Discoveries…Southeastern Iowa

Day 1: Bloomington, Indiana to Burlington, Iowa

I stayed at the cheapest motel I could find for a flat $40. It was actually the second skeeziest looking place in Burlington – the worst advertised “all suites,” a claim of which I was skeptical, especially since the nightly rate was $45. The Midtown Motel was run by an earnest Indian man who didn’t ask questions. All night various cars pulled up the room next door, the passengers leaving after ten minutes. Perhaps being too cautious, I put the velour armchair against the door and the simple wooden chair against the window. I peeled all the sheets off the bed and slept uneasily. Mainly I remember a man yelling, “Get your pants back on,” but otherwise not much.

Day 2: Burlington, Iowa to Omaha, Nebraska via Southeastern Iowa country roads

Having woken up with no bullet holes visible, I said alhamdulillah and headed to Burlington’s main attraction, Snake Alley. Noted as “the world’s most crooked street” by Ripley’s Believe it or Not, the old road had very steep switchbacks so that horses could walk without getting spooked. Downtown Burlington had a great selection of Victorian era architecture, with several gothic churches close together. One of the churches was nearly destroyed by fire, though, an apparent recent arson.

Taking Highway 61 south to Fort Madison, I saw a billboard warning people not to let Mormon practices destroy Christianity. The town of Nauvoo, Illinois was just across the river, and was from where the Mormons began their 1840’s journey to Utah. I continued on Iowa Highway 2, part of the Mormon Trail.

“Saturday-Sunday: Menudo” was handwritten on a sign in from of a bar on Fort Madison’s outskirts. I took a turn toward the villages of Van Buren County.

The first village I came to was Bonaparte. I had lunch inside the Bonaparte Retreat, a converted flour mill with rustic type decorations: old signs, baskets, machine parts, and a stuffed rooster. Several geodes were on display, too. The elderly waitress asked if I was all by my lonesome, and I was. She said, “Well then, no one will bother you while you eat” and she laughed. There were two specials, pork or baked chicken, in addition to burgers and the like. I got the chicken with potatoes and peas. A few oldtimers ate their meals and smoked afterwards. Much too quickly, I paid and went outside to sit by the Des Moines River flowing behind the restaurant and to look at the statues. What was this mushroom headed wizard all about? The town looked so quiet; hardly anything was open. Even the Hel-Mart was closed. I’d heard on the radio that a 23-year old man allegedly came to the town last fall and killed his whole family – 1% of the town. That must have been hard on everyone.

I headed toward the next village, Bentonsport, which had about 50 people. In its heyday, I read, the town had as many as 1500 people. I wonder why these people stayed. Most of the people tended their tidy yards full of ornaments and flowers. I parked in front of the general store, hoping to find a Coca-Cola. No luck, since the store instead sold rather amateur-looking crafts. In the back room were random antiques, if you can call a falling apart 1940’s novel an antique. I went across the street and looked at the Butterfly Garden on the riverfront, constructed with stones. The main street was arranged in order to make the downtown more historic-feeling. Some buildings had been moved, and one, Iron and Lace, was constructed out of old barn beams.

The Iron and Lace storekeeper came in from gardening in order to help me. She warned me about the big storm coming, and I said I’d probably have to stop looking at the villages and get on the road to Ottumwa soon. She told me about the pottery, which all had a similar design. Betty, the potter, collected Queen Anne’s Lace flowers and then pressed one onto each piece before putting in the fire. The flower burned away, and left white remains. I picked up a cat ornament, since I want a cat even though I’m allergic.

I took Highway 1 to Highway 16. Still no storm, but I was driving a little faster now. I saw a lot of farms with clean, new-looking big houses and kids playing out back. I stopped in Eldon in my continuing search for pop (After all, what if I got stranded in the storm? I’d need a pick-me-up.) Every building on the historic-themed main street suggested that the house that inspired “American Gothic” by Grant Wood was nearby. I remember seeing the original painting in high school, and I’ve always been inspired by his Stone City artist colony project, where despite his training in Chicago and Europe, he returned to Iowa to teach art.

I knew I would get lost trying to retrace my footsteps back to downtown, but I followed the signs to the American Gothic House. I parked by the sign and frowned. Was this it? The building looked to be under construction, like an Uzbek “historic” building essentially knocked down and rebuilt on parts of the original foundation. But the real building was across the street. The American Gothic house had been heavily restored to look like it did in the 1930’s. The building was too delicate to enter, so I took some pictures and then tried to find my way out of town.

Miles later, the road split in two directions, both leading to empty prairie. I backed up and looked around, hoping to find a sign. Instead, I found a guy on a tractor, who told me to take the gravel road until it met the highway again. As I went down the bumpy road, it felt like I was on a speedboat. I was still concerned about the rain, and if the road washed out I may have well been in a boat of sorts. Still, I stopped to take pictures, and I even had to stop for a wild turkey crossing the road.

Back on Highway 63, heading from Ottumwa to Oskaloosa, I’d heard there’d been flooding. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. By then, I was getting closer to the interstate, so I made one last stop, in Pella.

I had no expectations for the previous towns I’d visited, but Pella was a place deep in my imagination. I’d heard about the Tulip Time Festival for years, and had made many roadtrip plans that were thwarted by bad weather. I imagined a garden paradise, with tulip fields blanketing the parks. There’d be windmills, cute period costumes, and bakeries with hard to pronounce treats.

The reality of Pella was somewhat as I pictured. The tourist booth lady said that they’d moved the Tulip Time Festival up a week, since it was getting warmer earlier (some sort of global warming thing?), but there still managed to be a big freeze late in the spring, and most of the tulips died. It seems like that’s always the story. I walked along the main streets, with their souvenir shops selling hats, chocolate and old lady t-shirts. I went into one bakery, but left after finding nothing unusual. I drove to a pond where the best collection of tulips were said to be, and took some pictures of the flowers and the windmill. But really, there were better tulips in Bloomington, Indiana.

It was time to take I-80 home. Not only did I miss the big storm, I haven’t seen a raindrop since Monday.

Shohruh versus The Man

Here is a better summarization of the Ferghana.ru article as well as more information concerning several Uzbek popstars who have lost their licenses to perform in public, including Shohruh, Shohruhxon, Jurabek (the Tarkan ripoff guy) and the group Bojalar.

On July 6th, this article was published, which criticized several young Uzbek popstars on their musical worthiness. After its publication, "Uzbeknavo" (info in English), the state agency in charge of granting public performance licenses (including, to what I've discerned, the ability to be on TV and radio as well) pulled the licenses of the above-mentioned popstars. As a result, the young men all came to the newspaper's office and began to threaten the journalist, Alijon Eshboy.

Mustaqillik Kuni (Independence Day) features the biggest concert of the year, held in Tashkent around September 1st and attended by President Islom Karimov and all his deputies. The concert features the biggest stars of the year and ensures success to any musician lucky enough to perform. By losing their licenses, these musicians are banned from performing at the concert.

Since most newspapers are arms of the government, typically performers don't complain about what's printed. In the case of these popstars who openly threatened Eshboy, they are putting themselves in a perilous position. As workers of the newspaper said, it seems these young men didn't think before they acted.

The Uzbek government has a heavy hand in many aspects of public life, including the music business. It's rumored that Eshboy's article was in fact ordered by a government official, to make sure they were not invited to perform. In Uzbekistan popstars try to buy influence from politicians in order to advance their careers and play high-profile shows. For example, the Independence Day concert is said to have only one guaranteed performer - Yulduz Usmonova, a world-renowned musician. Other performers have a hard road ahead in getting on the bill.

Fans of the Shohruh and friends have been engaging in "telephone terror," calling the newspaper and threatening Eshboy. However, the government is backing the newspaper in this case for once. Typically, Ferghana.ru says, journalists are not protected by the government. In fact, one journalist from this newspaper was imprisoned for a year. In this case, though, the newspaper has the blessing to get police assistance if the performers come back to threaten him, as they promised to do.

None of the musicians could be reached for comment. Ferghana.ru predicts that, since these young men make so much money, their sponsors will make sure they continue getting a return on their investments. They gloomily predict that the journalists, as usual, will be cast aside. High officials will make a final decision, and everything will be the same as always.

More on Uzbek singers losing their licenses

So, as according to an article on Ferghana.ru, several Uzbek popstars have lost their licenses to perform in public, including Shohruh, Shohruhxon, Jurabek (the Tarkan ripoff guy) and the group Bojalar, because of this article (both in Uzbek, sorry).

It appears the journalist says their lyrics are not real Uzbek poetry and that they are overall very crappy musicians. He sites some lyrics from a Shohruhxon rap song (we translated in class):

Stylish clothes
Shirt collar up
In your pocket is a cell phone
The antenna's very modern, extraordinary GSM (the best cell phone carrier of Uzbekistan)
A very good connection, no problem
1-2-3 I'm stomping
If you ask my body, it'd say I resemble Jean Claude Van Damme
My body naturally smells like Armani
Everyone is jealous of me

Amusing stuff. But now since they lost their licenses, they 're out of the running from playing in the Uzbek Independence Day concert, which is the biggest event of the year for Uzbek musicians, essentially the event that determines if you're a star that year. It may come down to a bribery contest, with the young stars buying their licenses back and getting the journalist fired (it's reported that they are already threatening him).

Is Kazan Being Destroyed?

We walked along the side street, past buildings with peeling paint and fences covered in old concert and circus fliers. Zufar said the community had been the styx even in the 1880’s, but most people had been moved when the railroad station was built.


On this day we were following our guide Zufar around as he surveyed historic properties. We began our day at the Kazan Kremlin, attacked in 1552 and incorporated into Russia by Ivan IV the Terrible. Ivan’s soldiers, many of whom were Tatars from farther east, were allowed to settle outside of the Kremlin in an area surrounded by a wooden gate. The original Tatars were pushed out.

Following the road from the Kremlin to the railroad station, we passed the dilapidated apartments, including one which had belonged to Karl Fuchs, a famous German doctor. He’d settled in Kazan and wrote about the ethnography of the Tatars and their drinking problem. In addition, he was the first doctor Muslim women were allowed to see.

Next we came to a church, called Tixvin, built in the 18th century for Tatar Christians. After Russians gained control of Kazan, the surviving Muslim Tatars were forced to convert to Christianity. If they refused, a special committee was in charge of seeing that they were drowned in a pool of cold baptismal water outside the church. Many people escaped to Bashkortostan, a nearby province. Even today, there are more Tatars than Bashkirs in Bashkortostan. The Tixvin Church still operates. The blue building with gold onion domes used to be wood, but now it’s stone.

Not until Catherine the Great allowed greater personal freedom did mosques get built again in Tatarstan. By that time, however, Tatars had already become more mobile in society.

We looked at several different mosques. One looked cartoon-like with a tall thin green minaret. This one was built in Asian style primarily for Central Asians and Azeris. The sermons are in Tatar.

Another, also green and white, was the Marjani Mosue. It was the first mosque established after Catherine the Great granted religious freedom. In reverse of typical layouts, men sit on a higher floor than women. Mainly the rich and famous of Tatarstan go there.

We saw the remains of the Marjani neighborhood, which is slowly being torn down. In 2001 Zufar did research on the area and examined the foundations of buildings. At the time, plans were to restore the quaint little wooden houses and nearby buildings into a nursing home, children’s home, and special Muslim women’s health clinic. Instead, the land was sold to developers, so only a few buildings remained.


One house down the road from Marjani looked like it belonged to a band of hippies – it was painted in several bright colors. A brick wall separated the house from its neighbor’s, not because they wanted to hide the eyesore, but prevent their house from going up in flames if the neighbor’s did. Several times, sections of Kazan burned down when fired ravaged the wooden structures.

The firewalls, for the most part, had come down, and as a result several houses were scorched on the streets around Marjani. We saw neighborhoods that used to be more centralized, for example having a church or mosque per quadrant. Most religious places had been destroyed over the years.

One mosque, the Kazaklov, was built with funds of a man who lived in the Kazaklovsky House. A new-looking plaque dated the house to the 18050’s. Recently, efforts to preserve it had fallen on the wayside due to a lack of funds, so “arsonists” hired by developers burned it and the neighboring buildings down. They were basically waiting to be pulled down, since nobody wanted to be blamed for destroying the buildings, so I’d heard.

One ornate gray house had belonged to a Chechen who had fought in the Chechen war for independence in the 1930’s (sound familiar?). Somehow he was able to move to Kazan and even avoid jail, collecting a pension as a retired freedom fighter. I guess. He just had to abandon the cause. His daughter married a local and stayed in the house. At least that’s what I thought he said, as I could barely hang on to his Russian, and across the street a mufflerless bus puffed out black smoke and made a godawful racket.

We continued down the street and saw cracks in the foundations of several buildings. Zufar blamed it on the settling of the earth due to subway construction. The metro had only five stops, and the government planned to increase it. The problem was that every time they dug, something historic was found and they stopped. A meeting that night was to address whether or not the construction should continue. Stopping construction is impossible. In the neighborhood of cracking foundations, only one old wooden house remained.

Taking a shortcut, we walked through a park decorated with a Little Lenin statue. I love Little Boy Lenin! The statue was in a defiant pose, the boy gesturing wildly to no one. I took pictures and then we left, passing two young men sitting in the makeshift theater, drinking vodka in preparation for the holiday weekend.

Next we saw a car backed into a deep ditch. If I’d had popcorn, I would have walked by the scene, put a handful in my mouth, and asked what was going on. The driver was helplessly looking at her car and dialing friends while people tried to figure out how to get the car out. Across the street was the Burnaevsky Mosque, known as the town’s radical mosque. Sermons are given in Russian and the attendees are mainly foreigners and Chechens, since they don’t know Tatar. We read some of the news stories posted outside about how Russia was oppressing them. A Kazan friend’s friend’s brother went there, and he has since run away to Pakistan.

We moved the opposite way of the chemical factory and headed to the riverfront, near the Jewish school. The riverfront was pretty, the water still and reflecting the buildings and lights of downtown Kazan. A man fished with a long pole, some guys drank beer out of plastic cups, and a couple of kids lit fireworks, probably ruining the guy’s fishing. Across the river was Kazan’s glorious new project – a 30 story skyscraper. We asked about the minaret nearby, and Zufar said it was built starting in 1912, to celebrate 1000 years of Islam in Bulgari. (How do they come up with these numbers?) The Russian Revolution got in the way, and when the Kul Setova mosque was finished in 1922, it was only open for half a year before being turned into a kindergarten. Most mosques and churches were reassigned as schools, factories, or storage centers during communism. Only 24 Kazan mosques were operating at the end of the Soviet era, and that number has significantly increased since.

A week later we saw more places in Kazan.

The Chuvash Church, near the Kazan Kremlin, was a jail in the 1930’s. Zufar’s grandfather and great grandfather were jailed there as political prisoners. His grandfather was used as cannon fodder in the Finno-Russo War (1940), and he made it back. His great-grandfather was exiled to Archangelesk, where he died in the camps. His great uncle was sent to the siege on Leningrad, and is officially missing. At one point, everyone in the jail was executed in the little red building area of the churchyard.

The street near the Chuvash church, along the river, used to be the site of pretty gardens and nice houses. Zufar showed us the pages about the street in the register of historic monuments he was updating. All that was left of the street was a church built in the 1830’s. “For the boojwa to cleanse their sins,” he said sarcastically. All over new huge houses were being built for the nouveau riche.One place nearby belonged to the owner of the basketball team/ government member, another to the speaker of the Duma.

Near the speaker’s house was another charred house. The woodwork was unique, with three long and narrow front windows. It reminded me of a movie star house in Montana, so large. The Union of Artists had been housed there, and two years ago someone had tried to burn it down. We asked what was to be done, and he said it was slated to be restored. But really, what would happen to it? Would the richies want it around? Would they hire someone to burn it down again? Or could it become a cool café or someone’s home? No one likes an empty building full of squatters, after all.

Tatar and Russian language bilingual signs – Worth the effort?

In Kazan, most street signs are bilingual in Russian and Tatar, the Turkic language understood by at least half the population of the Republic of Tatarstan. I wonder if the signs really make a difference since the Tatar signs are so varied in their translations and spellings. Take these examples:

“Great Red Rd” Street Sign #1
Ул Болшая Красная (Ul. Bolshaya Krasnaya)
Зур Кизил Ур (Zur Kizil Ur)

“Great Red Rd” Street Sign #2 – Further down the street
Ул Болшая Красная (Ul. Bolshaya Krasnaya)
Bo’lşoy Krasny Ur. (Bolshoy Krasny Ur.)

In the first sign, “Great Red Road” is listed in Russian and, below, in Tatar. Note that the phrase is directly translated into the Tatar language.

In the second sign, “Great Red Road” is listed in Russian, and, below, in Russian that is spelled in Turkish style.

I’ve also seen signs where the only difference between the Russian and “Tatar” is that the Tatar part always declines the words as masculine. For example, the Tatar part would say “Болшой Красный Ур,” Bolshoy Krasniy Ur. Also I’ve seen signs written in standard latin alphabet, the most notorious being “Karl Fuks Ur.”

I never came across a person on the streets of Kazan once who was speaking Tatar, so I doubt few people paid the Tatar signs any attention. I only met a few people who used the language regularly, and most were either Tatar language teachers or academics.