 |
| Zafar et sa famille dans la maison de son père (Zafar assis à gauche et son grand-père, Nabijon, à droite). |
Zafar and his cousin, young students, came to pick me up by car, a yellow Spark driven by their grandfather Nabijon. We are now going to visit their family in Marghilan and in Fergana. The family belongs to the new Uzbek middle class. They are well-to-do, nothing more. We continue with a tapshans factory. Quickly, because Zafar is impatient to show me the Oltin Balikcha Nursery School (Oltin balikcha means "golden fish", title of a Russian tale). The nursery schools are a real institution in Central Asia, inherited, another one, from the Soviet years. These establishments have generally a lot of space and a plentiful and devoted staff. Warned about our arrival, the nannies receive us very well. At our entrance in classrooms, the children rise all together and say loud and clear "Assalom aleykom !" I am delighted but I do not understand why Zafar was so keen to lead me here. One of the nannies pulls me by the sleeve and leads me at a place where toddlers are sitting on a cute little blue tapschan with dimensions adapted to their size. That plunges me for a quick moment in a frame of mind very... childish.
Zafar's father run a trade of food and a pharmacy. Pharmacy is a family history. Nabijon was one of the first pharmacists of Fergana. After the visit of both businesses, he drives us at his office, located in a old house where we meet two friends of him. One of them, a 66-year-old giant, crushes me the hand by greeting me in a quietly ironic way. It is this man who took care with cooking the plov. He is the chef of the small circle of friends who gravitate around Nabijon. The plov is accompanied with roasted thrushes and a miraculous bottle of wine appears. Pomegranates for dessert. And to crown it all, Nabijon is going to make me taste a decoction which he holds the secret.
- A small glass a day is enough to give you energy, he said, handing me a glass of disgusting brownish liquid.
It is better to empty the glass in one gulp and to think of something else. I am even greeted in addition (I must look very weak) with a dose of ginseng diluted in hot water. The pharmacist then fills for me a small bag with ingredients for the preparation of his decoction. There are aniseed-flavoured dried herbs, mountain twigs and four sachets containing a bituminous substance on which is written in Russian "Мумие Асил" (Mumie Asil). I have to brew the plants in one liter of boiling water, dilute the black substance in another liter of hot water and mix the whole. To test this next winter and to send him the results.
- Avicenne already used this medicine, assures me Nabijon. And Bohodir (he shows the giant) drinks it regularly.
I am sure to have already seen that anywhere, but where ? The answer will come later, in the reading of my notes. It was in Hazrat-Davoud. Some women wanted to sell me a black resin which they called mumiyo. I will find on the Internet that this excellent product stemming from the seepage of the rock cliffs is known under such different names as shilajit ("invincible rock" in Sanskrit), asphaltum punjabianum in Latin and also Pür Black, what suits it so well. Used in the Ayurvedic medicine, it contains 85 Ionic minerals and treats 25 pathologies or deficiencies. I will discover later, in the book of James Morier The Adventures of Hajji Baba, written in 1828, the word "mumiai" with which the similarity is obvious. The footnote of the french edition states "Powder made from the remains of Egyptian mummies and which could be said to have the biggest properties. It was when they tried to get it that the Venetians, in the 16th century, began the first archaeological excavations in Egypt, in the region of Sakkara. François 1st himself never travelled without his moumiai powder and his rhubarb." (Curiously, the English original version just indicates : "Antidote in which the Persians have great faith.")
In the afternoon, I am invited for a fishing trip. I hate fishing but they wish so much to share with me this aspect of their leisure time that it would be an insult to refuse. Thus, here we are left, Nabijon, his two grandsons and I in the direction of ponds located a few kilometers outside of the city. Looking at the bounds of carps which shake the water, the fishing should be fruitful. Nabijon has a good carbon rod. In spite of his boastful appearance, he is not so skillful in the manipulation. Another angler comes to the rescue. They will fish only a bleak which Nabijon will put back to the water. At the twilight, we store the equipment. We have fished for nothing and it is time for dinner. Near the ponds are a tapshan and a caravan which seems inhabited. Inside, the "table" is set. Inside the caravan is arranged like a tapshan : mattresses, pillows, carpet in the center of which bread and salads are already placed. Nabijon takes out an Uzbek wine bottle. The giant comes to us and we begin by making toasts. Moment of rare pleasure. That is when arrives, served by the mysterious occupant of the place, a dish of fried carps as crunchy as can be. Discussion. The tradition, the family, subjects difficult to dispute, as well as the policy conducted by the president. They congratulate themselves on having a president such as Karimov who enabled the region to grow rich, and to enrich themselves at the same time. They remain reasonably impassive when I toast to all women and to the advent of the United States of Central Asia.
Zafar's father run a trade of food and a pharmacy. Pharmacy is a family history. Nabijon was one of the first pharmacists of Fergana. After the visit of both businesses, he drives us at his office, located in a old house where we meet two friends of him. One of them, a 66-year-old giant, crushes me the hand by greeting me in a quietly ironic way. It is this man who took care with cooking the plov. He is the chef of the small circle of friends who gravitate around Nabijon. The plov is accompanied with roasted thrushes and a miraculous bottle of wine appears. Pomegranates for dessert. And to crown it all, Nabijon is going to make me taste a decoction which he holds the secret.
- A small glass a day is enough to give you energy, he said, handing me a glass of disgusting brownish liquid.
It is better to empty the glass in one gulp and to think of something else. I am even greeted in addition (I must look very weak) with a dose of ginseng diluted in hot water. The pharmacist then fills for me a small bag with ingredients for the preparation of his decoction. There are aniseed-flavoured dried herbs, mountain twigs and four sachets containing a bituminous substance on which is written in Russian "Мумие Асил" (Mumie Asil). I have to brew the plants in one liter of boiling water, dilute the black substance in another liter of hot water and mix the whole. To test this next winter and to send him the results.
- Avicenne already used this medicine, assures me Nabijon. And Bohodir (he shows the giant) drinks it regularly.
I am sure to have already seen that anywhere, but where ? The answer will come later, in the reading of my notes. It was in Hazrat-Davoud. Some women wanted to sell me a black resin which they called mumiyo. I will find on the Internet that this excellent product stemming from the seepage of the rock cliffs is known under such different names as shilajit ("invincible rock" in Sanskrit), asphaltum punjabianum in Latin and also Pür Black, what suits it so well. Used in the Ayurvedic medicine, it contains 85 Ionic minerals and treats 25 pathologies or deficiencies. I will discover later, in the book of James Morier The Adventures of Hajji Baba, written in 1828, the word "mumiai" with which the similarity is obvious. The footnote of the french edition states "Powder made from the remains of Egyptian mummies and which could be said to have the biggest properties. It was when they tried to get it that the Venetians, in the 16th century, began the first archaeological excavations in Egypt, in the region of Sakkara. François 1st himself never travelled without his moumiai powder and his rhubarb." (Curiously, the English original version just indicates : "Antidote in which the Persians have great faith.")
In the afternoon, I am invited for a fishing trip. I hate fishing but they wish so much to share with me this aspect of their leisure time that it would be an insult to refuse. Thus, here we are left, Nabijon, his two grandsons and I in the direction of ponds located a few kilometers outside of the city. Looking at the bounds of carps which shake the water, the fishing should be fruitful. Nabijon has a good carbon rod. In spite of his boastful appearance, he is not so skillful in the manipulation. Another angler comes to the rescue. They will fish only a bleak which Nabijon will put back to the water. At the twilight, we store the equipment. We have fished for nothing and it is time for dinner. Near the ponds are a tapshan and a caravan which seems inhabited. Inside, the "table" is set. Inside the caravan is arranged like a tapshan : mattresses, pillows, carpet in the center of which bread and salads are already placed. Nabijon takes out an Uzbek wine bottle. The giant comes to us and we begin by making toasts. Moment of rare pleasure. That is when arrives, served by the mysterious occupant of the place, a dish of fried carps as crunchy as can be. Discussion. The tradition, the family, subjects difficult to dispute, as well as the policy conducted by the president. They congratulate themselves on having a president such as Karimov who enabled the region to grow rich, and to enrich themselves at the same time. They remain reasonably impassive when I toast to all women and to the advent of the United States of Central Asia.
 |
| Chez Nabijon (au centre) à Ferghana avec ses amis (le colosse à droite) et ses deux petits-fils (à gauche). |
 |
| Jardin d'enfants Oltin Balikcha (Poisson d'or). |
 |
| Tapchane près des étangs piscicoles d'Alisher à proximité de Ferghana. |
Copious lunch the next day together with the same. The elders are in their Sunday best because they come back from a morning plov for reason of National Day. Before my departure, Zafar wants to show me his school. He is anxious to present me Dilora, a 15-year-old girl coveted by his cousin. Dilora is ambitious. She wants to become diplomat. The young cousin ? He is just a school friend, nothing more. Last tour in town together with the whole crew. Nabijon shows me the colonial style buildings, the Russian governor residence and the administrative buildings in Al-Farghoni Avenue. He drives me then in a cemetery. A cemetery ?
- Look, he tells me by showing an old abandoned grave.
I read the stele drafted in French : "Ci-gît Joseph Martin, explorateur en Asie centrale. Décédé le 11 mai 1892 à l’âge de 36 ans." (Here lies Joseph Martin, explorer in Central Asia. Died on May 11th 1892 at the age of 36."
- Do you know him ?
- Not at all, I say a little bit shameful.
- He was a great explorer. He is very known here. A street was named with his name.
Farewells. Inevitable hugs. I leave one more time people admirably hospitable and kind. The giant takes advantage of this moment of empathy to grasp in full hand the skin of my back only to show me how much he appreciates me. In my return in France, I shall not forget to enter Joseph Martin's name in the search engine of my Internet browser.
- Look, he tells me by showing an old abandoned grave.
I read the stele drafted in French : "Ci-gît Joseph Martin, explorateur en Asie centrale. Décédé le 11 mai 1892 à l’âge de 36 ans." (Here lies Joseph Martin, explorer in Central Asia. Died on May 11th 1892 at the age of 36."
- Do you know him ?
- Not at all, I say a little bit shameful.
- He was a great explorer. He is very known here. A street was named with his name.
Farewells. Inevitable hugs. I leave one more time people admirably hospitable and kind. The giant takes advantage of this moment of empathy to grasp in full hand the skin of my back only to show me how much he appreciates me. In my return in France, I shall not forget to enter Joseph Martin's name in the search engine of my Internet browser.
More photos Fergana
No comments:
Post a Comment