در قهوخانه

After an acknowledgement that my last few entries have been downright depressing, and in an effort to convince people that I’m not on the verge of killing myself out of boredom or loneliness (because that would be quite far from the truth), I figure I’d better get a happy update out there.

So here it is…we’re talking about Iranians. Thrilling, I know!

The as-of-yet-unnamed Iranian café has made an appearance in “A Year of Monday” once before. Yes, this is the place I went to talk to Iranians because, as we’ve discussed before, I am that friendless foreigner in Dushanbe. But it’s become way more than that. First off, this place has three wonderful things in the same place: kubideh, hookah, and Iranian satellite TV. As to why these things are good, this should be apparent, but I suppose they merit an explanation. Kubideh, more specifically kebab-e kubideh, is pretty simple stuff, ground meat grilled. But for a mere 18 somoni (that’s about $3.60 for you Americans, the rest of you can do your own conversions), you get not one, but two succulent kubideh, a ton of rice, tomato, onion, and pickle. For an additional 3 somoni (now let’s see who’s the math-whiz reading this and can figure out what that comes out to), you get a whole pot of tea. That’s a pretty solid meal right there. And you can, if you’re so inclined, can sit watching Iranian TV and listen to the various, but blatantly Farsi (not Persian, we’re getting specific here) conversations going on around you.

But more importantly, I find the restaurant an interesting snapshot into a community that, in general, I can’t find in the US. I’m not talking about the Iranian community (they don’t let you stop knowing that they’re there, if you had questions about that, talk to the lovably sketchy gentlemen from the NCRI that haunt the street corners of DC), I’m talking about an expat community that isn’t dripping with cash and doesn’t refer to Dushanbe as “The Big Dushe”. Let’s be clear, I haven’t spoken with an Iranian in Dushanbe that hasn’t gone through great pains to convince me of the differences between themselves and their linguistic cousins. I wouldn’t, however, say that the attitudes to Tajikistan coming from the Iranian community reflect those I’ve heard elsewhere in the expat community. I’m also pretty terrible at Farsi, so there’s a fair chance I’m missing something.

But back to the café (which I’m going to start calling a qahvakhona, because ‘café’ sounds so weird in my head for this place), it started out as just a place to go for a cheap, non-Tajik lunch. Then it became the place with the cheapest hookah in town, which was also awesome (NOTE: Kids, smoking is bad. Don’t do it.). Now though, it’s almost like a second home. I go there on weekends to study. I go there during the week with my peer tutor so we don’t have to sit awkwardly in the sun room of the office. I go there when I want to listen to the news or music or watch football in Farsi. I get pulled into ridiculous arguments, like whether Tajik or Iranian women are more attractive, or why the guy who was sitting at the table across from me is from Semnan and what city in Iran am I from.

This city is a lot of things, some of them good, most of them different. I’ll be here until May, and I’ll likely be spending a lot of the next semester without my fellow student(s). And while I would never go as far to say I could fit in, maybe I’ll be able to find something in that qahvakhona worth writing about again. Or at least some more kubideh.

As always: Ташаккуру Худо ҳафез.