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.