. “Audrey, I’m sure for you it’s the same.”

  Now doesn’t seem like the time for honesty, so I lie. “Oh, yes.” I smile. “Me too.”

  For a rugged stretch of land cut off from the rest of the country, the Wakhan valley seemed, at least to me, to offer inhabitants a modest but adequate standard of living. The Panj River provides arable land and flat terrain on which roads are easier to maintain. We stayed in homes that had electricity and bought fruit from families selling produce on the side of the road.

  All of these comforts disappear the moment we ascend into the Pamir Mountains. Now we’re on a rocky, high-altitude plateau where little seems to grow and the elements make quick work of eroding infrastructure. Electricity is rare and mostly produced by oil-powered generators; roads are unpaved and cut through vast expanses of open space connecting the small towns that dot this remote district. Nomadic herders have long used parts of the region for summer pasture—Januzak’s grandparents among them. He’s prone to nostalgia when he looks out over the landscape. “It reminds me of the land of my childhood,” he says, shaking his head. “Happy times.”

  Januzak likes to be off the road well before sunset. The roads, difficult enough to find in the day, disappear in the dark. At night, the only light comes from the stars and our headlights.

  The mountains, brush, and dust around us have turned purple in the fading twilight and threaten to fade to black at any moment. Januzak’s following a set of tire tracks that winds into the horizon, and I can almost feel him sweating.

  He’s looking for a yurt camp near a summer pasture, where he knows a group of yak herders who can put us up. But he’s not sure if he’ll be able to find them because, depending on whom you ask, the pasture season is either almost over, or definitely over, meaning they would have packed up for the winter.

  We pull into a few encampments, but they’re all dark, with no trace of the life they must, at some point, hold. In Kyrgyzstan, the yurt dwellers dismantled their homes and hauled them away in the back of pickup trucks, but Tajik herders must leave their summer abodes behind in these remote fields each winter when they depart.

  Januzak’s anxiety has now spread to the rest of the car. We ride in silence while Januzak mutters about driving to the nearest city, if we have to, and spending the night in a hotel. We haven’t seen a city in days, but now doesn’t seem like the best time to point this out.

  The darkness engulfs and ensconces us, and in my mind I can almost zoom out until I see us, from hundreds of feet above, two tiny specks of light in a vast, empty landscape of desert and mountains.

  Just when all seems lost, we pull up to a row of yurts, and a woman pokes her head through the door. Relief floods the car.

  Minutes later, we’re drinking hot tea and spreading jam on bread while Januzak chats with our host. When she leaves, he turns to me.

  “Did you see the woman’s sons, the shepherds?” he asks. “They were going crazy when you arrived. I think . . . they will love you.”

  Do yaks eat humans? These ones look like they’d at least like to try. They have long brown fur and menacing horns, and they’re definitely shooting me death stares. I stand beside the relative safety of the outhouse in the early-morning light, marshal my courage, and then sprint past them and back into the main yurt.

  Vianney is chatting amiably with everyone, even though he only shares a common language with Januzak and Norgul. This doesn’t surprise me. Over the past few days, I’ve noticed that Vianney has a way of connecting with people that I can’t quite put my finger on. He’s curious about everyone we meet. While he’s sensitive to the ways in which his life and mine have differed vastly from those of the people we interact with, he talks to the yak herders the same way he speaks to Januzak, which is the same way he talks to me and spoke with the French-speaking Belgian couple we overlapped with at a guesthouse. He asks about their jobs, lives, families, cities. He has inside jokes with Januzak and Norgul from before I met up with them. Why does his way of being in the world stand out to me? It feels almost reductive to say that he’s treating everyone equally, because, duh, that’s what everyone says they do, or at least aspire to do. I sit at the breakfast table and try to name what it is that I’m observing. He’s . . . genuine? Gracious? Generous? I feel like I’m stuck on the gs.

  Everyone’s talking about the altitude. The plateau that we’re sitting on ranges in elevation from eleven thousand to thirteen thousand feet above sea level; the mountains add another few thousand feet. I learned my lesson in Kyrgyzstan and am planning to limit physical exertion to dipping my bread in jam and raising it to my mouth. Still, we’re all going to feel headachy and cranky until we acclimatize.

  As we get up to leave, Vianney asks the family if they have ibuprofen and acetaminophen in their first-aid kit. The mother checks; she does not.

  “Here,” Vianney says, opening his backpack and taking out his pain relievers. “Tell her to take these.” When Januzak hesitates, Vianney reasons with him. “It’s probably difficult for her to find places to buy this.” He shrugs. “I’ll get more in France.”

  Shaimak is near the spot where Tajikistan, Afghanistan, China, and Pakistan all come crashing together to form what must be one of the world’s most volatile borders.

  If you Google “Shaimak,” you’re inundated with search results for an Indian choreographer named Shiamak, whom Google is so confident that you’re actually looking for that it automatically corrects your spelling. This, I think, says a lot about Shaimak.

  We’ve come to Shaimak for its two hot springs, which seem to constitute about three-quarters of the village’s permanent structures. I skip them because I’m not feeling well; while Vianney takes a dip, heavy snowflakes begin to fall from the sky. They float down slowly, almost hanging in the air before disappearing the moment they touch the earth.

  The day’s drive is mercifully short but painfully monotonous, punctuated only by a break to take blurry pictures of a distant peak in the Hindu Kush about which Vianney is extremely excited and of which I pretend to have heard.

  As the morning wears on, the temperature drops. The hills are suddenly dusted with snow, and patches of frost linger on the ground.

  At midday, we reach Alichur. It’s a step up from Shaimak, although the step is modest. There is one store. It does not sell toilet paper.

  Vianney and I are given spacious, comfortable rooms in the home of a kind family in the midst of extensive renovations. This presents some awkward challenges: the workers on the roof are afforded a sweeping view of the uncovered outhouse, which has, disconcertingly, two adjacent holes and not the slightest attempt at a privacy barrier in between.

  There’s not much to do in Ali
chur. Our house doesn’t have electricity, though there is a gasoline-powered generator that the family turns on at night.

  We’re looking forward to this, because we haven’t had power in two days. While I hadn’t noticed the absence of electricity as much in the yurt, it’s jarring to walk around a village with a shop and normal-looking houses and realize that everyone has learned to live without electricity during the daytime. And I mean learned, because most villages had electricity in Soviet days.

  One of the few upsides to being forced to joyfully join the Soviet Union was that Tajikistan benefited from Soviet development projects and social programs. At the outset of the USSR, Tajikistan was considered the least developed and least socially progressive republic. Its topography made it difficult to grow food, build infrastructure, and produce goods.

  The Soviets set about building roads and growing cotton, and they brought in goods that were more easily produced in other regions.

  Many of these gains in Tajikistan disappeared after the collapse of the Union. Products that had been readily available in Soviet days were now expensive and in short supply. Schools closed; damaged power lines were never repaired. In the deserts, people sometimes drive on the sand beside the old Soviet highways, which still mark the way, but are too marred by cracks and potholes to traverse.

  This has made some people—particularly older generations—nostalgic for the Soviet Union. It’s easy to understand why, especially in places like Tajikistan, where standards of living have fallen. But it’s hard to know what to make of this.

  This, again, is why I’m lucky to be traveling with Vianney.

  Vianney is perhaps one of the world’s best travelers. He is, above all else, understanding and easygoing.

  Each time we meet travelers struggling to find a ride to the next town, Vianney offers to squeeze them into our Jeep. There are unnecessary detours in which Januzak tries to chase down someone who owes him a car part, and there are days when we eat lunch at four p.m. These minor inconveniences often leave me seething; Vianney’s mood never sours. He finds small opportunities to be generous. He covers the nominal cost of Januzak and Norgul’s admission to tourist attractions. He gives away things that other people need more that I would have nevertheless held on to on the off chance that I’d want to use them. At the end of the trip, he gives Januzak his Tajik SIM card, prompting me to do the same. (I part with mine begrudgingly, out of an irrational fear that I might need it.) He never makes me feel bad for ranging from underinformed to straight-up clueless.

  I could learn a lot from Vianney.

  In the afternoon, Vianney and I decide to go for a hike. There’s a river meandering through a few hills that look like they’d afford a nice view. Walking toward this, we attract the attention of some kids playing outside of a house, which, in turn, draws a few adults, who insist that we come in for what we assume will be tea.

  We quickly realize that what we’ve been invited to is much more than tea. We’re led into a room full with Kyrgyz men, which I mistake for a bachelor party until Vianney points out that the women are likely in a separate room. Our hosts graciously offer to let me sit with the men, but, no, no, I’m going to culturally assimilate!

  I proceed to be the world’s most disappointing guest.

  Imagine, if you will, that you’re a Kyrgyz woman from a small, isolated village that probably doesn’t get many strangers coming to town. One day, a Frenchman and an American woman show up and you kindly invite them to some as-yet-unidentified party at your house.

  In the men’s room next door, you can hear the Frenchman speaking basic but intelligible Russian with the assembled guests, who laugh and shout and pass around his iPhone. You smile and shake your head. How fun it would be to have our own guest from a strange, far-off place, you think, because you’ve completely forgotten there’s an American woman sitting right beside you.

  I couldn’t be a less interesting guest if I tried to explain office politics. Without Januzak, Vianney, and Norgul around to translate, I freeze. I neither employ the little small talk I can make in Russian nor attempt to pull up a few photos of my family before my phone dies. Without the security blanket of my companions, I’m suddenly reminded of how far my Russian still has to go and this humbles me to the point where I can’t recover. Part of me wonders if being reduced to a toddler’s level of communication has made me feel like I’m confirming the notion of women so many of the men here cherish—helpless, meek, not worthy of attention. Or maybe that’s a cop-out.

  The entire room quickly forgets about me. While Vianney’s stealing the show next door, I’m getting tripped over because I’m blending so seamlessly into the wall. I sit silently, trying to solve the mystery of what celebration Audrey and Vianney are attending.

  Here are the clues:

  About thirty women and children circle around a blanket that’s been spread over the floor and covered with nuts, breads, candies, jam, and dried fruit. The mood seems happy and festive. Maybe it’s a wedding?

  Someone passes me a bowl of light broth that turns out to have a surprisingly powerful, gamey flavor. I immediately set about trying to pantomime that I’m very, very full.

  Thirty excruciating minutes pass. Then a woman arrives with the kind of plastic bag full of plastic bags that can probably be found under any kitchen sink in the world. The bags are distributed to the guests, and then another woman brings in a large plate of freshly cooked meat that I think, judging from the face, is goat.

  I assume this signals the start of the feast, but it seems to do the opposite. Everyone starts packing up. They fill the plastic bags with every food item still left on the table, and when the meat gets passed around, people take almost ceremonial bites of their servings before tossing that in the bag, too.

  The woman next to me helps me fill my bag, though I feel kind of awful taking one. To not take one, I realize, would be even worse.

  Another woman arrives with a bag full of dresses and headscarves, which she presents to each attendee in a very specific order, starting with the eldest women seated in the place of honor. She says a kind of blessing as she places a scarf on each woman’s head. I get one, too, and the women next to me immediately help me tie it on. It’s not a good look for me: my head makes it look like a pair of underwear.

  I’m getting the sense that whoever threw this party had to buy a new wardrobe and a week’s worth of groceries for each attendee. This is really making me curious about what would merit this kind of celebration, and then, as if on cue, a baby is carried into the room with pomp and circumstance reminiscent of The Lion King.

  The party turns out to be a celebration for his first birthday, and we all crowd around him for a group photo. I’ve made so little of an impression that I’m relegated to the far edges, very likely outside of the frame.

  When the men pose for the same photograph with Vianney, they have him stand in the middle and hold the baby.

  That night, alone with only my thoughts and the gentle hum of a generator that’s about to cut out, I think about the baby. I wonder if, when he grows up, his parents will show him the photo and tell him, “When you were one, we threw you a birthday party with an American girl who didn’t know how to talk.”

  The next morning, we drive to Murghab. It’s the region’s capital and the largest settlement for thousands of miles, and in my imagination, it has risen to mythical, Oz-like status. I haven’t showered since Dushanbe. The sheen of grease that covers my hair has me alternating between wearing my new head scarf, out of consideration for others, or avoiding the few mirrors we encounter, out of consideration for myself.

  Januzak keeps telling us we can bathe in Murghab, that we’ll be able to shop at a market and plug in our phones. I expect it to rise out of the desert like an emerald city with Wi-Fi and charging stations.

  None of us slept well last night because of the altitude. I’m practically chewing Tylenol, but the altitude still gives me a headache that presses on the back of my eyes and makes it painf
ul to look anywhere but straight ahead. Perhaps we pass more stunning scenery on our way to Murghab? I only take in the headrest in front of me.

  Halfway there, our tire starts leaking. Januzak notices at the lip of a crater he’s taken us to see. This is problematic, because he lent his spare to another driver, who hasn’t yet returned it.

  I’m not sure what to think when Januzak unveils his plan. “We will drive to Murghab,” he declares gravely, “but we will drive very fast.”

  The ride to Murghab is quiet in the way that a full flight turns silent in turbulence.

  Each time we slow down, I think of the air slowly escaping from the rubber tube beneath us, and I think of how desperately I don’t want to be stranded on the side of the road when we’re so close to the bustling metropolis of Murghab.

  The tire makes it to Murghab, which does, as promised, have a market with SIM cards, toiletries, and the highest concentration of Chinese electronics I’ve seen outside of China, along with giant sacks of rice and the few root vegetables that can grow at high altitudes. The stores have been fashioned out of old shipping containers. Outside of electronics, shampoo, and starchy vegetables, selection is limited.

  Though Murghab is technically a capital city, it feels more like a capital town. Its population hovers around four thousand and doesn’t seem to have a lot of hometown pride. “Murghab is certainly not a beautiful town,” the website of the Murghab Ecotourism Association reads, “however there is no denying the attractiveness of the surrounding region.”

  The shower is a welcome bucket of warm water administered by ladle, and as I wash off four days’ worth of dust, I find myself thinking again about Soviet nostalgia.

  The closer I get to Moscow, the less Soviet nostalgia I find. I can almost feel the flow of funds that left the industrialized Western USSR and poured into the impoverished republics in the East. In Central Asia, the Soviets brought political oppression and plenty of imperialism, but they also brought inoculations and ended the practice of child brides.