The Foreign Service Journal, February 2003

N eed some fiery cayenne pep- per, a pair of knock-off designer jeans, a leather belt, a cow’s head with the skin still on, eggs, or toilet paper? How about a pocket calculator, a how-to-learn- English pamphlet, a toddler’s plastic tricycle, a kerchief or some mutton fat? Or a Coke-bottleful of oil for your car, a block of butter for your table, an umbrella, a pack of cigarettes or even a single one? Perhaps you’d fancy some flowers, plastic or fresh, a lottery ticket, plastic carrying bags, or cleaned cow’s intestines? Or could you use a map of Uzbekistan, dried apricots, or a rusting rake without a handle? At first, Tashkent’s sprawling Chorsu Bazaar is overwhelming. It’s easy to get lost, but soon there’s evi- dence of a system, more or less. Pedal- powered shoe repair equipment occu- pies one section; the women’s clothing stalls cluster in another spot, while toys are more or less together and so are spices. Hardware, auto and plumbing parts cluster near one side of the bazaar. Most potato specialists sell next to each other, as do the onion special- ists and the wrapped candy specialists. Elsewhere you’ll find sellers of bare- root trees, handmade brooms, melons tied individually with straw strings for easier carrying. Shoes, mostly black, mostly square-toed and mostly shiny, stretch on and on. But socks are omnipresent. How many people sell socks here? They’re everywhere, whether a few pairs or a full table’s worth. Smells of cooking meat and burn- ing charcoal waft through the air. Throughout the bazaar, people grill metal skewers of shashlik, a popular mutton kabob with chunks of fat. Large enamel pots simmer with osh or pilau, the omnipresent, oily mix of rice that can contain chickpeas, raisins and vegetables, topped with chopped mut- ton. There are the aromas of meat- filled pastries and buns. For vegetari- ans, there are vendors of the sunflower seeds, a few pennies a packet. A pop- ular item, their off-white shells are scattered all over the ground. And there are sounds. Music blares from audiocassette stalls. Butchers, clutching bloody, paper- wrapped bundles of fresh meat, importune passers-by. There’s the chopping sound of a man hatcheting away at a sheep’s carcass. The ampli- fied voice of a bingo caller bleats over the bazaar. Not all selling takes place in stalls or at tables. Along one stretch of the bazaar, women stand shoulder to shoulder, each with an armful of coats or dresses on hangers. Along another stretch, some sell bunches of dry herbs and next to them, some sell a small inventory of oranges, apples and gar- licky sour pickles. On the literal fringes of the bazaar are stoic vendors who live on the edge of survival. They come to Chorsu with their pitifully small stock — a handful of used clothing, a few empty glass jars, well-worn slippers, mismatched keys without locks and unidentifiable odds and ends of hardware spread on a shabby piece of cloth. They come with stamina and patience and desper- ation. How have their dreams and ambitions spiraled down to this? As I walk by, I wondered how many go home without selling a thing? How do they face a hungry night? During my trip home, a girl knelt in the Metro car and chanted loudly. She rose and walked from passenger to passenger. A few reached into their pockets for change. I ignored her, piti- ful as she looked. Then I shifted my plastic bags filled with spices and apri- cots. I reached into my pocket and pulled out three coins. Did I do wrong? Would my cayenne now be more piquant and would my apricots now taste sweeter? 76 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / F E B R U A R Y 2 0 0 3 Some sell a small inventory of oranges, apples and garlicky sour pickles. Eric Freedman was a Fulbright lec- turer in Tashkent, Uzbekistan from January through June 2002. He is now an assistant professor of jour- nalism at Michigan State University. The stamp is courtesy of the AAFSW Bookfair “Stamp Corner.” R EFLECTIONS Apricots, Cayenne and Beggars B Y E RIC F REEDMAN