A Watermelon and Two Loaves of Bread

Lisa Gallagher Landis

On my kitchen counter this morning sit a watermelon and two loaves of traditional Turkmen bread. These three objects, given  by people who we hadn’t yet learned to know, serve as a lovely reminder of a day’s adventure. An impromptu day spent among strangers who became friends.

You need to have a sense of adventure when living overseas if you’re going to take advantage of what the culture has to offer. Saturday, being adventuresome was taken to a new level. 

It was another sunny day in Ashgabat, Turkmenistan, and we decided that it was time to dive into local culture. This takes some nerve and a person willing to share in adventure. It also helps if that someone can speak some of the local language. Most Americans here don’t speak Turkmen, but when they do, the locals find it fascinating. They tend to engage the speaker; so begins a conversation. 

We decided we’d drive out of Ashgabat and stop at some village. My first instinct was to say, “Perhaps we should do something different.” But I’ve lived in Turkmenistan for 14 months and it was now or never to step outside my comfort zone and have what truly turned out to be a day to remember.

The Kopet Dag mountains line the horizon and lend variety to the otherwise flat desert landscape. In the distance we saw an area that was remarkably green. As we got closer, we noticed a little village at the base of the mountains. We turned right and followed the road to who knew what. The fields were full of young green cotton plants, which stood in stark contrast to the muddy brown color of the dirt and the dry mountains. 

Cars passed us. We got lots of bewildered looks as people unaccustomed to seeing strangers, especially foreigners, tried to figure out what we were doing and why we were there. As I’ve found, Turkmen are as intrigued with us as we are with them. It’s a natural part of being human, I suppose, as we seek to discover how we’re similar and different and the gentle (sometimes) variations in between. 

We meandered through the village. We passed some people who nodded at our passing . . . perplexed looks on their faces. Perhaps they thought we were lost. But you can’t be really lost if you don’t know where you’re going to begin with. 

We passed three men carrying two watermelons; they bid us to stop. Greetings were made and they offered us the watermelons. Our offer to pay for one was not accepted, but we could take some pictures. I marveled at the generous offer of watermelon to two strangers who just happened to be passing through. 

I saw women in the distance at a home. They waved and smiled. One woman brought out two freshly baked loaves of bread and handed them to me. I was in awe of the continuing generosity, but this was just the beginning. 

We were invited into their courtyard and asked to stay for tea. The rug, the blankets and the pillows were neatly arranged on the top-chan and the vinyl table cloth was laid out in preparation to receive the food that accompanied our tea. 

Not speaking the language meant that I was allowed the perfect opportunity to people-watch and observe life as it happened. No pretense of anything other than what needed to happen was happening—and I was there. Along with tea, we had some of the smallest sweetest grapes I’ve had, watermelon, bread, cookies, and candies. These were all things that the family had and shared without giving it a second thought, because this would be traditional hospitality to show to even a visiting Turkmen guest.

The women were busy working on meal preparations. Seated on the ground on a rug, the women were scraping and slicing carrots. One woman who seemed to be the matron of this particular home made sure that we were well fed and taken care of. Another woman was also friendly and outgoing. She had a gentle face and an easy manner of trying to communicate with me. As we lingered, she invited us to stay for dinner. We were having plov, and the preparations we were seeing were well underway. 

Feeling the need to do something constructive, and as my language skills were definitely waning and Tony was communicating fairly easily with the men, I turned to the one skill that I could offer; I joined the women on the ground and started peeling onions. Working with a knife, sitting on the ground, sharing in the process of making food felt comfortable. I was at least attempting to participate in whatever event was forthcoming.

We moved to the home across the street, and I was taken into the room for women and children. By tradition, the men and women have separate rooms and don’t mix. The room had very little furniture. The floors were all covered with carpet, and an occasional pillow was found to make sitting on the floor more comfortable for older guests or for those, like myself, who might not be accustomed to sitting on the floor.

Children are some of the most endearing of people since language doesn’t necessarily cause any problems between them and you. They chatter away whether you understand or not. Sometimes, it was obvious that they wondered why I couldn’t talk or understand them, but they’re a forgiving group and life moves on. 

Cell phones are abundant here in Turkmenistan. Kids, being kids, find the games on them a great source of amusement. Trying to add to their entertainment, I found a game on my cell phone to share with them. They squealed with delight when they won! I delighted in seeing their eyes brighten as they played with something new.

Pictures were also a great way of learning about their culture and didn’t require language skills. We, two girls and I, looked at a whole stack of pictures. There is joy in chronicling events, and I took pleasure in learning some of the family’s history through these photos. The kindly woman and I worked on my learning the Turkmen numbers. It was something that would fill time and in which everyone could participate. The kids loved helping me and the youngest girl took pride in the fact that she knew her numbers better than I!
When we wandered through town to see the sites, my two friends

took my hands. No language issues there, just a touch, a feeling of being connected.

On our arrival back at the house, more people had gathered. It seemed that everyone knew their roles. The adage that “many hands make light work” was meant for this setting. The teens readily set about working with seemingly little or no direction from the women in charge. Dishes were washed with water drawn from the neighborhood well; tomatoes, cucumbers, watermelon and some other luscious melon were cut; grapes were washed; pickled stuffed eggplant was sliced and arranged on plates. The work was constant. 

I stood back and observed for a while. I enjoyed watching the women work—in their colorful dresses with embroidery, their colorful scarves which were tied in a variety of styles depending on age, status, and some individual style I suppose, the young girls and teens with their thick black hair tied back or braided, their dark eyes. I was watching life happen in the context of community and togetherness; it warmed my heart.

I worked alongside another woman whose hands and fingers were so fast and adept at cutting cucumbers that she could easily out-cut me. Working silently, but fast and productively alongside my partner was rewarding. We learned each other’s pace, rhythm, and technique and made quite the pair.

 As the meal preparations were completed, the young men started collecting the food that would be served to the men in their eating area. The young women served the women’s rooms. 

After dinner, it was time to head home, but not before we took loads of pictures to continue recording our experience. Women and children alike lined up for their photo opportunities. We put our arms around each other like longtime friends. It gave the feeling that we belonged together. 

As we left, people gathered beside our car for a proper send off. We waved at the people with whom we had shared dinner. Our bellies were full of food and our hearts with the newness of friendships. As we were saying our goodbyes, Tony said that we were now new friends. 

Tony and I filled the drive back with talk of our day, our incredible fortune at being invited to spend the day with these families. We realized that this sort of event would likely not happen in our own country and were feeling blessed by having this opportunity to share as we did.

Friendships made between strangers. People taking risks to reach out to those clearly not like themselves. A watermelon and two loaves of bread– perfect symbols of a perfect day when people shared their lives in simple ways.
—Lisa Gallagher Landes works for the U.S. Department of State as a Nurse Practitioner. She is currently posted in Ashgabat, Turkmenistan.