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Damas minibuses teem on the Samarkand streets, stacking up at the stoplights like so many loaves of Technicolor bread.  They make up most of the traffic here in this land of potholes and aging Soviet vehicles and scarce gas; bouncy, boxy, bright-colored, they carry Samarkand there and back again. 

 

Flagging down a Damas is a skill the uninitiated tend to botch up unwittingly, revealing themselves from the get-go as naïve foreigners simply begging to be stared at.  An inexperienced foreigner will run after a missed Damas, hang her hand out like a railroad signal until the desired minibus comes along, or indecorously flail her limbs to signal the driver.  But, ah, we Samarkandis are the masters of that esoteric skill of summoning a minibus. Behind the stoplights stand we formidably, right hands free to flag the Damases that will convey us to our final destination.  We have mastered the technique—the initial recognition of the target minibus, indicated by the large plastic sign in the front window; the pointed eye contact with the driver of choice; the fine-tuned sense of the appropriate moment for action; and, finally, the casual lift of the arm that conclusively informs the driver of our intention to ride with him today.

 

"Minibuses," we call the Damases, but really they are smaller than minivans, tinny little eight-seated vehicles that in Samarkand regularly pack in more than ten people.  Not for no reason do the Uzbeks use the same word for mounting a horse and getting into a Damas; boarding a minibus is a feat requiring a special agility and deftness that can only be acquired in many months' experience.  The rider must delicately swing her leg to the level of the Damas's floor, grope desperately for the door frame while still maintaining a calm physiognomy, and provide enough torque to propel herself and her bags into a seat without disturbing other passengers and their luggage, which ranges from televisions to wedding cakes to musical instruments.  The presence of overweight women in bright-colored velour dresses, who, to the consternation of all, tend to sit obstinately in the way of all inter-seat traffic, makes the task of mounting a minibus especially daunting. 

 

Getting into a Damas is one of those undignified but unavoidable actions that people turn their eyes from out of politeness, like falling into a ditch or pulling up your pants.   Happily, however, the rest of a Damas ride can be relatively uneventful.  That is, unless the passenger gets stuck in the seat by the door, a position which calls for continued alertness and agility to let fellow passengers dismount (Although Damases are four-door vehicles, two of the doors are forbidden to all but the driver, like the West Wing in Beauty and the Beast).  Or if the driver happens to be particularly excited to get back to the beginning of his route so that, presumably, he can show off his Damas's hot pothole-jumping ability, an understandable desire which is, all the same, nerve-wracking for passengers who prefer to protect their skulls from the stress of denting a Damas's low, tinny ceiling.

 

Despite all their quirks and undignified idiosyncrasies, we love our Samarkand minibuses.  To regular riders, they take on a personality of their own: 33 is solidly bourgeois, 45 is cosmopolitan and sophisticated, 78 is slightly countrified and rustic. Some of them run such delightfully convenient routes that we become attached to them, as to a trusty car or a perfect toaster. 

 

Allow me to conclude with an inspiring story of the indefatigable Damas spirit.  Damas number 52 was an ideal minibus, carrying passengers from Mikrorayon bazaar, past middle school number 33 and GUM, the great department store; it zipped down the hill past Spartak stadium and all the way to the ancient Siyob bazaar.  However, sometime last year our beloved 52 met with seemingly unconquerable obstacles: Damas 52s were made illegal and replaced by huge, impersonal buses with automatic doors and spacious aisles and seats.  Yet the plucky 52 refused to be defeated; within weeks it was back on the streets, with flimsy paper signs that the drivers took down when police came in sight, or "taxi" icons that everyone understood to signify that delightful route.  It is a Hallmark-worthy story, a hymn to the minibus spirit.  For you can take away a Damas's rights, but you can never deprive it of its heart.

 

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A Hymn to the Minibus Spirit From A Hobbit Hole To Fame God Said No