Late night Dancing

I'll be brief with this post because I have a bit of a cold and need a nap and hot soup soon. Firstly... MORE PICTURES of the desert and Karakoram highway. Check them out at www.durana.org. Secondly... here's a highlight of our adventures since our last posting. We just had some or our toughest rides... through high altitude plains and snow (all my training winter riding in Montreal paid off). Now we have arrived in Kashgar and I sit here nice and warm again with a windburnt face smiling at all of the great news I am reading from back home. The definite highlight of the trip was an invitation in to a Tajik village along a dirt road that had never hosted a foreigner before. We were picked up on the road by a local and invited for tea and bread. As it was getting close to lunch time, we did not refuse. He led us through a wobbly suspension bridge and through the maze of mud houses to the two room house he shared with his parents and wife. (One room for cooking and storage, the other for sleeping and receiving guests). Upon our arrival, people started streaming in and out of the modest but comfortable house to take a look. Suddenly a guitar comes out and there is singing and dancing in the cramped floorspace. This convinced us to stay the night.... and we were further enticed by the promise of a big village dance in our honor if we stayed a second night. How could we refuse. So we spent the rest of the day visiting all of the village's houses, meeting the locals and having tea and rice at every house. wow! Turdeniaz, the local who spotted us on the road took great pleasure in guiding us through the village and this gave him great status in his community. The following day we tried in vain to participate in the farm work of the village. Guests simply are not supposed to be put to work. So we fished unsuccesfully and visited more houses. By the end we were able to brake village tradition and forced our way into working. Pablo helped transport loads of dirt and fertilizer to the fields, while I helped but mostly observed our hostess make fresh noodles. We were excited for the dance... and when the clock struck eight pm. we were escorted by around forty villagers across the suspension bridge and into a school classroom. The Tajik dancing was great. The generator was turned on and the desks were moved to the edges of the room from where the forty or so spectators sat clapping and singing the chorus. Two flutes and two drums provided the beat and the dance was conducted one couple at a time with the master of ceremonies selecting who was to dance next. The only slight eety bity problem (and much to my dismay) was that I was the only female to attend the dance. And as the honored guests, we were selected to strut the dance floor many more times than the other spectators. Tajik dancing is not that complicated, but I had no female version of the dance to follow. I improvised and followed my partners as best as I could... but given that I was not graced with much rhythm or grace, I probably left them thinking that all Western women dance like men or horses. Pablo with his salsa dancing background did great and elicited many cheers. Towards the end of the dance they serenated us with their local song. One soloist and one great chorus. It was unbelievable. Then they asked us for a song but we decided to try some latin dancing instead. So once the drums were beating the latin beat, we introduced the Merenge to the valley. The whole performance ended at ten. We followed the large crowd back across the river and saw it slowly disperse into the various alleys of the village. We went to sleep that night in the company of our Tajik mom and dad, host and hostess with a great warm feeling in our heart, for the simple joys and pleasures this community had to offer. We almost stayed one more night at the tempting offer of "If you stay with my family I will wash your clothes" But we sadly had to keep going and left in the afternoon following the dance. We were given new new tajik names, I became Mariamgul and Pablo Turdebhai in honor of his brother and host Turdeniaz. Not the nicest names by our standards, these were great icebreakers further down the valley. Here we learnt to eat without hands and pray to Allah after each meal. We left many good friends, and promised to send pictures.