In search of Dario's Camera

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  Samarkand, Uzbekistan
Friday, June 6, 2008

The following story is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent. What follows is a story of adventure and excitement, of new friends and broken hearts, of persistence and a whole lot of luck. It is the story of Dario's camera, lost and found.

ACT I

Our tale begins at around 3:00pm. We have just been dropped off by a Marshutka (group taxi/van, the main form of transport around town) at the AfroSiab Museum in Samarkand, after a lunch meal at Siab restaurant, an off-the-beaten-path restaurant recommended by the LP. We drank tea and ate laghman (soup) and nan (bread) along a river, and enjoyed the cool breeze from two fountains, which, after much repairs, started working halfway through our meal. The AfroSiab museum was just as beautiful, at least from the outside. I didn't get far inside before realizing that I didn't have my camera. (Quick note, the camera actually belongs to my friend Dario. I have had it since last summer when we travelled to Tanzania together. I promise I'll give it back soon). Scott, Kate, and Zoe can fill you in on their experiences, which include meeting a "black market archeologist," but fate had a different plan for me. After brainstorming, we decided that I would take a Marshutka back to the restaurant and meet them in the hostel. Now, its important to note that nobody speaks English, but with the call # (#58) of our Marshuka, I was somehow confident this would be a simple retrieval mission. I was wrong.

As chance would have it, I didn't need the Marshutka #. After 2 minutes on the road, two young Tajiks (from Uzbekistan), Ismoil and his friend drove passed me on the street. They caught my attention when they starting turning circles in the middle of the road, then drove over to talk with me. The spoke a little English, and after the usual pleasantries (they offered me half a warm coke and some cigarettes), I explained the situation and they offered to drive me to the Restaurant. Two minutes later I am rooring through Samarkand, taking a drag from some nasty Uzbek cigarettes, bumping to some of the worst ESL hip-hop i have ever heard. The Uzbek are driving like teenagers who had just earned they licence, and I know I am in for an adventure.

The signs of miscommunication appeared quickly. First, they drove me to the bizarre in town, thinking i wanted to buy a camera. Then they wanted to take me to their uncles restaurant. Then they argued that there was no "Siab" restaurant where I described. It turns out lots of things are named Siab, which is also the name of the river. Finally, I convinced them to let me navigate, and we were off. Leading them to the "dirt road after the bridge" (these were the Lonely Planet's directions), they laughed, said something in Tajik, and smiled at me. Two turns later, we were at Siab. I confidently walked up to our server, smiled, said "camera", made a camera motion, and he looked at me blankly. My newfound friends translated: my camera wasn't there. The only other option was that the camera fell out in the Marshutka. And, it turns out, there are about ten # 58's. My idea was the stay at the restaurant and flag down everyone that drives past, though I knew this was a low probability option.

ACT II

Instead, my new friends insist they had a better idea. At this point, it is clear they are along for the jouney, though I realize they probably expect some compensation for their time. They know the place where the #58 drivers take breaks between shifts ("Many of the drivers are my brothers" one explains), and we are off. We sit around at mini-mart next to the dirt road for a while as #58s drive past, but none of them have the leopard print ceiling that ours did. The time is wearing on us a bit. They keep asking me what color the Marshutka was, but I can't remember, and I'm starting to feel like I'm either burdening them, or they are going to want a lot of compensation for their services. Not to mention that our communication is limited to mono-syllabic exchangs and hand-gestures. I try to relieve them of their duties, but they are truly committed. Finally, we agree that we are getting nowhere and decide to pick up Scott and act as a translater.

So we're back off to the AfroSiab Museum (by now I know the way). After a bit of searching, I find Scott, Kate or Zoe on a hillside (where they had been hanging with self-described "black-market archeologist"). They can't remember the official Marshutka #, but Zoe remembers that the van was green. With not much new information, but the power of communication, Scott and I go with Ismoil and his friend back to the hang-out spot. We watch for #58s a while more, with no luck. Another Marshutka rolls past, and without much conversation, Ismoil flags it down, grabs Scott, and off they roll. I sat with Ismoil's friend for almost an hour and a half with no communication. And then, like conquering heroes, Scott and Ismoil return, camera in hand.

ACT III

I haven't gotten the full story, but as Scott told me "turns out Ismoil knows the driver of the only green #58 Marshutka. We went to his house, I met his kids, he gave me his baby to hold for a minute, and he had the camera, which he graciously returned". Everyone is happy. Ismoil's friend has a store nearby and I buy everyone a round of beers. And now we are friends. Turns out Ismoil loves American TV and movies, and has seen everything. And I mean everything. We trade favorites (he loves Heroes, I introduce him to Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and we bond over Jackie Chan and Jet Li movies. They haven't heard of The Wire, but are big fans of Prison Break. They love Barack Obama and hope he wins the election so we can get out of the war. We chill for almost 2 hours, talking movies and politics and everything under the sun.

Around 7:00 Ismoil invites us to dinner at his place. We text Kate and Zoe--they are skeptical. Zoe was itching for "Plov" (Uzbek national disk, like rice pilaf) and they were pretty hungry. Ismoil doesn't have Plov but after some texting, we agree to pick up Kate and Zoe at the hostel. In retrospect, that was the turning point of the evening. I should have seen the Plov on the wall.

We jump back in the call and we roll back towards the hostel to pick up Kate and Zoe (who we refer to as our girlfriends, for obvious reasons). Now, when I say "roll", I mean "roll" like when you just got your licence and you roll out of the high school parking lot with your favorite music playing, peeling around the corner with the delusion that this will somehow impress the girls. Except that is probably the standard of driving in Uzbekistan. These kids are worse. And when we pick up the ladies, the driving degenerates further. I think it was when Ismoil drove on the wrong side of the street to go around a road blog, swerving to avoid a donkey-drawn cart and almost hitting another car, that Zoe spoke up. It was time to get out of the car.

ACT IV

Scott asks Ismoil to pull over and the negotiation begins. Scott explains that Kate and Zoe are not comfortable with the driving (lame, but the easiest way to avoid hurt feelings). He says he will drive safely. And for the ride home? He will get us a taxi. I think we were all pretty on the fence at this point, which in my traveling experience usually means "safety first". We decide to bail, and Scott delivers the news. Ismoil feelings are hurt, and then I threw salt on the wound. Unsure of expectations, I offered him money (for gas and all the help). Offended, he turned, walked off, and drove away. And as abrupty as it started, our journey was over.

THE END

I've been playing the evening over and over in my head for the last two days. Ignoring the unfortunate ending, the fact that I found the camera is astonishing, and truly 1 chance in a million. On the flip side, I felt devastated at the ending of my friendship with Ismoil and his friend. I am confident in our decision to bail, but couldn't escape the tragedy of it. I have no question that my 'friends' had certainly expected a little something in return for their help, at least at first. But by the end, they were friends. And I felt awful to have offended them with my offer for money, though i think in most circumstances, it would have been appreciated graciously. With two days distance, I am simply becoming grateful for the adventure. We exchanged emails, and Scott and I plan to email Ismoil to thank him and smooth things out. I have Dario's camera safely back in my posession. We didn't get into an accident. All in all, I'd say it was one hell of a day.

And now it is time to get some Plov for lunch and explore Bukhara.
Josh

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