Taxi Cab Knee Wrestling

I have lived in small towns my whole life. The largest city I have lived in was only a few hundred thousand people large, which seems huge to me and huge to people in Kyrgyzstan but small by American standards. This means several things. It means that I have never had to experience cramped public transportation like subway systems or cramped city buses. Even on very busy days, the buses always seemed to have room enough to maintain our cultural idea of personal space. So, perhaps this part of my experience here has more to do with my small town history than my perception of a ingrained masculinity competition. With that said, here is, what I like to call, Taxi Cab Knee Wrestling.

I was once called the epitome of masculinity. Ok. That is a lie. I like to call myself rustic but people usually laugh when I say this. Truth is, I find myself much more at home in a library or a coffee shop where the scariest encounter one will have is with the napkin dispenser than a gym or recreation park or lumber mill. Over the course of many years, the middle school taunts of “Stick to your books, Thomas!!” from George, my nemesis, have eased me into a very comfortable place of acceptance. I am not macho. I am more likely to be asked to recall some archaic fact or define a word than pick up a large bag of bricks or push a log off the road. And I am ok with this.

So it strikes me odd that it took so long for me to recognize what was happening in these taxis.

I remember the moment I realized that this egghead was being dragged into a street fight. It was nearing the end of summer. The bean harvest was near and school was soon to start. I found a taxi returning to my village so I went and sat down waiting for the forth person to arrive. (*Unlike cabs in the U.S., we wait for the entire cab to fill up. No one buys out an entire cab here, including the American without a salary.) In the front seat was a young man eating ice cream. In the back with me was his friend also eating ice cream. It was a hot day so he had taken his shirt off. I immediately was put off thinking, “We are about to cram up in this car together and he thinks I or anyone else wants to squish up next to his sweaty dirty body?” But I off course didn't say anything and hoped for an older woman to come and tell him to put his shirt on. Unfortunately, within the next few moments, our fourth passenger would present himself and the subconscious battles would begin.

All these boys were, at most, 19 years old but more likely 15-16. In this culture, that puts me in an advantageous position being 5-10 years their elder. But when those little doors noisily closed and we began our bumpy ten minute journey home, all that could represent Kyrgyzstani culture becomes second hat to this battle.

The driver makes a joke, and turns up the music. The boys idly stare out the window and occasionally make small talk with one another over the music. But as I was sitting holding my backpack in my lap, I realized my right leg was getting tired. Shifting my backpack, I realized my mistake only after it was too late. Lifting the bag just enough to allow the space it was occupying between my two knees to vacate, my right knee was immediately pushed into my left knee. Looking over at the other two boys thinking this was certainly going to be a mean joke they were playing on the “tourist” they didn't know spoke Kyrgyz, I was stunned to find that neither of them were paying any attention to me and had no idea what they had done. Sitting in the most natural way possible, both were seated with their legs spread as wide as possible. My leg had been getting tired not because my backpack was sitting on it, but because since the moment I had sat down, I had been engaged in a battle for testicle room with this other boy's knee!

Now I can assure you, there was more than enough room in this taxi for us all to have a reasonable amount of room to spread out and be comfortable. But instead, the two boys were sitting completely open legged and I was sitting with knees together with my bag on my lap like some woman concerned with propriety while sitting in Sunday School in the 1950's.

I rode the entire way home like this without anyone making any notice. I exited the taxi and walked down the road to my house. Now maybe there is some evolutionary reason concerning males and claiming territory or pronouncing their genital dominance while in the presence of other competing men. Whatever. It matters nothing to me the reasons why it occurs, but from that moment on, I have come to realize that every time I sit down in a taxi cab and sit beside a man, my unsuspecting knee is propelled into a battle of strength and fortitude. The force of the push is not enough to be overtly noticeable. It is just enough that if an adequate amount of resistance is not applied, every ounce of masculinity that once made you a member of the male gender will be usurped and you will be looking for the nearest opportunity for the car to stop and regain your dignity as you stand, stretch, and remind yourself, “I am a man.”