Friday, January 22, 2010

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

Sunday, January 10, 2010

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

Sunday, January 3, 2010

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.

living in Tajikistan

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