The author is hosting a banquet for friends in the ancient Uzbek city of Khiva ? but will he manage to track down the last chicken in town?I've decided that nephews can be very useful. I've been living with my Uzbek host family and various relatives for five years now, and no longer find it odd to head off to the bazaar with a couple of nephews in tow to help carry bags. We live in Khiva's walled old city, near the bazaar, so the walk through the baking cobbled streets past madrassas and mausoleums is a short one.I'm hosting a tashkil (savings party) for eight guests and want to make sure I put on a good spread. A tashkil is such a great concept in a country where banks are corrupt and where blood kin can seem fitted with radars that tell them when you've stashed something under your mattress for a rainy day. Each of us contributes $20 ? quite a sum here ? to the party pot to attend, and we take it in turns to host the monthly parties. The host receives the money pot as a lump sum ? effectively a year's worth of savings ? and usually spends it quite quickly on something special, such as a television, before relatives have a chance to borrow it.We start in the caravanserai (traditional roadside inn), its courtyard once full of camels laden with silks and spices but today transformed into a dull, roofed market depot. We pass shabbily made Soviet-era wardrobes festooned with neon-coloured plastic flowers and into the sweets section. Sweets are cheap and plentiful and help explain why Uzbekistan has been dubbed the land of the golden smile.My friend who has a food stall in the caravanserai is no exception and grins at me with an entire set of glinting gold. I never barter with him as he always gives me a good price, but he has run out of chicken. This rare treat even comes fly-free, but apparently there's a shortage and there's none to be had anywhere in the bazaar.We walk out of the caravanserai and make our way past the money changers with their bulging pockets. Swathes of smoke mark out the shashlik kebab stalls beside sellers of reams of gaudily coloured polyester material."Look at that tourist!" comments a girl to her friend."Are you talking about me?" I ask and their eyes widen. "He spoke Uzbek, the tourist can speak Uzbek!"We arrive at the fruit and vegetable section and I barter while my host nephews start filling bags."What are you doing here, speaking Uzbek?" asks an elderly tomato seller."I'm a spy," I explain, tired of the usual answer."Did you hear that?" she crows. "I've a spy buying my tomatoes! Make sure you tell them how juicy they are!"I leave her chuckling away as one of the other sellers explains my life story. I've never met her but this is a small town, and there are no secrets.We move on, accumulating items for the banquet. We have saved buying the watermelon till last. I pick them up one by one and pat them, listen to the "tok", sniff the end and pretend that I know what I'm doing.Back home and still chicken-less I consult with my host mother, who has heard a rumour that there is chicken in one of the import shops. The shop-keeper, aware of his chicken monopoly, demands an outrageous price, which I reluctantly pay. It's now down to my host sister and some nieces, who will prepare the meal. I carry seating mattresses and bolsters up to the flat roof. The nearby palace watchtower is a popular place for tourists to take photos of the skyline, and as I set out a food cloth, I am watched by them. The spread includes plates of nuts, salads, pastries, bowls of fruit, and bottles of vodka and lurid soft drinks. I feel that I spoil the cultural shot the tourists were hoping for, and the feeling remains after my guests have arrived and we're seated cross-legged together.As we all work in the old city, running souvenir stalls or producing handicrafts for tourists, the conversation flows easily. We gossip about mutual friends while the evening sun slips below the crenellated city wall beside us. As the host, not only do I receive the cash, I also receive the toasts, all themed around my need to get married and have plenty of sons. As the evening draws to a close, the eldest male is invited to give a closing prayer and we cup our hands and echo his "Amen" by washing our hands over our faces. I notice that there are still tourists up on the watchtower and they look at me with puzzlement ? I don't fit the picture. I want to explain to them that not all foreigners in Khiva are tourists, that some may be guests, and some may even be hosts.? Kirker (kirkerholidays.com) has a new trip to Uzbekistan this year, The Land Beyond the River, departing 6 May and 30 September, for 11 nights, from �1,779pp, including flights, meals, and accompanied by a tour lecturerUzbekistanguardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2011 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds
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