Grandpa Sass

One overnight stay in the Wakhan Vallery was in the village of Ptup, at the homestead of an old man whose tongue was so sharp we called him Grandpa Sass. He seemed to take great pleasure in ordering around Habib, our driver, and his two assistants, and engaged us in talks about politics. Like all Tajiks, he hates the Tajik president and had a few sassy comments about him. Then we talked a little about American politics, too, but here the sophistication of the discussion was limited by his small knowledge of how power changes hands in our nation.

"Do you want to assassinate Bush?" Grandpa Sass asked me.

"No, I can't do that!" I replied.

"If you hate him so much, kill him!" he said.

Maybe his understanding of the United States has been skewed by watching too many Steven Segal movies. After Grandpa Sass was done talking about how things were better under Brezhnev, we popped "Today You Die" into the DVD player, which must have been powered by some kind of generator because Ptup hasn't had electricity since the Soviet Union fell apart.


Sass' Choice


The next morning we were served a breakfast of bread and syrchoi, a milky, salty tea. For a heartier meal the guys from the van got a big can of gunky, congealed vegetable oil and spooned it into their bowls. Yellow slicks formed at the top. It made me a little queasy.



"Put some oil in your tea," Grandpa Sass commanded.

"No thanks," I said.

"They're doing it, so you have to do it too," he said. "This isn't America, this is the Soviet Union."


The al fresco dining room chez Sass

When Liz joined the table he came up with a slightly subtler form of persuasion. "You have to add oil to lube it up," he told Liz. "Otherwise the syrchoi won't work." Liz pantomimed adding a gob. Smart move.

Then it was time to say goodbye to Ptup and our sassy host.