On our second day in Uzbekistan, we took buses to a village named Kamashi. Adobe houses, some with windows and some without, some solitary and others in small clusters, were spread out over dusty hills. Cattle and donkeys roamed freely, and everything was coated with a film of gray-brown dirt.
The farmers in the area live in compounds. As many as 100 family members live in the same area and work together, and the youngest son is given the responsibility of caring for the matriarch.
We were greeted as we got off the bus by residents of the village:
They directed us to pass through an open garage area where six older women danced to a welcome song. All wore similar bright clothing and broad smiles, and they all had gold teeth:
One woman clacked together two lacquer spoons in each hand, and another tapped china saucers with something metal she wore on her fingertips:
The farmers in the area live in compounds. As many as 100 family members live in the same area and work together, and the youngest son is given the responsibility of caring for the matriarch.
We were greeted as we got off the bus by residents of the village:
They directed us to pass through an open garage area where six older women danced to a welcome song. All wore similar bright clothing and broad smiles, and they all had gold teeth:
