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 16thwas 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’
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 16th was scratched into the tablet of time for our baptism of fire.
At an unearthly hour, ‘Arse Fondler’ turns up in one of US Embassy’s 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 ‘Boob-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’
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.
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.
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.
As you may have realised I have now absconded from the world of volunteering and what it entails. I am now generally begging for paid work to beef up the imaginary pension fund and resurrect my high profile career.
The content of the blog is a distorted and off the cuff review of my time in Tajikistan whilst volunteering.Hopefully, it will entice you to sample the country for yourself and build up your own repertoire of arm chair stories.
Any comments, notes, or general abuse are always welcome.
*these are all my comments and not the views held by VSO.
