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.

Khoja Obigarm

In the 1970’s the Soviet communist state decided to reward its cotton-picking comrades with a spa visit to straighten their backs in the healing waters at Khoja.

This concrete complex reassuringly sits on a rock fault that spouts out nitric siliceous therms and sulphuric radon gaseous steam, which can heal all ailments and prepare you for another arduous year in the fields. The claims are that a French architect is responsible for the 1000 room sanatorium hidden in a remote valley 2000m above sea level. I fear the French probably disowned him. The monstrosity that ‘seamlessly fits into the surrounding landscape’ is the closest the Tajiks ever came to Butlins, the main difference being that people fight to sample these mountain waters and at Butlins people just fight.

Working on that prevention is better than cure we wound our way up the snow lined track to this James Bond style retreat. The main resort, half painted in garish yellow, frowned upon our intrusion, whilst the private resort begrudging bestowed us with a tour and tinged sheets. In a mouldy changing room wearing inappropriate underwear we wrapped in linen, and skated across the floor in borrowed pool shoes to the bath. Thankfully, the pool of eternal youth was shrouded in enough steam to hide all the flaky skin, and sizzled like a cauldron upon entry. I dipped in, and then jumped out before all my hair bleached and decided to enter the steam room to recover. However, this proved too acidic for my tender lungs, no health warnings here, in fact you are actively encouraged to breath in this toxic gas for up to twelve minutes and repeat the process several times to ensure all your lung tissue is contaminated. In an attempt to recover from the ordeal I hung out of the window and peered at the snow-capped mountains, whilst inadvertently venting the room to the disgust of the other guests.

The remainder of the day was spent in a lethargic daze pondering the undeterminable cause for my lacklustre state of health; pleasure or poison.

Opening Doors and Name Dropping

To provide you with an insight into insular ex-pat communities, bonded by circumstance and the subsequent trials and tribulations of life in Tajikistan let me drop in a few observations.

So, Lord Waverly was sent/ requested/ or found himself on the wrong plane to Tajikistan on a fact finding reconnaissance mission for the other cognac drinking peers. So that he would not feel home sick, representatives of the UKs three non-descript political parties tagged along to make sure that all the special reserves were sucked dry.

As one of forty British citizens in the country, the volunteers were invited to a formal ‘drink and nibbles’ or now known as ‘snort and scoff’. Ambassador Trevor, kindly hosted the occasion and the dignitary’s chorkelled and slap backs with other dignitaries, ambassadors, socialites and me. Before I could finish the gin bottle and clear the soufflé, the obligatory speeches started with the usual dryness of a Bristol Sherry. These were concluded by Lord Waverly in what should be described as aristocratic scruffy attire. In his plum voice he thanked all involved and their grandma’s, he then proceeded to raise a toast to our host country, albeit with an empty glass, in fact with no glass at all, the guest of honor help divert an international incident and reluctantly proffered his orange juice.

Unfortunately, peerages were only available at Woolworths, however, the rumour is that the next release comes free with a magazine subscription to Horse and Hound; 5.99 for the first copy and several hectares of hunting land for the remaining editions.

Other observations that are hard to place in context are seeing the American Ambassador do Cheerleader style splits on the Indian Ambassadors lawn, who in turn can be found sauntering around the tennis courts of a Saturday morning. The French Ambassador uses a silver cane for arduous hikes in the mountains, whilst the Japanese Concierge’s wife is pleasantly attentive at parties.

To finish with we were, after a little cajouling, attendees at the 237th US Marine Ball, over 180 guests came to celebrate with the 7 Marines in the country. After an exercise drill involving four marines, a cake and a sharp implement, the evening descended in ‘a bit of do’; some danced and wiggled to Tajik music whilst other observed from a suitable distance, and some left before there significant others became soo plastered that they might jepordised their careers. By all accounts only one of the hotel rooms was used.