‘Our Man’ DD - Davlatbek Davlatov

DD grew up in the Veshab valley in the remote mountain village in the North of Tajikistan. I now share his office and over the last six months have watched his skills develop at such a rapid rate that you cannot but ponder where he would be with a western education.
So, today we were holding a workshop on Natural Disaster Risk Management in a dingy damp mouse infested government building some thirty miles outside of Dushanbe. The project, a whopping $10,000 is funded by the United Nations, (I say funded, they are unable for ‘banking reasons’ to transfer the money, so our little Tajik organisation with a turnover of $100,000 is bank rolling the UN), and consists of a series of four day workshops for the heads of the local villages. ‘Our man’ DD is in charge!!
After the obligatory five phone calls we meet at Barakat market to buy local produce for the thirty participants’ dinner. This is easy as carrots, rice, onion, meat and a sea of oil make up the national dish and try as you might to broaden their culinary range; nothing else feels so good between your grubby fingers, so I am told.
Bunny hopping out of the city I take a wrong left turn and my friends the Militizia flag me over again. DD bails me out with a 7som bribe. We were also late so on the last stretch I floor the Niva (the irony), and consequently bury it in a world war one size trench and knock the gearing out just one kilometre from the village. The situation was then compounded by the brand new overly expensive UN Toyota Hilux careering passed with the UN workshop monitoring team on board. DD flags down a mini-van, we load up, turn up late, and start late with an obligatory black mark against our name. DD sorts out a mechanic during the ensuing mayhem.
DD is like so many tajiks from the rural areas, wears his heart on his sleeve, can never turn down a request, is generous to a fault, (e.g. paying his brother tuition fees which amounted to half a month’s salary) and has a wife and three children who he rarely sees. He is also trying to build a house for his family on the outskirts of Dushanbe as well as being a caterer, a fixer, and CAMP’s co-ordinator and my interim translator. I guess that’s ‘Our Man’ DD.

Com’on it’s not that bad…

After a frenzied attack on my literal slating of Dushanbe, it only seems fair to balance the see- saw back towards the positives. So here are a barrage of blogs exalting why Tojikiston is the next hot tourist destination and why despite my many jibes at this recessive one party state we’ll probably extend our stay to a point when sanity will forever elude us.

So…..

in the small hours of last Saturday night we were formally escorted to the police station.

After we’d completed another ‘shitty’ hash, filled our bellies full of Baltica beer, we sailed on over to Felix’s havili for his farewell pasta and vodka night. After eight months of wrestling with the rock face at kilometre 19.2 and 54.8, and the wheel of his Lada Niva 4*4. Felix decided to tie up his ropes, sell his bumper car to naive Brit and head back to ‘Switzeria’ for lasagne and love.

Having out drunk the German’s, and endured numerous re-tellings of the cat’s recent castration, the night ended in a haze of cat odour. Finally, we staggered out the door into the increasingly bitter weather and decided to walk off the cloudy vodka.

In retrospect, this was not the best decision of the day.

We picked up pace on the two mile hike along the country’s main drag, shunning any readily available taxis and shrugging off the cold, until another moustache wearing, ill-educated Militiza guard with an emptier sack than the cat, commandeered us just five minutes from home-base. Playing the ‘dumb tourist’ role, we spoke loudly at him until worried about his hearing and our lack of ‘Documentatiza’, he whistled at his bum-fluffed colleagues and like sheep dogs they surrounded us and herded us to the police station.

As to be expected in all effective law enforcement units, the police station was locked. So, we huddled outside with our bladders’ bursting. The Militizia, checked out the VSO ID card and despite our protestations at 1.00a.m he decided to call the number on the back of the card. Thankfully, Firuza woke to our early morning call of distress and tapped into her extensive network of contacts. What ensued was a prolonged flurry of phone calls, until eventually big moustache phoned little moustache, until little moustache twitched, shook our hands like old friends, and ushered us on our way. We scampered away into the night, leaving the cavalry jangling their imaginary keys.

The incident cost some 50som, some sleep and some bladder control. A photocopy of our passports is now tattooed to my rear and several taxi numbers on the inside of my arm. You will also be pleased to hear the cat made full recovery, the Lada Niva is subject to daily verbal abuse, and the police station is still inaccessible.

Apples

Josh decided to bring 15kg of bruised manky apples back from Muminobod, here is a reflection of the consquences:

Core to the left of me
Peel to the right of me
Knifes all around me
But nothing that cuts.

Beery Michael flew the coup
Carly's left to stir the soup
Ursula improvised the cake
Seena appleified the steak

Twenty recipes, ten pair of hands,
A lack of knowledge, booze and pans
Marta recycles 'the' four dishes
Rosemary and apple Katlin wishes

Cedric decants from a kettle
Anna searches for sharpened metal
Leo and Marit cheese do nibble.
Oooh, a worm in the middle

Chef Chenko Josh flies the nest
What we need is a rest
Perched on the toilet I now contemplate
How many apples were there on my plate?

Folks Arrive in Dushanbe (and the authorities are waiting…)

The Riga flight actually arrives at 3.00a.m with the passengers finally escaping the terminal around 5.00a.m. Ma and Pa were distinctly obvious through the one way glass, firstly they were typically English and bringing up the rear of the imaginary queue for passport control, and secondly, they were the only ones to be wearing anything other than black or grey, red and green are only found on the tajik flag.

Pleased to see them (and their bag of goodies) we squashed into the Niva and returned to our new house of several hours. Sleep was postponed until the cockerels crowed their dawn chorus and we had rifled through novelty items like Marmite, Tetley Tea, non-polyester shirts, tennis racquets, roasted peanuts, moisturising creams, and dairy milk. Meanwhile, Mum was mentally preparing a ‘to do list’ to make the house inhabitable. (Shamelessly the house was spring cleaned and the freezer defrosted before we’d even visited our first museum).

All in all the week drifted by quickly. We passed most the time strolling around Dushanbe’s tree lines avenue, sampling the three main beer types and eating at various international restaurants. Meat and a selection of salad products were banned for health reasons, and most the menu I really don’t understand, so that left a rather restricted choice of chips and kidney beans.

On a more adventurous day we flagged a Lada taxi and headed North to Varzob Lake only to discover someone had stolen the plug leaving the hapless fish flapping in the breeze. On route the KGB pulled over our chariot of soviet innovation. Dressed in black bulletproof vests they were not convinced of our story to swim in a concrete basin and decided to examine all our paperwork, including passports, driving licenses and supermarket receipts. Thankfully, a picture of ‘Jordan’ on the cover of O.K magazine lightened their mood, lowered their guns and persuade them to wave us on our way. (Carly was adamant that the magazine would not become subject of the bribe as she had not read the Pete Andre story.)

Our second encounter with the authorities was much more favourable. An hour and half to the east of the city is the Nurek lake contained by a 300m high dam which produces most of the electricity for the highly polluting aluminium smelting factory. The lake, an intoxicating blue, extends 20km up the river and provides spectacular views. At the base of the 36yr old dam we were met by and excitable young ‘militzia’ who for the handsome fee of 50somoni (£7) provided us with a private tour of the dam, the tunnels and the presidential houseboats, and proffered his services as a shaky handed photographer.

The rest of the week passed by in hazy sunshine, aimlessly strolling around the parks and fountains of the city with numerous extended beer stops. The Museum of Ethnicity provided a welcome distraction between restaurants, and the Central Asia Champions League Final a re-enactment of a mid week game between Hartlepool and Colchester. Unfortunately, having reached a kidney bean saturation point a rogue tin of Russian Salmon crept into the diet and consequently curtailed our activities.

Nearing our final farewells we had our third and final encounter with the authorities at the airport. The Tajik Embassy in London had stamped Ma and Pas’ passports as guests and not as tourist, as this is written in Tajik scrawl it is not so easy to decipher. This, according to moustache wearing authoritarian passport control officer (with small testicles) means that you need an official stamp after three days not the after one months as a tourist. As we argued through an obliging interpreter, departure time crept closer, moustache boy dug in his shiny shoes, jangled the change in his spacious pockets and resorted to extorting an exorbitant bribe. It kind of sums up Tajikistan; you eat in pleasant restaurants all week but still end up leaving a sour taste, possibly with a tinge of salmon.

Honorary Humiliation at the Hash House Harriers, Dushanbe

Dushanbe

After a hot drawn out summer the masses craved the ritual of a public humiliation. The pressure was mounting, the non-natives were restless, it could be no longer contained, the eruption was imminent; September 16^th was scratched into the tablet of time for our baptism of fire.

At an unearthly hour, ‘Arse Fondler’ turns up in one of those white SUV full of shredded military secrets, and drives us to city limits where the urban sprawl is abruptly halted by mountainous fields of pasture. Several bleary eyed bewildered kids watched in disbelief as the three of us, (the third I will mention in detail later) lugged Santa Sacks of Shred into the foot hills. ‘Arse fondler’, an experience trail-blazer, started sprinkling the shred like moon dust, leaving heaps on eroded pathways, bushes, grassy mounds, cow dung, and small children, cunningly lightening his load, knowing that there was another 3miles up and down dale of trail to mark.

Josh, a Boston lawyer, short in stature, high in spirits, especially after a Friday night down the Irish pub where he reconnects with his beer-swilling heritage, was on the same path of fate as I. Supporting darkened glasses to protect his hangover from the sun, he ventured up the donkey track to lay the walkers trail. Twenty minutes later he has reached the end of the track, missed any disguised left turns, and was seemingly propositioned by a family of goat herds looking for a third wife (or another goat). Meanwhile, Arse Fondler’s emptied his sack over the hill side, whilst yours truly lugged his around like a Nepalese Porter.

After an hours troop march, the shred was scattered, dead end trails laid, a beer stop etched into the cut straw and sweat pouring from our backs, we headed to the Grand Master’s house for raspberry coffee and grapes. After a quick recoup, we jumped into his pimped up four wheel drive Lada (Niva)… sparkling paint job, bull bars, sub woofer, and halogen lights, and guided the Grand Master to the beer stop at the top of the endless hill.

At 4.00pm the hash meets at the pool hall, and word had travelled quick as two ‘newbys’ were to be baptised in font of alcohol and bestowed a Hash Name. In fact, the usual 30/40 participants swelled to 60/70, word had spread and the alternative Saturday afternoon entertainment limited during Ramadam.

Hashers of all ages, shapes, sizes and nationalities, including the Swiss, churned up dust along the shredded trails, cursed at the false trails and caught their breath at the ‘B**B-Stops’. The red faced sweaty hashers recharged their batteries with a chilled ‘Balticka’ at the Dushanbe View – ‘Beer Stop’ before rolling back down the track to the city.

Back at the grand masters, the circle of humiliation formed as the hash virgins, and visitors were ushered in to dance, sing and swig warm beer to boisterous school-boy chanting. The crowds’ anticipation grew as no-name Josh and no-name Shane were made to kneel before the Religious Advisor. What followed was a spectacle never to be mentioned in front of children; numerous dowsings in Russian beer, stripped half naked, and generally derided over any flaws in personality, appearance or actions. Finally, the naming; Josh is now affectionately known as ‘Vidal Baboon’, in reference to his carpeted back, thankfully there was no mention of his peanut butter fetish, and as for no-name Shane – you probably already guessed - ‘Full Sack’

Havali - Garden House

In a confused and exacerbated attempt to find privacy, tranquillity and a place to wander around in your boxers during Ramadam, we decided to explore the realtor market of Dushanbe.

Dilya appears with over sized sunglasses and tight shoes at the office and promises to show us the best of what’s on offer, thankfully, she meant houses. To the North is Dushanbe’s Beverly Hills, where the ambassadors puff cigars and country directors count their donations behind formidable grey gates, cocooned away from the trials and tribulations of Dushanbe life. These houses are budgeted under consumable expenses and bring on seizures of jealously and envy.

Dilya slides the ten tonne bolt across the grey iron door and presents us with a small holiday resort. Once we checked in at the guard house, checked out the main facilities, are shown the annexes, the external guest houses, the lorry park, the collection of toilet cubicles and the gas sauna, you start looking for signposts to the bar.

For a thousand dollars a month you can rent the most inappropriate use of space possible. You walk through the kitchen to the bedroom, through to the lounge through the study, to the dinning room, to the sauna, to the utility room, cross the court yard for the shower room, back across to the sauna, before ending up where you started wondering why you left in the first place. Tajik houses are deigned for extended tribes of families, who consider sauntering through your guest bedroom as social etiquette. In fact if you rent one of these labyrinths there is a good chance your neighbouring landlord will have a secret door so he can pop over to your Narnia and tap into your electric when you are lost in the far reaches of the court yard.

Dilya showed great restraint and patience as we ploughed our way through ten inappropriate houses, due to; layout, location, prices, layout, facilities, furnishing, and of course layout. Once you consider the major price discrepancies, the large deposits, and the insistence that you have a guard, gardener, cleaner and Saturday night entertainer, I have decided to order a tent to pitch in the presidential gardens. President Rahmon is never at home so the electric is safe.

Eventually Dilya was thrown onto the realtor scrap heap and replaced by a gruff voiced Russian pole-vaulter; Saidbek, who showed us some new, some old, some we’d seen before and some renovated. We opted for the renovated, modelled on the orient express, a long corridor down the left and lots of compartments on the right. If the all the internal windows to the compartments are open we think we can run a 50m hurdle race front to back. Come visit and bring your lycra.

True Noon

For a country that is scared to sneeze in case it is misconstrued as a political view leading to infinite incarceration in the squalid prison opposite the British Embassy, ‘True Noon’ was a surprisingly open piece of cinematography.

A thousand curious onlookers cramped into the auditorium with press camera poised to capture their reaction at this movie premiere. Clumsily sneaking in to any cinema when you are beyond been fashionably late is one thing, but whilst the revered beloved director is introducing his ‘baby’ is particularly, lets say, rude. However, the speeches continued; the cameraman, the producer, the Swiss funders, the lead actor who was presented with Tajik traditional garments, the writer, and the donkey from scene twenty three. Then in refreshing spontaneity everyone was presented with ornate bundles of flowers, first from the organisers, then from members of the audience who hastily leaped on the stage, where they were by hit a sudden barrier of shyness, and humbly presented their bouquets to their on screen hero’s.

The film depicted life in upper and lower ‘Safili’ villages that are separated by a barbed wire fence redrawing the tajik / kyrgizstan border after the break up of the soviet union. The wise old weatherman desperate to see his family, who are in Russia, is keen to pass over his duties to a bright young girl in the village who in turn is to be married to a handsome tajik boy. The fence divides bride from the groom, the upper and lower village, cuts off schools and medical facilities and destroys the community. The village continue to trade, teach, flirt and impregnate their livestock through the fence, until the soviet spoil the party by indiscriminately planting landmines. The wise old weatherman is called upon to ensure that the wedding will proceed, the community will survive and no more donkeys are blown up.

The swipe at soviet policy and consequential behaviour was refreshing; however, the biggest murmur in the crowd was prompted by a husband, desperate for a son having already three daughters, playfully tickling his wife’s belly on the veranda. Although we are in a muslim dominated state, the everyday reminders are more discrete than in other nations, and fraternising on the screen provoked a noticeably rumbling of discontentment.

A polite round of applause and a flowers shower wrapped up the evening as movie-goers and actors escaped the stuffy auditorium to share cigarettes and discuss the pending Ramadam.