Taugül and SMU-15:
Tofik's Hood
"Hey, what are you taking a picture of?" people often ask here. It's a fair enough question when you're snapping shots across property lines, but there are other parts of the world where it might be asked with curiosity or amusement, offered with a "Come here and let's shoot the breeze" smile. In Almaty, though, it's deadly serious, one step below an accusation, and it's served with furrowed brows and crossed arms. The thing is that people here seem not to trust each other. There's a nervous contempt for strangers on the street and a paranoia that, while obviously motivated by some very real historical precedents, often seems overblown. I've been asked if I were a spy, or an agent, or an auditor working with the mayor. When I explain my silly hobby, most people soften, but the walls that people build around themselves can sometimes be so high that an attempt at a break-in can leave me feeling like a fool.
Tofik, on the other hand, was unguarded and remarkably friendly, friendly in the rare sense that he acted like every one was his friend. This young Almatian had seen me taking a picture of his neighbor's green gate, painted with flowers, and asked me what I was up to. When I explained, he laughed and said that I "should get a real hobby, like boxing." It turns out he had a skill for being jocularly blunt. He was an aspiring boxer himself, he told me, and an aspiring rapper, and a Uyghur and a Lezgin (half and half), and for most of his life, a resident of SMU-15.
"What the heck is Smoo?" I asked, thinking that it sounded like some kind of cute cartoon character. Tofik shrugged, unable to explain why his neighborhood was named that way it was, but a middle-aged woman heard my question as she was passing by and actually had an answer for me: "SMU: Stroitelny Montazhnoe Upravleniye [Строительное Монтажное Управление]." The three letters, it turned out, were for the Russian words that meant "Construction and Assembly Administration", and SMU-15 was the state-run construction company that assembled private homes here in the 1960s. Nowadays, "SMU-15" was written proudly in spray-paint on walls around the neighborhood, and Tofik pointed the tags out as we walked to the nearby bazaar. He needed helping carrying his groceries, and a minute after meeting him I was drafted into service.
Tofik, on the other hand, was unguarded and remarkably friendly, friendly in the rare sense that he acted like every one was his friend. This young Almatian had seen me taking a picture of his neighbor's green gate, painted with flowers, and asked me what I was up to. When I explained, he laughed and said that I "should get a real hobby, like boxing." It turns out he had a skill for being jocularly blunt. He was an aspiring boxer himself, he told me, and an aspiring rapper, and a Uyghur and a Lezgin (half and half), and for most of his life, a resident of SMU-15.
"What the heck is Smoo?" I asked, thinking that it sounded like some kind of cute cartoon character. Tofik shrugged, unable to explain why his neighborhood was named that way it was, but a middle-aged woman heard my question as she was passing by and actually had an answer for me: "SMU: Stroitelny Montazhnoe Upravleniye [Строительное Монтажное Управление]." The three letters, it turned out, were for the Russian words that meant "Construction and Assembly Administration", and SMU-15 was the state-run construction company that assembled private homes here in the 1960s. Nowadays, "SMU-15" was written proudly in spray-paint on walls around the neighborhood, and Tofik pointed the tags out as we walked to the nearby bazaar. He needed helping carrying his groceries, and a minute after meeting him I was drafted into service.
Somehow I hadn't even know there was a bazaar here, or even a neighborhood called SMU-15. What I knew was Taugül, a "microdistrict" of mid-century brick-and-bracket buildings and 1970s highrises that sat above Zhandosov Street. I had made my way through, marveling at brandmauers, when I noticed the small grid of cottages on the map and thought I'd check it out. That's where I ran into Tofik. Now we were at the bazaar on Mustafina, and I was holding a chunk of rib-eye in a plastic bag while he argued with every seller in the market. "Give me some good chicken, not the smelly stuff." "You sure these onions are good? I don't want to have to come back." "Is this sour cream fresh? When did you get it?" The vendors were patient but did a lot of eye-rolling. Tofik's mom sent him here often to get groceries, and everyone was in on his shtick by now.
Walking back to his house, Tofik tried pointing out things that he thought I'd like. He didn't quite sympathize with my aesthetic, but he certainly had a good eye for it. "Look, you'll like this rusty fence" he'd say, or "Check out this romantic graffiti." After we dropped off the bags of eggs and tvorog and vegetables, I told him I had to run, as I had a date with some friends for dinner. One last question though - "Can I take your picture?," I asked, promising him with a wink that I'd make him famous. Almatians, ever so closed, often scoff at this question, giving me a "pssht" or a "pfft" and wondering what I would possibly need to do that. Not Tofik. He stood in front of his childhood home and hammed it up. Attaboy!
Walking back to his house, Tofik tried pointing out things that he thought I'd like. He didn't quite sympathize with my aesthetic, but he certainly had a good eye for it. "Look, you'll like this rusty fence" he'd say, or "Check out this romantic graffiti." After we dropped off the bags of eggs and tvorog and vegetables, I told him I had to run, as I had a date with some friends for dinner. One last question though - "Can I take your picture?," I asked, promising him with a wink that I'd make him famous. Almatians, ever so closed, often scoff at this question, giving me a "pssht" or a "pfft" and wondering what I would possibly need to do that. Not Tofik. He stood in front of his childhood home and hammed it up. Attaboy!
