VIGNETTES FROM CENTRAL ASIA -Irina

Walking -rain, snow or shine- is what Irina does, it's her routine. Those who don't know her, don't understand her practice, and may think her mentally unstable or that she's simply a homeless beggar; except for Natasha, the young deaf woman who works for us here, in Tashkent, Uzbekistan.


Natasha has come to us curtsy of her brother Dimitry -who in the early days used to drive me to work. Because Dimitry speaks fairly good English and my Russian is not, he does all the talking and interpreting for his sister the rainy eve he introduced us to her. Natasha was only seventeen when we hired her on a trial basis ‘for a month and then we will see’ we told Dimitry. Within two days I realized my young worker was deaf -she would not respond if I addressed her when she wasn't facing me, or if she didn't see me speak or if I talked to her when she was doing dishes and looking out the window at the wintry scene outside. 
even though she thought i'd be upset and would fire her -I didn't.
We began to communicate by signing or by writing on a pad (my Russian Cyrillic writing!) if I need something special or if I need her to go to the bazaar for the day’s purchases.
Natasha arrives quietly by 7 in the morning and leaves by 6 pm, after we get home from work. She's strong and thin. Natasha has -in no time- become indispensable keeping our large two-storied house impeccable -inside and out- mending and ironing clothes, cleaning corners, lamp shades and baseboards regularly. Shopping for food and sometimes even preparing dinner for us, we feel as if we have won a prize in the lottery of housekeepers! She's young so I give her my daughters' older (but nice) clothes and stuffed animals that who knows why I packed and brought here! 

Last spring she even worked the little gardening plot we have by the side of the house. And all this without my requesting it. For the Christmas holidays I gave her a nice warm coat, sweaters for her siblings and a gift of money. Her joy was so contagious! I've never seen her smile so broadly.
What will I do without her when we eventually leave this country, I wonder. I will search for a good employer for her, for sure.

Returning to Irina, the initial character in this story, she's seen walking our neighborhood and beyond, regardless of weather conditions, icy winds, rain or snow. People see her in the early hours before dawn carrying a large bag over her left shoulder, bent double against high winds or thundery storms. She's also been seen treading alongside the nearby Chirchik River which more often than not, rises above its banks in bad weather. The surprising fact is that Irina wears a pair of thin black sandals, no matter the season, her feet must be hardened from years of ambling about the area.


Early one morning, I came downstairs for a glass of water from our distiller, when through the kitchen window, I saw Natasha in deep sign language conversation with the bent-over Irina. I had seen Irina during her walks, on occasions when we had a very early flight to catch out of Tashkent, but I had not given much thought to her bent image, the large bag on her back or the threadbare sandals. Seeing the two out the window prompted me to ask Natasha once she came in the house, about this strange woman, seemingly older, whom I'd seen in the past. In sign- language and her guttural sounds along with my expanding understanding of Russian, I began to comprehend that Irina has been a widow for four years and has six children to support –she's thankful that two of them are old enough to keep jobs, but four are under the age of twelve.


Irina combs the trash bins of bazaars, bakeries and shops -every night- for goods thrown out or unacceptable for sale for whatever reason. She usually gathers items that allow her family to survive day to day, maybe finding stale lipioshki (flat breads), bruised fruit or partially wilted vegetables. She is always able to find kartoshkas (potatoes) and (morkovs) carrots, sometimes cabbage (kapusta) either not sold or overlooked by sellers or simply because everyone knows of Irina’s nightly outings. She also keeps a part-time job cleaning her building's landings and stairwells.

A detail my good housekeeper forgot to mention and I didn't know until a few weeks ago is that Irina is Natasha's and Dimitry’s mother as well.

VIGNETTES FROM CENTRAL ASIA -Miss Lyuba

Miss Lyuba can be found at the corner of Leonid Sovinof and Buyun Turun streets. She spends her time crocheting colorful and tiny flowers out of raffia and yarn which she dyes herself. She also sells cigarettes by the unit to anyone who needs a quick smoke, usually young high school and university youth. She lays her wares out on a square piece of cloth -which she unfolds from her big satchel- and stretches out on the sidewalk. Cigarretes and yarn-y  blooms are on display.  She never anchors them with anything to stop them from flying out with the wind gusts. Winter is coming soon and with it dusty, gray freezing rain and sleet. What will she do by then?
I've been watching Miss Lyuba for a few days from a nearby park bench here in Almaty, Kazakhstan. She caught my attention because she so reminds me of my late grandmother!...her beautiful and remarkably wrinkled face, her silvery hair and vivacious gray eyes.
Every other day, she places flowers on windshields, on coffee-shop tables, or on people's hands when they are not looking. She doesn't ask for any money but people always give her some.
Miss Lyuba like many other very elderly women in this former Soviet republic, have lost everything after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The restructuring of the country's social security system is too costly and not very sustainable. High unemployment, an aging population and out of control inflation are all factors in the break-up of the pension system in the post-Soviet 1990’s.
Average pensions barely cover necessities making it essential for the elderly to continue working as they are no longer receiving stipends for food and medicine.
When I put the equivalent of twenty dollars in Lyuba’s hand, her eyes began to water. She only whispered ‘spaciba’, ‘pashalsta’ I replied, squeezing her hand –full knowing that the amount would help her in the month to come. What else can I do to alleviate these people's suffering?
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