09.07.2009: pan-fried cultural learnings

Hmmm, where to start?

Bukhara had quite a different vibe to Khiva (where we´d been previously), and our first 24 hours there prompted many questions. There was the question of money ("How do we get it?"), the question of tourist information ("Does it exist?"), and, above all, the question of what to see first in this city of architectural treasures. Along with these, we also found ourselves wondering why the city centre - which had been buzzing on the evening when we arrived - was almost empty the next day.

Of course, the answer was simple, and the staff at our hotel cleared up the mystery in all of about three seconds. Basically, they said, the weather was just too damn hot while the sun was out. So the locals left their beautiful, crumbling centre alone in the daylight hours, waiting for the cool of the evening before making their way into town.

"Well duh!", as they say in the Antipodes.

From then on we pursued a strict policy of exploring in the morning (when the heat was slightly less fierce and deadly), snoozing* in the afternoon, and going out again at dinner time.

Having settled on this policy, we all emerged from our hotel rooms at about 8pm on the second night, heading for town. Going downstairs, we crossed the elegant courtyard of our hotel, which took us past the kitchen to the main entrance. As we did so, I noticed the two young male staff standing at the cooker. They had their backs to us, so I couldn´t see exactly what was going on, but it was obviously something quite intense. Oil was sizzling, brows were being wiped, and the older guy was carefully instructing the younger one on the fine art of preparing ... well, something.

Anyway, off we went in search of something light to eat and somewhere easy to walk to. When we returned about two-and-a-half hours later, it was completely dark. In the courtyard some lanterns were burning, spreading a soft orange glow across tables and into prayer niches, but even so the main source of illumination was the moonlight. And that was when I had the 'contextual surrealism moment' - the kind you get when you see something quite ordinary in an environment where it shouldn't be. There in the cool stone courtyard of a former medieval Madrassa in central Uzbekistan, lying on a silk-covered table under a desert moon, and arranged rather neatly on a small white plate, were two perfectly browned sausages.

I looked around, trying to work out who this late-night snack was for, but I couldn't see anyone. Even the staff seemed to have disappeared. "Weird", I thought. The sausages appeared to be unattended. "But hey, it´s Uzbekistan. I´m not supposed to understand everything I see here". And that was the last I thought of it, as I climbed the stairs to bed.

Next morning, we sat in the breakfast room nibbling on bread and compote, waiting for the main dish to arrive. And when it did: ah-huh, you guessed it. Animal intestines stuffed with minced meat, in the finest traditions of European culture.

I wondered at first whether the sausages I´d seen the night before were the same ones I was looking at now. But I don´t think they were. These ones were fresh, hot ... and rather good :-) The other batch must have been prototypes - no doubt the result of the intense discussion we´d seen in the kitchen.

Of course, I´ll never know exactly why the staff decided to make sausages for us, but I imagine they just wanted us to feel a little more ´at home´. But in a hotel which regularly runs out of coffee, your brain does strange things in the mornings. So as I sat there eating my bangers-sans-mash, I started wondering how the subject had come up, and the following imaginary conversation took place in my brain:

"Hey everyone, look what I´ve got!"
"Er ... are they sausages?"
"Yep."
"Ok. So, um ... would you mind telling me why there are sausages in our hotel?"
"Well, we´ve got Western guests now. They eat sausages for breakfast, don´t they?"
"Oh bugger, you´re right! Does anyone know how to cook them?"
"I saw it done once on satellite. Y´know, one of those British cooking shows."
"Right then ... go and buy another kilo of them, in case we ruin some, and I´ll see you back here in an hour. It´s gonna be a late one tonight - nobody leaves until we´ve mastered these suckers!"

Ok, so it probably didn´t go like that. But still, the thought of it amused my tiny mind.

Anyway, this goes out to the Uzbek people for their willingness to accommodate the tastes of foreigners - even if it means staying up late to attend an emergency sausage-cooking workshop. You don´t get much more hospitable than that :-)

Next up: my rant about Samarkand (and believe me, it´s definitely a city to rant about).

Khoiyur!**

Anthony.

(* to snooze = to nap / have a siesta)

(** Not sure about the spelling, but it means "bye!".)