Iskandakul

One of the most dramatic, scenic and accessible lakes in Tajikistan is located at 2250m above sea level on the Southern side of the Fan mountains at Iskanderkul. A crystal lake of turquoise glacial melt created by an ancient landslide sinks to a depth of 72m, and offers a refreshing and revitalizing dip for the brave and foolhardy.

A national holiday on a Tuesday in mid November, would normally mean nothing more than a duvet day, but with the bright autumnal sun and crisp air, a trip to arguably the most visited tourist spot in the country was long over due. The trusty Niva, on its possibly last excursion before being sold on to a cotton picker, cruised a few 1000m to the 5km tunnel of certain death. This feat of Iranian engineering was little more than a mine shaft where cars, taxis, and trucks bounce along the pitted rutted surface filling the darkness with noxious blue hazy fumes illuminated by fading headlights. However, as the Chinese contractor’s have diverted the underground river and provided a concrete lining, the tunnel is currently being downgraded from the tunnel of doom to the tunnel of slight gloominess. The alternative to the ghost ride is the Anzob pass, a 3300m high rugged track that disappears into the clouds and reappears several hours later.

As we wound our way along the track, it snaked its way to Iskandakul where the lake rippled by the gentle breeze and captured the reflection of the encasing snow tipped mountains. On the shoreline a dilapidated soviet summer camp slowly falls into ruin and a presidential Datcha (summer home) commands impressive views from its conservatory windows.

We drove further into mountains to a homestay in the tiny hamlet of Saratog where a warm welcome helped to thaw us from the crisp mountain air. There are a multitude of tracks to explore that contour the river basins, however those of us that suffer from mountain hiking inexperience should chose to follow the sun and not the shadow. The sun skipped town at 5.00pm as we clambered over a new swing bridge to the partially constructed mosque before meandering through the wood-smoke back to our homestay.

As the temperature plummeted, Dilovar stoked up the outside Banya (sauna and shower) before serving a delicacy of soup and chips. As the effect of the sauna drifted away, we huddled around the inept cheap Chinese electric fire until the power cut out at 10.00p.m and crawled under a dormitories worth of blankets to keep the cold at bay. Breakfast was not until 8.00am, as according to Dilovar, it’s too cold to do anything worthwhile before this time.

We spent the next day exploring never ending trails, crossing rickety wooden bridges and sipping from the icy mountain streams, until the time caught up with us and the city called. A few friends have trekked from Iskandakul over the mountain passes to the Seven Lakes where more breath taking views await the more adventurous and hardy. There is a pang of regret that we never made the journey.

Design Dushanbe - Fashion for a Cause

Fashion full of the unmentionables all about the unmentionables:

So we wait with anticipation

To see the best of Tajik fashion

On the catwalk here in Dushanbe

Where clothes will hang, swing and sway

Dresses open at the back

Trousers pink, green and black

Skirts with splits to the thigh

Appealling to every watchful eye

Models will strut for your delight

 Under the illuminating light

Where Shiny Suits will shimmer

And pointy shoes will glimmer

A cacophony of colour and stripes

Atlas material and purple tights,

Flowery coats and Velvet gowns,

All compared by a pair of clowns

It’s all here at Design Dushanbe

So without further a do, light up the runway.

The Wakhan Valley

When the flood subsided and the river ebbed from the tarmac road, we force fed the Niva low-grade benzene, barely flammable, and migrated south to the Wakhan Valley.

The Wakhan valley is the vale for the dale; the Hindu Kush (Killer of the Hindus), an impressive range of imposing jagged giants cutting through the east of Afghanistan and Pakistan. Shrouded in permanent mist and coated in impermeable snow, these fossilised rocky crags stretch 7000m above the sea level from which they were original buried.

Apart from the stone ruin of the Khakha fortress, still carefully patrolled by the Tajik military, there is nothing of note to visit because whilst you are there, you become part of the spectacle. After 50km of scenery gazing we ascended towards the Yamchun Fort until the low octane fuel spun the wheels no more, and a welcoming weather worn lady beckoned us to her home stay.

Gushing from the huge fissures over the home-stay are the Bibi Fatima hot springs, spiritual waters that rejuvenate baron wombs, akin to an IVF clinic. We struggled up the ever steepening goat track to the steaming entrance and were divided by sex. The ladies stripped to their travel worn underwear and soaked in the luxuries surroundings of the new refurbished spa room, whilst hefty naked local women chanted and swayed to awaken the spirit of the stork. Meanwhile yours truly was marched over a rather unsympathetically designed stark concrete bridge to a grotto. A rickety door, a slippery floor, and a dark chasm of blackness and steam, it seemed more akin to Tajik ghost train than a relaxing therapeutic experience. Inside voices echoed from the dripping walls, and figures could be seen splashing and wallowing in the murky water. Stripping to what I considered a respectable level, I entered my watery grave only to be grunted at to remove my offending items to reveal my other offending items. Unabashed I strode in and scolded my feet in blistering heat, and politely edged my way to the far side of the pool at which, having seen enough of the my intimidating stature, my fellow bathers up and left, leaving nothing but ripples, and silluettes of their hairy backs.

After ten minutes of simmering at gas mark three, I rejoined the lobster brigade somewhat redder and hotter. We aimlessly descended the track in the moonless night, only to be met by a barrage of flashlights wielded by our rather concerned landlady who thought she’d lost her charges to fertile waters of Bibi Fatima.

Your reversing light seems to be out......



Panoramic Pamirs

A Yurt on the wind swept plains of the Pamirs

The town of Khorog, encases a barrage of chocolate coloured snow melt and natural debris, and served as our gateway to the Pamirs.

Once a blanket of calm smothered the embattled country in the late 1990's, His Highness, the Aga Khan provided invaluable support to the Ismail faith based people of the Pamir’s. The visual side of this support takes the form of a well manicured community park in the centre of Khorog, but the recognition and reach for the not-so-visual is demonstrated by the display of his portrait in the remote households of the Gorno-Badakhsan Autonomous Oblast.

Khorog has a gentle relaxed bustle reflected from its people. We wandered into the stadium to watch the local football game, meandered through the park and market, perused the few shops and clambered around the Botanical Gardens gorging on apricots and slightly sour apples. The melancholic feel originates by the acceptance of the force de nature. Even in the height of the summer months the road to the North (10km) and the road to the South (4km) were flooded due to rains in the high echelons of the mountain ranges. So, with nature directing us to the East we headed along the Pamir highway to the vast open plateau of rock, stone, moss and glacial lakes.

The road meanders through the richly vegetative villages, splitting from the river as it starts its ascent over the 3800m pass to the plateau. The Niva, in need of acclimatisation rocked to halt at 3000m, so we pitched our tents in the kitchen garden of some slightly bewildered village folk, and strolled up an adjoining river valley only to retreat when we realised a 3000m climb kept us from the icy summit.

The family’s house is typically Pamiry. The light and airy construction is centred around five wooden columns representative of the five core pillars of Islam, with a central skylight and adjoining rooms in all directions. The family welcomed us with bread, yogurt, and chips before escorting us to the roof to show us the solar powered battery and emergency alarm signal connected to the flood warning device 2km further up the river. Nature is never far away.

Alichur is a bleak dusty town defending the other side of the pass and guarding the salt lakes. In the restaurant we re-discovered our appetites and gorged on imported eggs. The town’s people hardened by the severe winter conditions provide key supplies of water, benzene and chocolate to travellers, and place to rest for the crawling convoys of Chinese lorry drivers.

The vast openness of the scenery serves only to make you feel insignificant, and in search of the populous we headed to Lake Bulunkul, a bumpy 16km detour from the main highway. The town, a film set for a Tajik Spaghetti western, is consumed by the imposing rock faces and endless plains. Space is no issue. The toilet block is strategically located 50m from the home stay resulting in a treacherous venture in the moonless night in a pair of boxers, with hounds of the night bidding for a feast. Thankfully, the howling woke the village slumber and the landlord came to the rescue of our cross legged traveller.

After a couple of hours of oxygen deficient ambling you reach the lake, a sea preserved, nestled into land man has yet to scar. The icy glow of the windswept water allows for a quick toe-dip, and in the far depths you imagine species yet to be discovered by the masses, but befriended by the indigenous.

....and it is still goes on....on...on..on.on

PAMIRS - Statue Spotting

Fort at Vose - All you need is a well trained dog

Why is it, on the morning of a big trip something annoying happens, with the odds stacked heavily on a NIVA related issue. An oil, water and general check to see if all the parts appeared to be linked in the engine becomes a particularly frustrating process if the lever for the bonnet breaks. Whilst my intrepid fellow travellers packed, I drove aimlessly around in the hope that a rut on the road will miraculously fix the problem, or that I will stumble across a place that will have all the right parts and right skills to fix it in ten minutes. In desperation I swung into a tyre inflation establishment to ask for general guidance on how I would remove the spare tyre in the event of a puncture from its nest in the engine, and like the Fonz he tapped the latch, metaphorically snapped his fingers and all was good in the world. If only there was some upbeat sixties music.

So, The Pamirs, it is situated at the far East of Tajikistan, and accessed from Dushanbe by a $80 flight or 14hrs (minimum but usually significantly more ) in a beat up 4x4 taxi with seven other trance like zombies. There are actually two routes, one to the North through the Rasht Valley which is prone to mudslides and rock falls, or one to the South which is prone to mudslides and rock falls, but is another 110km, or if you take the detour on the detour possibly 200km. However, fate had already decided, the Northern route was impassable due to the disappearance of a bridge, so two kiwi’s, two tents, and two weeks ahead we raced off discussing a sweep stake on the number of pending police checks.

Although Pamir’s is the goal there are a few and varied places to snap a photo along the way.

(2hrs) Nurek Lake View Point - a large expanse of turquoise water that feeds the electricity turbines of the country.

(3hrs) Dangara Theme Park – overlooked by an impressive presidential tea house this brightly painted theme park was built to amuse the Afghan President during the ‘Id’ (post Ramadan) celebration last year. As deserted and eerie as the hotel in the ‘Shining’, it serves chips and fluorescent pear juice.

(3.5hrs) Vose Fort – Albeit, work in progress, this silk route trading fort is being beautifully restored by three men and a dog.

(4hrs) – Vose – This dusty market town boasts an imposing white stone god-like statue of the writer Vose, and slightly smaller shiny silver statue of Lenin attempting the moonwalk.

(4.5) – Kulyob – A provincial city with a bustling market, a spacious war memorial and the rather understated Hotel Khatlon. Kulyob sits in a blistering hot flood plain and serves as the gateway to the surrounding mountains.

(8hrs) – Shurobod Pass – Although not the highest pass in the country, the rocky road and steep mountain gorge serve as an excellent gateway to the Panj river and views of the troubled country of Afghanistan.

The rest of the journey provides no specific tourist spots other than the odd abandoned pile of rocks that claim to be a fort. As the light faded we pitched camp in the front room of bemused family that we imposed ourselves upon, and entertained the three children with New Zealand’s finest vocals.

The next day we bounced along admiring the precarious footpath that clung to the rock face on the Afghan side of the Panj River. The ever ascending and descending track was held together by loose stones and twigs, scaling up vertical rock faces, sliding down scree slopes and dipping into the murky torrent of snow melt. That night we pulled into at a motel in Derashan, just as the wedding party dispersed. On declining the party’s leftovers, the enthusiastic owner, provided us with a gas stove, pots, and pans, and seemed bewildered at our choice of packaged bolognaise and tinned sweetcorn in preference to oily rice and sour yogurt.

In the cool morning breeze we arrived relatively fresh in Khorog, the administration centre of the PAMIRS, and the gateway to the 7000m snow-capped mountains.

Soviet's First Moon Walk

Travels in the Pamirs to continue soon....

Khojand

An auspicious statue of Lenin casts a long heavy shadow over Khojand, the furthest eastern outpost of Alexander the Great. Although both gentlemen have a notorious and blood thirsty history, the story of Alexandra’s rise and final demise was chosen for display in a meticulous mosaic at the citadel museum. It is a shame with his track record of conquering other noteable nations he is not alive to become the next England football manager.

Khojand is a relaxed historical city embracing the banks of the Syr Darya River and huddles in the shade of the low mountain range. The lowlands are the quarry of the white gold – cotton, but like all precious metals its value plummeted in price during the economic turmoil. However, the ‘panjshanbe’ (literal translation fiveday, English – Thursday) bazaar continues it trading despite the collapse of the worlds banks and gently bustles across the square from the Islamic 21m minuet and 13 Century mosque.

The drive Dushanbe-Khojand is like Mario Kart, you must first pick your machine to navigate the obstacles. The choices appear to be; a soviet niva driven by a British Novice, a stolen European Opel driven a Eurotrash fanatic or flying Firuz in his overloaded Pajero taxi. Once through the first toll the track begins climbing along the Chinese road construction sites, then passes through the 5km exceedingly wet tunnel of ‘certain death’ constructed by the slap happy Iranians, before descending to the foot of Zerafshan valley where you fill the radiator with glucose before ascending 3330m on a dirt track over the Shariston pass. If your brakes don’t burn out and you have change for the mandatory police checks you should pass the finish line, dusty and sweaty, in around 7hours. Thankfully, due to our prolonged stay in the town we were we recovered in our upgraded six room presidential suit in the Hotel Vadaht where the furniture stays hidden under dusty white sheets, the shower remains cold, and the mosquitoes breed in the dripping bidet.

In Khojand, I had a short assignment checking out women’s ovens, whilst Carly was supporting Pam (VSO) in Degmoi children’s home. The home is the home to 85 children, all of which are in need of support, stimulation and sustenance. In an attempt to inject some enjoyment to the hot summer months Pam invested in several paddling pools, a ball pool, and a sand pit, but our inflatable friends were no match for the multi coloured parachute. The children, staff and volunteers grabbed the rainbow silk sheet and danced around the lawn shading the girls and boys under an everchanging multi-coloured sky. Check out Pam’s blog for the ongoing trials and tribulations at Degmoi.

Apart from a baby boom of mosquitoes, Khojand is worth a visit, and the surrounding towns such as Isfara offer a small glimpse through abandoned rusty factories of the former soviet power house. One man stated that ‘if you said in 1992 that we would be in worse situation in 2010, we would have laughed and said you were crazy.’ Now people are scratching a living to support themselves and their families, leaving little hope, and support for the abandoned children in Degmoi.

World Cup - What World Cup??

Welcome back to me!  Welcome back to you!

After a hectic, frenetic and energetic jaunt around the UK, I am now severely lighter in wallet (thanks to Mr Coalition), wider in the waist (thanks to Mr Guinness) and generally healthier and cleaner (Praise-be for tap water).

After three weeks of serious carbo loading and excessive veggie burger indulgence, we enacted our own version of Sainsbury’s supermarket sweep of dried soya and chocolate, purchased an over functional camera at the tax free airport and boarded another uninspiring flight with Air Baltic to Dushanbe.

On touchdown there was immediate delight at returning; warm evenings, friends to collect us and a spacious house with an over playful cat. In fact, it felt like a holiday...

However, whereas the novelty of Dushanbe originally lasted several months, on revisiting I think the honeymoon period lasted two whole days, first was the blistering hot weather, then the lack of brown tap water, then the IT malfunctions, the bed bugs and mosquitoes, the police check points, the Niva’s punctured tyre and that was before I’d even entered work....

However, every four years there is salvation from normality - the Football World Cup, when all the countries of the world unite in front of the TV and forget all the libellous misdemeanours of their nations’ favourite sports stars.

As Tajikistan surprising didn’t qualify the world cup this time, or any other time and not likely to do so until the move over to Australasia, there is a distinct lack of fervour for the competition. At the end of Brazil’s juggling performance against Ivory Coast there was a polite ripple of applause, and when I waved by cheap plastic flags emblazoned with the Cross of St George, there was a genuine look of bewilderment from the other ten people in the bar. Thankfully, there were no brutish Slovenians, they were all on the pitch.

However, the expat community are embracing the opportunity for international banter, with the USA and UK ambassadors now destined to jump into a swimming pool due to the draw between mother and daughter, thankfully with their clothes on, and with the pending ‘spielen’ between the forever underperforming English and perpetually over performing Germans, a few insults could be lost in translation. Meanwhile, the French and Italians’ are in mourning, the Swiss can’t stop gloating, and the Dutch keep drinking waiting for the team to implode, whilst the Tajik’s continue to support the team that wins.

So, I look forward to trying to decipher on the blurry screen whether Cappello picked Heskey or Defoe, (I thought there was something amiss when the ball entered the net.) and whether Heskey will end up playing centre back with Terry by the end of the tournament.

To be continued....

F.C. Regar TadAZ hosted and won the 2009 Asian Football Conference President’s Cup

Fragility

After a year living, working, travelling and enjoying life here in Tajikistan I was once again reminded how fragile life is within the country.

We rose early on Saturday to set the paper trail for the hash and at four o’clock a ramshackle crowd converged to walk and run through the neighbouring hills of Dushanbe. The trail weaved through eroding pasture lands, dirt tracks, half completed mud houses and steep climbs to spectacular views of the snow capped mountain ranges. Hot, sweaty and rather smelly the hashers clambered back in their stuffy vehicles heading for cool beers and Indian grub. However, on this occasion the conditions of the trail triggered a heart attack in a visitor to Dushanbe. Slumped in the back of a range rover, the person in question was struggling for breath and gasping for air. After a flurry of phone calls they were rushed to the newly built, and recently kitted out, Iranian hospital several miles away where they were put on a life support system. Thankfully, several days later they were ‘medvac’ to London. We are all crossing our fingers for a full recovery.

Later in the week, we conducted a monitoring exercise of a Natural Disaster seminar. The seminar is designed to raise awareness of the causes of Natural Disasters, discuss measures to reduce the impact of a disaster and plan what actions to take in the event of a disaster. As the seminar finished a little early we took the opportunity to visit Kulyab. Kulyab, is a small city in the Khatlon Oblast of Tajikistan, and in the previous week after heavy rains, the river burst its banks and overflowed at a low level bridge. The result was catastrophic.

‘Forty people were killed, 33 remain missing and at least 85 were severely injured by the floods. About 4,500 children, women and men in Kulyab are displaced since their houses were destroyed or severely damaged by torrents of water, stones and debris. Another 16,000 people in rural areas lost their livelihoods; their livestock were killed, crops were destroyed and pastures were buried under mud and rocks’ REACT Flood Appeal for East Khatlon 19.05.2010

We reached the bridge were the flood originated; the devastation was widespread. We walked where there once were houses, gardens, roads, paths and businesses. Two excavators were clearing the remains of former homes, and clearing the debris from river channel. Water stained walls higher than I could reach, and a layer of mud had drowned all the vegetation. Three women picked through the rubble looking for salvageable belongings, whilst a neighbour asked them whether they had eaten. A temporary camp was established in the football stadium for those with nothing left. The devastation stretched along the river bank, cars were smashed, and live electric cables hung down like tentacles.

The Government of Tajikistan has launched an appeal for ‘US$5.3 million to provide relief and recovery assistance’.

The houses may be rebuilt and the channel strengthened but the trauma of the event will never disappear. Many of those missing are reported to be children who were washed away by the torrent of muddy water.

Overwhelmed by the situation we left a group of men to grieve for their love ones. The lady in the hotel explained how her sister had lost everything and was staying in her home. As we departed the next day to check upon another natural disaster workshop we were left to contemplate whether a workshop here, in this community, would have saved lives, any lives, just one.

I fly home this evening grateful for what I have, the opportunity to have, and what we all give to each other to strengthen the fragility around.

A Messy Business

Just when you think you are beginning to understand how development works the proverbial spanner smacks you on the back of the head knocking another piece of the puzzle from the picture. Then at some stage you give up trying to understand how it ALL works and end up concentrating on the detail of one specific issue, this is no better, and you might develop a repetitive tick if you continue. Development is a messy business and although the intentions are genuine, the final result is not always what was required.

Here are some common examples of how it all doesn’t work.

• A remote village has a new water supply system installed from a source several kilometres away. The main pipe is cracked; it is patched up with a coca cola bottle and a plastic bag. It leaks, in fact it pours like a power shower. This phenomenon is repeated the length of the pipe which is haemorrhaging water and carving erosion gullies. However, when the water the reaches the stand points, the locals decided to concrete the taps so they are permanently on’ the excess water cascades down the unpaved roads rendering them impassable.

• The provision of heavy duty Chinese bore-hole pumps. They lasted less than a year resulting in the water supply for 15,000 being affected. Finally, they resorted to reinstalling Russian pumps and fixing them periodically until they burnt out.

• Planting of trees is an old favourite, however if they are planted on an imminent land slide, or not protected from herds of hungry animals, or planted at the wrong time of year, or on a place dry as a bone, or not sheltered from icy winds, they either are eaten, washed away or whither into a pitiful stick.

• Extra payments to government officials to complete work that is really already part of their job description.

• The inability for a native Tajik person to present his information to a Tajik Committee in his country’s language because most the donors and implementers speak Russian and English.

• The distribution of posters to women who cannot read.

• The building of a new school due to irreparable damage to the old school, only for the old school to be repaired sometime later by another NGO.

• Large agricultural warehouse facilities remain empty and unused.

• 3 hours work, 6 man hours chasing invoice template, 15 emails, and 2 months (still) waiting for $80.

The list is endless, in fact; maybe there will be a part two. I suppose on reflection, small scale, long term, self help sustainable capacity building incorporating self governance and gender empowerment to people in community based organisations through a participatory approach still needs some refining.

I will leave you with this one. The Chinese have invested heavily in the road infrastructure, lending money to the Tajik government (who then are obliged to use a Chinese contractor so the money flows back into China) to construct a network for the future.

A Chinese Road After 1 Year of use by Cars, Lorries and Goats (Obi Garm, Rogun)

Natural Disasters

In Tajikistan, unlike the majority of natural disasters that occur in the west, many natural disasters are natural disasters, and not a by-product of over ambitious development and poor settlement planning, resulting in a fundamental lack of respect for the forces of nature.

If you read any project proposal, or brief on Tajikistan it starts with ‘Tajikistan is a mountainous country with only 7% of it land cover used for agriculture’. It usually goes onto say that the lowlands are at 600m and from there the only way is up all the way to 6000m peaks. That's a great height for a lot to fall. As Tajikistan is billed as the top of the world herein lies the root of the problem, nothing has ever sat on it and squashed it. Subsequently, it is covered in ‘loess’, lightly compacted weathered chocolate soil that crumbles in your hand and magically turns into mud with the first splash of rain. It washes through the valleys and suffocates the rivers (see photo Rasht) resulting in the inhabitants living in constant fear from floods, landslides, mudflows.

The ‘CAMP’ team has just revisited some villages literally living in the valley of death.

The fate of the inhabitants is known, but instead of riding up the valley, they choose not to ride out. They live in under constant threat, surrounded by eroded gullies, half destroyed buildings, and hillsides denuded of trees and habitation. Everyone bereaves at their own personal loss from a barrage of mud, rocks, or water.

In one location the claw of nature has sliced three parallel vertical gullies, like a knife through butter, destabilising enough earth to swallow a village and digest hectares of farmland. Do the people not realise – of course, will they move – of course not. It is their home, their ancestors’ home; they would rather live in the shadow of death than desert their ancestral spirits, and relocate to new pastures in the southern plains.

Last week CAMP planted 2000 thousand fruit trees to help provide food and slope stabilisation, but they are woefully short by several million saplings to have any real impact. I guess, the inevitable is as always, inevitable.

330 Homes Destroyed (no people), Khoroson District May 2009

Hairy, Fatty and Dirty

Over ‘NAV RUZ’, the Tajik New Year festival, we decided to escape the Buzkashi (goat polo) and visit another politically sensitive country, Uzbekistan. Armed with two guide books, two Russian translators (friends), and two carrier bags of low denomination Uzbek Sum (currency), we crammed in taxis and trains to celebrate my birthday in the ancient Islamic cities Bukhara and Samakand.

Uzbekistan is synomynous with brutality and violence, with reported buying and selling of white slaves in 1920’s, to the Andijan massacre of 5000 protestors in 2005 by the present regime and notably its president Islam Karimov. Karimov was slammed by the United Nations, who accused him of “institutionalised, systematic, and rampant” torture. Somehow even after the last British ambassador, Craig Murray, denounced the regime stating that "Uzbekistan is not a functioning democracy" and that the boiling to death of two members of Hizb ut-Tahrir "is not an isolated incident.", they still let the Brits in to spend their pounds. However, they are meticulous in fingering through your dosh during your three hour border ordeal and confiscating your press pass if you care to carry one.

Nick’s Blog provides a great selection of pictures and description of the madrassas, minuets and mosques that have been carefully restored for the frequent visits of the Japanese and French tourists. So I will concentrate on the highlight of the trip – the visit to the ‘LADIES Haman’.

The last of the middle aged mothers who patronise the Haman scuttled away giggling as we entered. This Haman is really not for tourists, so we constituted a rarity and a welcome source of income. The 500yr old Haman was the beauty treatment spa for the bequeathed women of the Emir, here they were scrubbed, perfumed and adorned, before the selection process and subsequent de-flowering.

Perched on a stone ledge in my Next boxers, the steam emanated from a dark watery pit. The Haman is a dungeon of archaic archways, a labyrinth of cells linked by marble floors. Just as the first beads of sweat dribbled off my brow a young grandmother dragged me through for a scrubbing.

Positioned amongst a rainbow of bowls she proceeded to attack my skin with a well worn silk glove in her saggy black knickers and sodden slip. She chatted in Russian, Tajik and Uzbek as the dead skin peeled from my arms, the hair yanked from my calf’s and my teeth grated with the pain. She rambled on as vigorously as she rubbed and finished the procedure by purifying my reddened skin with salty water. My small yelps of pain echoed against slimy walls to return as screams of torture.

Somewhat bemused by physical appearance she was purposeful in ensuring her final remarks were accurately translated; ‘Hairy, Fatty and Dirty Man’. Disgruntled by her diagnosis I rose out of my pile of dead skin and extracted hair to the massage parlour, leaving her to de-flake her iron glove of silk.

In Uzbekistan many international organisations are banned from working and with this the level of accountability of the government decreases. This places immeasurable importance on tourists who provide the international eyes and ears in a one state party; if they cease visiting the Uzbek people will feel abandoned and helpless against a notorious tyrant. Therefore, I would actively encourage a de-scaling in a dungeon at the hands of a middle aged grandmother in a sweaty slip.

Revitalise in Tajikistan

For many international organisations Tajikistan is regarded as a hardship post, however, based upon the number of restaurants, half decent supermarkets, polished Lexus driving up the presidential boulevard, and the Hyatt Dushanbe, this policy appears to have too much cotton wool padding to protect our soft western under bellies.

This is until you become ill. In fact I have never been so constantly ill in all my life, even in student squalor I still managed to drag my empty wallet to the cheap bars and clubs and maintain a physical presence in the subsequent morning lectures sustained only by cheap white bread and full fat margarine.

So... what do you have to contend with?

Stomach upsets are particularly common. In the heat of the summer these last at least a week. One guy stepped off the plane and was out of action for the rest of the month, wearing out the carpet between the bedroom and the bathroom. The cause, anything and everything, you eat or touch. Despite their best efforts even the French military cuisine list is fallible.

So don’t touch the (un)washed salad, the warm dairy products, tinned fish or the goat on a stick, bread sold from a pram and especially do not shake the hand of the cook.

Therefore, it is a little ironic that the Tajiks are one of the tidiest people, they religiously polish their cars, and meticulously sweep their yards, however, when it comes to soap and disinfectant there is a clean gap in the market. So, when you sit around a shared bowl of Osh, with greasy fingers moulding the rice to fit the respective mouths before being slurped down, the hygiene aspect is as repulsive as the food itself.

Tajik Kitchen - Preparing OSH

It is therefore, not surprising that the bowel muscles of the foreign workers get an extra workout, for some it is a constant state, for others the threat of a parasitic invasion is too much and a retreat to the west’s front line, Istanbul, is inevitable.

Also to note is the lack of bacterial cleanliness in Tajikistan, especially in the water. This can lead to a rather uncomfortable and itchy couple of weeks. Thankfully, for me this coincided with a forthcoming trip to Shanghai and the application of an appropriate Chinese remedy.

Although I am no doctor, I am sure the old immune system has taken a severe battering. Three ‘man flu’s’ and two courses of antibiotics over the mild winter months has resulted in depressingly high number of duvet days. This is a real drag. Despite plenty of monkey sticks, vitamin tablets, boat loads of Ecuadorian oranges, and shipments of marmite, the body seems remarkably prone to the Tajik influenza.

I have no ‘concrete’ advice to offer any potential visitor, other than leave as often as possible.

If you do have the misfortune to fall seriously ill or be stung by a swarm of rabid bees, the prospect of visiting a soviet style hospital may be as traumatic as the illness itself. It was reliably reported that the acclaimed ‘Nurse of the Year’ award was based upon an individual’s ability to dance on a newspaper, the last one to rip the Tajik Times was declared the most able to administer anaesthetic.

I have firsthand experience of local Tajik medical facilities with a series of five visits to the physiotherapist. Despite her Russian training, the prolonged treatment was nothing more than a constant barrage of muscle relaxing techniques from acupuncture, cupping, heat pads, and muscle warming creams and massage. Unfortunately, there was no appreciation for the physiology of the body and the pummelling left me dazed, bruised and still broken.

Now in attempt to keep healthy, there are long walks to work, Saturday’s hash, Sunday strolls and our all new exercise class in soviet sponged floor sports hall. This is supplemented with a daily dowsing in alcohol gel, a self cleaning vacuum suit and hourly dosage of ‘sprinkles’, the food supplements issued by UNICEF.

Laying the Trail

(NB - Please do not let the above put you off visiting.)

The Russian Civilian Tank

The Lada Niva is the Soviet Landrover.

The Niva was originally designed for the Soviet Ministry of Defence in the 1970’s as an off-roader. In many respects it was ahead of it's time, and in many other ways it was not. AvtoVAZ invested heavily in a new plant in Tolyatti, named after Palmiro Togliatti the leader of the Italian Communist Party. Tolyatti soon became the Russian Detroit / Dagenham, and the Niva became the people's vehicle of choice. Unfortunately, 30yrs later the exact same production line was still in operation, and the Niva remained unchanged.

The Daily Telegraph recently rated the Niva in the worst ten cars ever made. However, it was the first vehicle to reach the North Pole, the first to ascend to 5300m in the Tibetan Plateaux, and the car of choice for the Weston-Super Mare Life Boat Crew and the Channel Tunnel Engineers.

Having owned my third hand Niva for at least 100days, here are MY own key observations:

1.If you replace the 50W headlights for 90W you can drive at night.
2.If it is cold, the indicator and the hazard lights are indistinguishable.
3.If you change the 8” windscreen wiper for a 14” you can drive in the rain.
4.The car is set to automatically streamline at high speed; the wing mirrors fold in.
5.The tyres are designed by cyclists, they have inner tubes that frequently burst on asphalt roads.
6.To ‘balance’ the wheels (stop them wobbling) you attach lead bricks to the wheel rims.
7.Standard Niva parts are substantially better than the factory fittings (plastic – metal)
8.The Niva can perform a spontaneous 180 degree spin on compacted snow.
9.It is permanently (and expensively) in 4 wheel drive, somewhat apt for Tajikistan.
10.The smaller gear stick vibrates against your leg massaging your calf muscles. Long journeys can result in bruising.
11.The automatic speed restrictor kicks in at 60mph; the shaking becomes deafening.
12.On hitting a pot hole, the gearing system can be knocked out of sync. This can be fixed in twenty minutes by a golden toothed mechanic with a chest full of phlegm, a hammer and an adjustable spanner.
13.The fuel tank leaks if you park on a slope.
14.There is no point in locking the doors, your granny could open them with her hair pin,
15.I wouldn’t replace it with a Toyota Landcruiser, the SUV of the UN.

Check out the link to see a NIVA in action: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kVJonSJV27o&feature=related

CAMP's Crusade

There are three taboo subjects for blogging; (i) work, (ii) love life and (iii) size of your appendage (or boobs).

Maybe there should be a phone in vote to gauge popular opinion, but as I live in a one party state, what is good for the president is good for me. Thankfully, for you and more so for me, I will hold blatant disregard for the former: work.

So after nine months of working under the VSO mantra ‘Sharing Skills and Changing Lives’, in the Tajik Non-government organisation CAMP Kuhiston, what gives?

CAMP Kuhiston was the brainchild of a Swiss university, who with the best intentions, created a local environmental training organisation. After five years they abandoned ship, and left CAMP to drift in the sea of development. Remaining on board were a skeleton crew, four training modules, several capable trainers, a stove design, and an office set up, but on boarding I also discovered, a bad reputation, a couple of inept staff, a director drowning in expectation, and no new donors on the horizon.

So, what gives after nine months? Well, actually understanding the above! On paper it is easy to clarify and provide theoretical solutions, but every time you turn over a rock there is snake waiting to bite you. The list of issues is exhaustive, and is applicable to many other organisations in different settings, but in Tajikistan transforming a non-competitive soviet style organisation into a sustainable entity that can survive in a new market economy is a perpetual challenge. There are many re-occurring issues, these include the employing (and keeping) competent staff on average salaries, preparing onerous reports in three languages, understanding and complying with the suffocating tax laws, second guessing donors desires, introducing the concept of networking, advertising and marketing, developing new products, and undertaking pitiful contracts to prove capability and so on............... and on................and on.................

However, the CAMP yacht has now turned with the tide, and is waiting for the donors to blow into her sails. So what turned the rudder? The captain became a little more focussed and self-assured, employment of a couple of competent deck hands, some engine maintenance and modifications, emblazoned marketing on fresh sails and catching a little financial breeze.

However, CAMP is still a fragile vessel that sails in heavy seas. Calmer waters are around the next headland with the next wave of European funding, but the ‘solo’ sailing will only occur in the years ahead when Tajiks are funding Tajiks.

I am half way through the placement and we have only tackled the first part of the mantra, ‘Sharing Skills, now we are awaiting the spring thaw to embark on the second part of the journey, ‘Changing Lives’.

For an on board tour: www.camp.tj

The ‘Funny Side’ of Tajikistan

Yesterday morning I was suffering from man flu, and in my fuzzy head I had already drafted another derisory Tajik put down; the dismissive adjectives and the derogatory quips were pencilled on the page. All that remained was my attendance at the event.

However, a spoonful of comedy at the Tajik State Circus left me thinking the Tajik culture has plenty to offer if you only opened yourself to the experience.

An austere building potentially more suited to a state funeral than the home of Tajik entertainment, is located in the people’s part of the city, the atmosphere is noticeably lighter, there is a nominal police presence, and balloon’s float across the street.

Inside a smiling rotund lady in a purple overcoat guides us to our grooved seats. We sit amongst the buzz of excitement and balloon-dogs, the masses are anticipating a comedy, and the three westerners are expecting a tragedy.

The two hosts, in astonishing white sparkly suits step out onto the blood red carpet, it was reminiscent of ‘Running Man’, like 60’s game show hosts they bellowed into ageing microphones and when the first performer bounced into the ring wearing a fluorescent rubber wetsuit, the crowd were at fever pitch. We gazed around in dumbfounded disbelief.

Tight rope-walkers, jugglers, clowns, and acrobats entertained the crowd, nails up the nostrils, pythons, and kicking a drawf, bemused the masses. The audience were as supportive as the back room staff who chased around after the performers. This wasn’t a clean clinically finished show. This was inside street theatre. There were no explosions, laser shows, or ultra amazing feats but two hours of unbridled innocent fun. There were no boos and hisses when the microphone failed or the juggler dropped his club, just acceptance and encouragement.

You could do nothing other than be taken in by a level of humour our grandparents appreciated. Sat on my left a Tajik father burst into uncontrollable laughter as a coin, miraculously discovered behind a small boys ear, bounced into a tin. His laughter was infectious.

The circus provided a safe place for the Tajiks to openly express themselves; it was the first truly family event I had attended that was not predisposed to formal tradition or protocol. It was a pity that the New Year celebrations did not capture the atmosphere of the circus.

Stitching our sides back together we left feeling upbeat and optimistic about our extended stay in Tajikistan. The flu had temporarily subsided proving the old adage, that laughter is the best medicine (Boom Boom).



Man Under Planks Squashed by Shiny Car

The Roghun Dam and Iron Fist Marketing.

It is billed as the biggest Hydro-Power Scheme in Central Asia, supplying reliable electricity for its people and generating invaluable income for the country. It is symbolic of what the Copenhagen Climate Summit is trying to achieve, a reliable sustainable energy supply with minimal Carbon emissions, you would think that the whole world would want a share.

Our Man DD turns up late in the office; his brother has an exam at the Agrarian (Agricultural) university before the winter break. However, to sit the exam, DD’s brother had to produce a 100somoni ($23) share certificate in the Roghun dam. The country is in a vice of soviet style patriot privatisation appeal, based loosely on the slogan ‘Buy for your County’, the sub text reads ‘or else!!’.

President Rahmon appears on frequent television appeals, broadcast on the capitals three imposing street screens, he is auspiciously perched in front of the Tajik flag. The President appeals to the sense of national identity, common pride, and guilt. The tirade of propaganda is intermittently interrupted by pictures of old ladies buying shares 10 times the amount of their monthly pension, queues of people proudly waving their shares outside the Opera Ballet, and guidance on how many shares you are expected to buy, teacher, doctor, nurse, drug runner, no one is excluded. The marketing is exclusive and exhaustive. One organisation folded over a mandatory 5000somini contribution for fear of closure and one morning I woke to an incoming text, nowhere is safe, it read ‘Have YOU bought your shares in Rogun yet?’. Kitchener must be squirming.

The Roghun dam itself will take another five years to complete, wipe out 12 villages, and deplete the country’s debt ridden economy of any free finance. The British and American governments have contributed, but unsurprisingly there is limit private finance, indicative of the lack of trust in the governance. As a consequence, the Tajik people are subjected to an unregulated fear tax in addition to their flat rate 39% salary tax. What’s the next marketing weapon, emptying wallets on the street or automatic withdrawals from personal bank accounts?

However, the bitter pill is the redundant folly standing empty on crushed homes; the People’s Palace. (This is sensitively pictured on the back of the share certificate) The $300million Tajik White House stands flagrantly extravagant on the outside, and void of point or purpose on the inside. It serves only provides a constant reminder of those who have and those who don’t. If only it could be transported 100km upstream and placed in the ‘Roghun’ river valley.

Check out Boy from Boston for further info on the dam.

The 'People's' Palace

New Years Eve, Dushanbe

Christmas and New Year appear to be a time of confused identity and symbology. Wrought iron Christmas trees decorated in dead branches and flickering lights hold court in the central avenue, whilst inflatable snowmen and Santa outfits keep guard at the presidential gates. These commercial Christian-based effigies are redundant in a predominantly Islamic country, so their meaning of ‘goodwill and happiness to all men’ is transferred to the New Year celebrations.

So, it is the final evening of the year, a rather wispy guard checks my crumpled documents and ushers me through the metal detector; the gateway to the Tajik extravaganza. The soviet style square is a mass with men supporting black jackets and straight fringes. Thankfully, all the guns were handed in to the sheriffs office, but it is still after sundown, and the women and children feel safer hiding at home.

At 8.00 the concert begins. Two banks of militzia guard the stage, the peoples’ celebration army are kept at bay. The statue of Somoni, peers down like a God of Judgement on his divided people. The Tajik’s form rank in conga style chains rushing and pushing through the crowd, laughing like children on the last day of term, the adventurous step out from the conformity and start to dance, a ring of support guards falls in line to protect them from prying eyes, as their renegades skip and clap in the circle of rebellion. Eventually, they are spotted, walkie-talkies bristle, spies have infiltrated the peoples’ celebration army, and the subversion is squashed.

One bank of guards charge forward, trungeons and sticks in hand, half grinning as the crowd scatters, they retreat and the defensive wall is reformed, the void is instantly refilled by more goading revealers. There is a distinct bristle in the air; the concert seems only to serve as backing music to main screen picture.

At 9.45, fireworks whistle time out, and the collective mood lightens with the sky, mobile phones are whipped out to send blurred pictures home to patient women and children. The two sides bond as one people in hope for the New Year, even Somoni appears to smile in explosive light.

At 10.00 the fire works stop, the bond of togetherness snaps and miltizia usher the crowd home for the pending presidential speech. 20,000 tajiks disappear into the night, only a deserted Somoni, abandoned by his people, watches as the country’s digital clock ticks over to signify the new year.

Engulfed in the sea of sober well-wishers, no kisses of celebration here, we too abandon the streets. To escape the silence we wrap up the hazy festivities at Chez’s Karoke Farm, crowing like roosters to welcome in the dawn of a new decade.