Horas sueltas e imperfectas
A estas alturas del viaje el cansancio comenzaba a hacer mella. Prácticamente llevaba un mes fuera de casa. Había vuelto unos pocos días a casa desde Andalucía, preparé equipaje y descansé un poco y ya para París y de ahí a Tashkent. Al mismo tiempo unos meses antes había iniciado mi inmersión en la nutrición Unani que el médico mexicano David Duarte enseña. El tema es que yo andaba a vueltas justo en ese momento con un importante incremento del consumo de sal y una importante bajada en el consumo de carbohidratos, azúcares y lácteos jóvenes. Comía sigilosamente, podríamos decir, evitando esto y aquello. Situación algo incómoda por lo que implican las relaciones entre los amigos. Creo que nunca he sido una persona preocupada con estas cosas pero ahora parecía un poco neurótico.
Siempre había despreciado esa actitud demasiado preocupada con las cosas físicas en las que incluía la comida. Incluso veía con cierta condescendencia a la gente que cuidaba demasiado su físico pero ahora estaba yo ahí, cayendo en todo lo que había denigrado. No solo eso, también había comenzado a darme duchas en agua fría, costumbre que continué en invierno. Era algo que mil veces le había reprochado a mi padre metiéndome con él: eres masoquista, te gusta sufrir, etc.. Pero hete aquí que ahora diligente y misteriosamente yo hago lo mismo. Recordé un dicho del profeta Muhammad (que la paz y las bendiciones sean con Él): "No reprochéis nada a vuestros semejantes pues no moriréis sin haber caído en aquello de lo que los acusáis". Creo que soy experto en haber experimentado este consejo.
Armando también es mexicano. Ahí comprendí el carácter de los biotipos de los que habla David Duarte. Los mexicanos son evidentemente flemáticos. No me refiero a lo que pueda ser cada persona individualmente sino a ese ritmo calmo, pachorrento y que se nota en la forma de hablar, ante el cual yo me percibo como permanentemente acelerado. Hay algo que pertenece al carácter del pueblo más allá de los individuos. Es indudable. Y esa actitud como de estar de vuelta de todo. Bueno, pues ahí estábamos Armando y yo preparándonos para nuestro mundo de negocios y regateos. Quizá Armando era el único momento en que desvelaba cierta inquietud que lo sacaba de su flema. Pero rápidamente volvía a su lugar y se comportaba como un verdadero hombre entendido, que no se deja engañar tan fácilmente. A su lado yo soy un pardillo al que cualquiera puede engañar. Especialmente si es una mujer guapa. En fin...¡que os voy a contar que no sepáis!
Le pedí a Armando que me hiciese unas fotos en el hotel Grand Nordibek donde parábamos. Necesitaba verme a mí mismo con una actitud implacable, sin concesión al sentimentalismo. Un duro negociador que con su sola presencia transmitiese cierta intimidación: ¡muchacho conmigo no se juega!. Lo bueno (y lo malo supongo) de las fotos es que no tienen más que una imagen, carecen de olor, sabor y presencia. Uno puede parecer cualquier cosa. A pesar del calor me puse uno de los gorros que había comprado en Jiva y que son esos gorros que yo siempre asocié con los cosacos. De hecho la palabra "cosaco" es de origen túrquico y significa, nómada, "hombre libre". Nos encanta disfrazarnos de "hombres libres". Lo cierto es que los cosacos surgieron en los siglos XV y XVI como grupos de fugitivos, siervos y esclavos escapados que buscaban vivir fuera del control de los zares, reyes y nobles. Vivían en comunidades autogobernadas basadas en una democracia militar y destacaban como jinetes y guerreros excepcionales.
Al escribir esto siento cierta nostalgia de un mundo más auténtico aunque probablemente más salvaje. Es la diferencia que nos cuenta Rumi entre aquel halcón que ante su aspecto poco amable, la vieja le recorta las alas y el pico y le dice: -Así está mucho mejor, ya pareces una paloma. Creo que esta es la descripción exacta de lo que hace la educación. Pero ya vuelvo a irme por las ramas.
Salimos del hotel con la idea de hacer unas compras. El primer lugar que visitamos fue una tienda de alfombras y gorros. Había gorros de todos los tipos. Yo me daba cuenta de que Armando no tenía tantas ganas de comprar como de propiamente regatear. Le encantaba. Ya he hablado sobre esto. Yo andaba a vueltas con mi pobre capacidad de fingir una actitud que no siento pero me fijé en un gorro bastante antiguo, o eso me parecía. El vendedor me aseguró que era realmente antiguo. Tenía cierto desgaste y era el que utilizaban los hombres. Ahora ya no hay tanta distinción pero tradicionalmente los hombres llevaban unos gorros más cuadrados y las mujeres más redondos (pero tampoco era una regla absoluta). Después de un breve regateo lo compré. Pagué en soms uzbekos una cantidad que podría equivaler a los 60 euros más o menos. Aquí muestro el gorro, lo tengo ahora en mi casa sobre la cabeza del caballo de juguete que siempre me recuerda las aventuras del príncipe Tambal en el cuento del Caballo Mágico (lo puedes leer pinchando entre la página 100-112)
El gorro es lo que se llama un do'ppi y pertenece a la tradición artesanal de Bujará. Pese a la aseveración de que es un gorro antiguo por parte del vendedor probablemente sea del S.XX aunque siguiendo la tradición. Está hecho de terciopelo azul oscuro con bordados de hilo metálico y dorado. Es una tradición tayico-uzbeka conocida como zardozi y es una tradición artesanal que se ha recuperado especialmente a partir de los años 90. En este caso el gorro es "masculino" por su forma y "femenino" por su ornamentación, en cierto modo. Creo que encaja bien conmigo (desde joven tengo la "teoría" de que lo masculino es lo exotérico y lo femenino lo esotérico) pero apenas lo he usado. Quizá en algún momento habrá ocasión. ¿Quién sabe?
Continuamos más adelante y entramos en una tienda exclusivamente de alfombras. En realidad yo no buscaba una gran alfombra pero sí una alfombra de oración, pequeña, que me pudiese caber en la maleta. El hombre que nos atendía comenzó a mostrarnos unas y otras. Creo que noté en él cierta ansiedad o, diría codicia. No acababa de caerme muy bien. No tenía propiamente la alfombra que yo buscaba pero claramente quería venderme algo. En un momento me fijé en una pequeña alfombra rojiza. No sé el motivo pero me gustó. Le pregunté y me dijo que era antigua y hecha a mano. La toqué y la observé. Al darle la vuelta me fijé en su trama y nudos que manifestaban ciertas irregularidades del trabajo manual. Es esa imperfección lo que las hace "buenas". Tienen "sabor" y son como las personas y las frutas. Puede que su apariencia no sea "perfecta" pero "saben". Con lo industrial no pasa eso: son "irreprochables". ¡Cuánto se aprende de unas simples alfombras!. Sus colores tampoco son uniformes: varios tipos de rojo, anaranjado, salmón, granate, marrón muy oscuro y azul muy profundo que tampoco mantienen una plena uniformidad.
La alfombra seguramente pertenece a un grupo étnico turcomano, de cultura nómada, en las inmediaciones del Amu Darya medio. El caso es que le pregunté por el precio y me dijo:
- 450 $
- Estoy dispuesto a pagar 250 $
- Está bien. Llévala.
By this stage of the journey, tiredness was beginning to take its toll. I had been away from home for almost a month. I had returned home for just a few days after Andalusia, packed my bags, rested a little, and then it was off to Paris and from there to Tashkent. At the same time, a few months earlier I had begun immersing myself in the Unani approach to nutrition taught by the Mexican doctor David Duarte. The thing was that, at precisely that moment, I was experimenting with a substantial increase in my salt intake and a major reduction in carbohydrates, sugars and fresh dairy products. I ate rather furtively, one might say, avoiding this and that. It was a somewhat awkward situation because of what sharing food means among friends. I don’t think I had ever been someone particularly concerned about such things, but now I seemed a little neurotic.
I had always looked down on this excessive concern with physical matters, including food. I had even regarded people who took too much care of their bodies with a certain condescension, but now there I was, falling into everything I had once disparaged. Not only that: I had also started taking cold showers, a habit I continued through the winter. It was something I had reproached my father for a thousand times, teasing him: “You’re a masochist, you like suffering,” and so on. And yet here I was, diligently and mysteriously doing exactly the same thing. I remembered a saying of the Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him): “Do not reproach your fellow human beings for anything, for you will not die without falling into that which you accused them of.” I think I have become something of an expert in experiencing the truth of this advice.
Armando is Mexican too. It was there that I understood something about the temperamental biotypes David Duarte talks about. Mexicans are evidently phlegmatic. I don’t mean what each individual person may be like, but rather that calm, unhurried rhythm that can even be heard in the way they speak, compared with which I perceive myself as permanently accelerated. There is something that belongs to the character of a people beyond its individual members. Of that I have no doubt. And there is also that attitude of seeming to have seen it all before.
So there we were, Armando and I, preparing ourselves for our little world of business and bargaining. Perhaps bargaining was the only time when Armando revealed a certain restlessness that drew him out of his phlegmatic temperament. But he quickly returned to his natural state and behaved like a true man of the world, someone who is not easily fooled. Beside him, I am a complete innocent whom anyone can deceive. Especially if she happens to be a beautiful woman. Anyway... what can I tell you that you don’t already know!
I asked Armando to take some photographs of me at the Grand Nodirbek Hotel, where we were staying. I needed to see myself looking implacable, with no concessions to sentimentality: a hard negotiator whose mere presence conveyed a certain intimidation — “Young man, you don’t mess with me!” The good thing about photographs — and perhaps the bad thing too — is that they contain nothing but an image. They have no smell, taste or physical presence. You can look like almost anything in a photograph.
Despite the heat, I put on one of the hats I had bought in Khiva, the kind of hat I had always associated with the Cossacks. In fact, the word “Cossack” is of Turkic origin and means something like “free man” or “wanderer”. We love dressing ourselves up as “free men”. The truth is that the Cossacks emerged in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries as groups of fugitives, runaway serfs and escaped slaves who sought to live beyond the control of tsars, kings and nobles. They lived in self-governing communities based on a kind of military democracy and became renowned as exceptional horsemen and warriors. As I write this, I feel a certain nostalgia for a more authentic world, although probably a much more savage one.
It reminds me of the story Rumi tells of the falcon which, because an old woman finds its appearance rather unfriendly, has its wings and beak trimmed by her. “Much better,” she says. “Now you look like a pigeon.” I think that is an exact description of what education does. But once again I am wandering off the subject.
We left the hotel intending to do some shopping. The first place we visited was a shop selling carpets and caps. There were hats of every kind. I realised that Armando was not so much interested in buying things as in bargaining for them. He loved it. I have already spoken about this. I, meanwhile, was struggling with my poor ability to pretend to feel something I did not, when I noticed a fairly old-looking cap — or at least it seemed old to me. The seller assured me that it really was old. It showed a certain amount of wear and was the kind traditionally worn by men. Nowadays the distinction is not so strict, but traditionally men tended to wear squarer caps and women rounder ones — though this was never an absolute rule.
After a brief negotiation, I bought it. I paid in Uzbek soms, an amount equivalent to roughly 60 euros. Here is the cap. I now keep it at home on the head of a toy horse that always reminds me of the adventures of Prince Tambal in the tale of the Magic Horse (you can read it by clicking)
The cap is what is known as a do‘ppi and belongs to the craft tradition of Bukhara. Despite the seller’s assurance that it was an antique, it is probably from the twentieth century, although made within the traditional style. It is made of dark blue velvet with metallic and golden-thread embroidery. This is part of the Tajik-Uzbek tradition known as zardozi, a craft tradition that has undergone a particular revival since the 1990s. In this case, the cap is “masculine” in its shape and “feminine” in its ornamentation, in a sense. I think that suits me rather well. Since I was young, I have had this “theory” that the masculine is exoteric and the feminine esoteric. But I have hardly ever worn it. Perhaps an occasion will arise one day. Who knows?
We carried on and entered a shop devoted exclusively to carpets. I wasn’t actually looking for a large carpet, but rather a small prayer rug that would fit in my suitcase. The man serving us began showing us one after another. I think I detected a certain anxiety in him — or perhaps I should say greed. I didn’t particularly take to him. He did not really have the kind of rug I was looking for, but he clearly wanted to sell me something.
At one point I noticed a small reddish rug. I don’t know why, but I liked it. I asked him about it and he told me it was old and handmade. I touched it and examined it. When I turned it over, I looked at the weave and the knots and noticed certain irregularities that revealed the handwork. It is precisely this imperfection that makes such things “good”. They have “flavour”; they are like people and fruit. Their appearance may not be “perfect”, but they have taste. Industrial things are different: they are “faultless”. How much one can learn from a simple carpet! Its colours are not uniform either: several shades of red, orange, salmon, burgundy, very dark brown and a deep blue.
The rug probably belongs to a Turkmen ethnic group with a nomadic culture from the area around the middle reaches of the Amu Darya. Anyway, I asked him the price and he said:
“$450.”
“I’m sorry, that’s too expensive. I won’t take it. Can we negotiate?”
We talked for a while. The dealer insisted that it was already very cheap and that he could not lower the price, but at one point he asked me to name my price. So I said:
“I’m prepared to pay $250.”
The man made a gesture as if to say, Impossible! He grimaced and said he could not sell it at that price. I told him I was in no hurry and that perhaps I would find something in Samarkand.
And that changed everything.
At that moment the man gave in and said:
“All right. Take it.”
I paid the $250, and here it is with me now. It was full of dust, and I had to shake it thoroughly to get rid of everything it had accumulated in the shop. In fact, at one point I had left it on the floor of my hotel room and the room ended up covered in earth and desert dust. It reminded me of the dust of Khiva.
And yes, there really is a warmth that this rug conveys to me. Through whose hands might it have passed? Who made it? Who could have told this humble little rug that, from the distant lands of Uzbekistan, it would one day end up in a house in Galicia, near the sea?
But who knows what destiny has in store?
If we could see it, perhaps we would see a group of women joining threads and dyes for a month sometime in the 1960s or 70s, working by hand so that one day it might travel five thousand kilometres at the whim of someone who was destined to find it.
I never really looked for you, my friend,
yet still you appeared, simple and alive,
and at the same time a little proud,
and what was never sought was found.And that is truly the beauty of it, my friend:
without knowing, we know; knowing, we go astray,
and so across this wide world we make our way,
sometimes wise and sometimes without wisdom.Seek not, then, like the donkey after hay;
truth follows a path entirely its own,
and though it is free, it too has a rein.
Chiqui, for God’s sake, learn from a cold shower!(Tajik poem 😉)
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