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| Savsangul, alias Sonya, sur le seuil de sa maison à Pish. |
In the Central Park, there is a small cafeteria called Chorbor. While I lunch of meatballs and French fries, I see coming a girl with gorgeous curly black hair decorated with a striking flower. Her perfect oval shaped face captures the light. She is wearing a dress and trousers ensemble, jade-green coloured with flowers. A light pink colors her lips. She takes place with friends, exchanging jokes and confidences. Meeting of eyes. She got used to it, that we look at her, of course, and that does not disconcert her too much. A little game which lasts until I take the plunge. But, in front of her, it is me who is disconcert and who mumbles :
– Excuse me, do you… tapshan ?
She does not understand, but she is amazed to see the blushing foreigner standing there, in this city just emerged from the violences of this last summer. Her name is Savsangul, which means edelweiss in her language. I explain her more clearly my project.
- You can call me Sonya, she says.
She takes my number, will call me tomorrow. We will go together to her village to see some tapshans.
Six o'clock in the morning. It seems to me to have heard some shots. But maybe I was dreaming. It is too early to get up. Waiting. Having breakfast. Waiting again. I am told by a SMS from Kamila that networks are working very badly in her village. That obviously means that it would be useless I try to join her. Fortunately, the lovely Sonya is there ans she has not forgotten me. I meet her again at noon and we start looking for a marshrutka (private minibus which follows a particular route at flexible hours) to go to her village. We wait long because it is Saturday and the drivers are few. When at last one comes, we are many to rush. I take a seat next to her. She motions to me to come closer, very closer. Be wise, my heart, it is just for giving space for everybody. Nevertheless, it is not in Varzob I would have seen the same. We attract attention of the passengers. She is exuding a simple and natural beauty and she is speaking with this guy, a foreigner, old enough to be her father. A man, who does not look very easy-going, is standing in the passageway and bent for not banging into the ceiling. It does not take long before he shouts at her. I do not understand the first thing about their exchanges, but from the tone of the discussion, the intrusive guy seems to have taken on the young woman. She laughs at that, withstands, and finally ignores the maniac. The chap looks at me defiantly. I stay relaxed. He half-opens the bottom of his jacket to show me that he carries a weapon. But this idiot will not succeed in spoiling this idyllic journey. After one hour, we arrive in Pish, Sonya's village. I question her about the discussion with the chap but she answers evasively that it is not interesting. The village is planted in a narrow valley at 2200 meters, modest altitude in Pamir where the peak Ismail Samani (the former Peak of the Communism), peaks at 7500 meters. Surrounded with gardens, the houses occupy a steep area bounded by small streams. Sonya invites me to follow her in this simple and bucolic environment. She is so lovely with her smiles and her gracefull gait in the rocky paths. We arrive at a house from where a strongly amplified music is gushing.
- My cousin's wedding, tells Sonya.
Several large tapshans were put together in front of the house. About a hundred guests are sitting on kurpachahos and bolishhos. The food is plentiful and varied, as well as drinks arranged on plates. There are plov, salads, French fries, stews, bread, cakes, candies, juices of buckthorn and wild rose. But also some more discreet drinks like beer, cognac and vodka. A band is playing catchy tunes. We are invited to take place together for the plov. Should it be mentioned that it is the best plov that I have ever savored ? I take photos of the tapshans and the dancers. I am invited to join them, what I do without hesitation. Sonya dances with me. Should it be mentioned that it is the most pleasant dance that I have ever danced. But we have to see the house of her parents, located next to that of her uncle. The houses of the family form a village in the village. The mother was waiting for us. The house is hard-walled, contrary to the majority of them which are made of adobe. The walls are painted white in their upper part and blue or bistre in their lower part. Over the full length of the facade runs a covered terrace closed by embroidered curtains. The sloping roof is lightly raised to make place for a ventilated attic. The sobriety of the house touches me.
– Excuse me, do you… tapshan ?
She does not understand, but she is amazed to see the blushing foreigner standing there, in this city just emerged from the violences of this last summer. Her name is Savsangul, which means edelweiss in her language. I explain her more clearly my project.
- You can call me Sonya, she says.
She takes my number, will call me tomorrow. We will go together to her village to see some tapshans.
Six o'clock in the morning. It seems to me to have heard some shots. But maybe I was dreaming. It is too early to get up. Waiting. Having breakfast. Waiting again. I am told by a SMS from Kamila that networks are working very badly in her village. That obviously means that it would be useless I try to join her. Fortunately, the lovely Sonya is there ans she has not forgotten me. I meet her again at noon and we start looking for a marshrutka (private minibus which follows a particular route at flexible hours) to go to her village. We wait long because it is Saturday and the drivers are few. When at last one comes, we are many to rush. I take a seat next to her. She motions to me to come closer, very closer. Be wise, my heart, it is just for giving space for everybody. Nevertheless, it is not in Varzob I would have seen the same. We attract attention of the passengers. She is exuding a simple and natural beauty and she is speaking with this guy, a foreigner, old enough to be her father. A man, who does not look very easy-going, is standing in the passageway and bent for not banging into the ceiling. It does not take long before he shouts at her. I do not understand the first thing about their exchanges, but from the tone of the discussion, the intrusive guy seems to have taken on the young woman. She laughs at that, withstands, and finally ignores the maniac. The chap looks at me defiantly. I stay relaxed. He half-opens the bottom of his jacket to show me that he carries a weapon. But this idiot will not succeed in spoiling this idyllic journey. After one hour, we arrive in Pish, Sonya's village. I question her about the discussion with the chap but she answers evasively that it is not interesting. The village is planted in a narrow valley at 2200 meters, modest altitude in Pamir where the peak Ismail Samani (the former Peak of the Communism), peaks at 7500 meters. Surrounded with gardens, the houses occupy a steep area bounded by small streams. Sonya invites me to follow her in this simple and bucolic environment. She is so lovely with her smiles and her gracefull gait in the rocky paths. We arrive at a house from where a strongly amplified music is gushing.
- My cousin's wedding, tells Sonya.
Several large tapshans were put together in front of the house. About a hundred guests are sitting on kurpachahos and bolishhos. The food is plentiful and varied, as well as drinks arranged on plates. There are plov, salads, French fries, stews, bread, cakes, candies, juices of buckthorn and wild rose. But also some more discreet drinks like beer, cognac and vodka. A band is playing catchy tunes. We are invited to take place together for the plov. Should it be mentioned that it is the best plov that I have ever savored ? I take photos of the tapshans and the dancers. I am invited to join them, what I do without hesitation. Sonya dances with me. Should it be mentioned that it is the most pleasant dance that I have ever danced. But we have to see the house of her parents, located next to that of her uncle. The houses of the family form a village in the village. The mother was waiting for us. The house is hard-walled, contrary to the majority of them which are made of adobe. The walls are painted white in their upper part and blue or bistre in their lower part. Over the full length of the facade runs a covered terrace closed by embroidered curtains. The sloping roof is lightly raised to make place for a ventilated attic. The sobriety of the house touches me.
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| Maman de Sonya sur la terrasse de sa maison. |
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| Vieux tapchane à côté de la maison. |
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| Mariage du cousin de Sonya. |
We return to the party. I take place with the family and regard Sonya whom the pleasure to dance makes even more charming. A man offers me a beer. Sonya rushes and forbids me to drink. Such an impetus let me speechless.
- But why ?
- That is how it is !
The man offers me then a cognac glass. While I am about to propose a toast, Sonya appears again. She is categorical. There is no question drinkink a single drop of alcohol. What a nasty temper ! So be it, I shall not drink alcohol, but I like to be here and I want to make the pleasure last. I don't care about going back to Khorog. Sonya does not take the same view and decides that it is time for me to leave. Marshrutkas are rare and there is no question of spending the night here. She walks me back at the bottom of the village where is the road to Khorog and stays with me until the bus arrives.
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