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.

‘Our Man’ DD - Davlatbek Davlatov

DD grew up in the Veshab valley in the remote mountain village in the North of Tajikistan. I now share his office and over the last six months have watched his skills develop at such a rapid rate that you cannot but ponder where he would be with a western education.
So, today we were holding a workshop on Natural Disaster Risk Management in a dingy damp mouse infested government building some thirty miles outside of Dushanbe. The project, a whopping $10,000 is funded by the United Nations, (I say funded, they are unable for ‘banking reasons’ to transfer the money, so our little Tajik organisation with a turnover of $100,000 is bank rolling the UN), and consists of a series of four day workshops for the heads of the local villages. ‘Our man’ DD is in charge!!
After the obligatory five phone calls we meet at Barakat market to buy local produce for the thirty participants’ dinner. This is easy as carrots, rice, onion, meat and a sea of oil make up the national dish and try as you might to broaden their culinary range; nothing else feels so good between your grubby fingers, so I am told.
Bunny hopping out of the city I take a wrong left turn and my friends the Militizia flag me over again. DD bails me out with a 7som bribe. We were also late so on the last stretch I floor the Niva (the irony), and consequently bury it in a world war one size trench and knock the gearing out just one kilometre from the village. The situation was then compounded by the brand new overly expensive UN Toyota Hilux careering passed with the UN workshop monitoring team on board. DD flags down a mini-van, we load up, turn up late, and start late with an obligatory black mark against our name. DD sorts out a mechanic during the ensuing mayhem.
DD is like so many tajiks from the rural areas, wears his heart on his sleeve, can never turn down a request, is generous to a fault, (e.g. paying his brother tuition fees which amounted to half a month’s salary) and has a wife and three children who he rarely sees. He is also trying to build a house for his family on the outskirts of Dushanbe as well as being a caterer, a fixer, and CAMP’s co-ordinator and my interim translator. I guess that’s ‘Our Man’ DD.

Com’on it’s not that bad…

After a frenzied attack on my literal slating of Dushanbe, it only seems fair to balance the see- saw back towards the positives. So here are a barrage of blogs exalting why Tojikiston is the next hot tourist destination and why despite my many jibes at this recessive one party state we’ll probably extend our stay to a point when sanity will forever elude us.

So…..

in the small hours of last Saturday night we were formally escorted to the police station.

After we’d completed another ‘shitty’ hash, filled our bellies full of Baltica beer, we sailed on over to Felix’s havili for his farewell pasta and vodka night. After eight months of wrestling with the rock face at kilometre 19.2 and 54.8, and the wheel of his Lada Niva 4*4. Felix decided to tie up his ropes, sell his bumper car to naive Brit and head back to ‘Switzeria’ for lasagne and love.

Having out drunk the German’s, and endured numerous re-tellings of the cat’s recent castration, the night ended in a haze of cat odour. Finally, we staggered out the door into the increasingly bitter weather and decided to walk off the cloudy vodka.

In retrospect, this was not the best decision of the day.

We picked up pace on the two mile hike along the country’s main drag, shunning any readily available taxis and shrugging off the cold, until another moustache wearing, ill-educated Militiza guard with an emptier sack than the cat, commandeered us just five minutes from home-base. Playing the ‘dumb tourist’ role, we spoke loudly at him until worried about his hearing and our lack of ‘Documentatiza’, he whistled at his bum-fluffed colleagues and like sheep dogs they surrounded us and herded us to the police station.

As to be expected in all effective law enforcement units, the police station was locked. So, we huddled outside with our bladders’ bursting. The Militizia, checked out the VSO ID card and despite our protestations at 1.00a.m he decided to call the number on the back of the card. Thankfully, Firuza woke to our early morning call of distress and tapped into her extensive network of contacts. What ensued was a prolonged flurry of phone calls, until eventually big moustache phoned little moustache, until little moustache twitched, shook our hands like old friends, and ushered us on our way. We scampered away into the night, leaving the cavalry jangling their imaginary keys.

The incident cost some 50som, some sleep and some bladder control. A photocopy of our passports is now tattooed to my rear and several taxi numbers on the inside of my arm. You will also be pleased to hear the cat made full recovery, the Lada Niva is subject to daily verbal abuse, and the police station is still inaccessible.

Apples

Josh decided to bring 15kg of bruised manky apples back from Muminobod, here is a reflection of the consquences:

Core to the left of me
Peel to the right of me
Knifes all around me
But nothing that cuts.

Beery Michael flew the coup
Carly's left to stir the soup
Ursula improvised the cake
Seena appleified the steak

Twenty recipes, ten pair of hands,
A lack of knowledge, booze and pans
Marta recycles 'the' four dishes
Rosemary and apple Katlin wishes

Cedric decants from a kettle
Anna searches for sharpened metal
Leo and Marit cheese do nibble.
Oooh, a worm in the middle

Chef Chenko Josh flies the nest
What we need is a rest
Perched on the toilet I now contemplate
How many apples were there on my plate?

Honorary Humiliation at the Hash House Harriers, Dushanbe

Dushanbe

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 16^th was 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’

Honorary Humiliation at the Hash House Harriers

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 16^th 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’

Havali - Garden House

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.

True Noon

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.

Hash House Harriers

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

‘Muminobod’

Each international development agency adopts their own district to nurture, develop and pump endless streams of western taxpayers money into. There is domain building. A closed wall of secrecy develops around each area, an air of competition hangs around the collaboration meetings, success stories are exalted and failures are blamed on the inhabitants inability and not the academic development models formulated in a pHd’s thesis.

As with all business sectors there is a unique language full of buzz words, sound bites and donor language. It all amounts to a great deal of box ticking for the bureaucrats. Does anyone ask the local people – Does it help?? So if you can understand the difference between an outcome and output, an aim, objective and purpose, monitoring, assessment and evaluation, sustainability, capacity building, and secure livelihoods etc….come and join the development party.

Muminobod is mountainous region in the South and the development child of Caritas, a German Swiss, Luxemburg equivalent of Oxfam, in fact direct competitors. After 15yrs of ‘development work’ they celebrated their achievements with a presentation day, shipping honour guests on guided tours of irrigation projects, clay stoves, women’s groups, handicrafts and if you missed anything it was all contained in a ‘pat on the back’ movie.

The day cumulated in a famous Tajik singer performing in the school football ground in front of 2000 Tajiks, (who did not dance) and ten Swiss, (who did dance) and one brit, (who hid). The busty singer, the Shirley Bassey of romantic tajik songs for the over 50’s, forcefully strode onto stage until she reached the penalty spot, whilst the bands casio keyboards radiated from the back of net. In disgust at the decline of her career since the Vegas circuit, she stomped off and demanded a stage; a floral carpet quelled her temperament and loosened her shrill voice.

All the invited starched dignitaries perched on plastic chairs in a horseshoe formation, far enough away to avoid any audience participation. The locals crowded behind in bemusement, whilst the Swiss ladies thought their own interpretation of Tajik dancing would be empowering for the on lookers. As the Swiss bounced around the 18yrd box, their initial impact appeared to spook the crowd who shuffled backwards with embarrassment and I suspect, an element of fear, However, the Swiss Tajik Dancing Troupe’s efforts were not in vain, their unique interpretations were aired to a wider audience on national TV.

After subsequent visits to Muminobod you begin to fully appreciate how far the district has progressed. Development is a slow and painful process, there are no correct models, there are no predefined starting points – health, education, infrastructure, economy etc… As for the people of Muminobod, they are not even native; they were shipped in by the Soviets circa 1970 and admirably strive for betterment and improvement with limited resources. So despite my first initial impressions of development organisations, if you can break into the domains and observe what is behind the trellis gates, ‘some good’ is being achieved behind the fortified walls of bureaucracy.

Shiny Suits and Pointy Shoes

Formal events emphasise fashion faux pas and the gulfs in perceptions between what is considered sexy, formal, casual, alluring and provocative. Tajikistan is a very formal country, the men dress conservatively in black trousers and precision pressed shirts, whilst the women glide around in traditional floral two-piece garments somewhat akin to a velvety seventies curtain set.

Therefore, when a formal invitation requesting my presence at the Queen’s 83rd Birthday Celebration at the Hyatt Hotel, a certain degree of panic set in. One does not want to let the side down, does one, when representing ones country on the international arena. I’m sure my other 44 countrymen were having the same agonising pangs of patriotism.

After assessing the wardrobe, an oversized hand me down Calvin Klein shirt, a pair of reliable M&S trousers, a rejected wedding tie, only shoes were amiss. An arduously sticky bus journey to the Quorvon Bazaar, presented an opportunity to test my pigeon Tajic and acquire a ‘one –time’ wear pair of local daps. The market modelled itself on a rush hour tube ride, and patience drenched my shirt. After a ten-minute eternity of wandering around a labyrinth of cheap Chinese pap, goose pimples start appearing on my arm and my hair stood on end as I entered the nylon charged clothing section. Thankfully, purchase time was minimal, as the shoe emporium offered only one style; black and pointy, reassuringly there were several thousand to choose from.

Waiving the gold scripted invitation we shook the hand of the ‘Trev’ - the British ambassador and proceeded up the steps to the main hall. Now if your shoes are twice the length of your feet and half the depth of the steps. It doesn’t take much out to work out the maths, walking around in shinny flippers and having to ascend stairs in a backwards fashion always draws a little attention. Thankfully, this digression was quickly diverted by a rousing chorus of the respective National Anthem’s, speeches as bland as the ambassador’s suit, and fish and chips served in posh newspaper, washed down with pims, gin, and London Pride. The tajiks swarmed in impeccable shiny suits, any mass movement created an eerie shimmering wave effect, the Russians wore short lacy dresses and the American’s tested the strength of the Armani stitching. At the end of the evening the Brits faired well in the international dance off to Spandau Ballet renditions, only to be piped by the German’s, who deservedly won the coveted robotic dancing award.

Too Good: The British tax payer forking out for such an extravagant event.

Too Bad: Being a British Tax payer.

Beyond the City Limits

The Chinese silky smooth asphalt road out East abruptly descends into a donkey track at Obi Garm (hot spring, potentially twinned with Lemington Spa). I can imagine work gangs of Chinese labourers downing their picks and shovels, removing their straw hats and soaking their aching bones in the green sulphurous water. No more road building for me matey!! Whatever the reason, your land cruiser, truck or, in our case, Corrolla hatch back is in for severe pummelling. Hugging the mountain edges, sliding down muddied gullies and bouncing our way up to the vanishing peaks whilst dodging drunk Russian truck drivers and counting abandoned exhausts is all part of the enthralling ride.

CAMP, the unfortunate acronym for my organisation, is the off spring of the Swiss. As with all western endocrined organisations there are reams of reports, days of meetings, hot air balloons worth of bluster and as much action as in the American sub prime market. However, CAMP is useful to filter untraceable Swiss francs into central Asia under the guise of Natural Hazard Workshops in rural mountain communities.

The Toyota eventually ground to fearful halt shadowed by rocky overhangs and lined with viscous mudflows at the edge of a Chicor. Felix (My Swiss Counterpart whose favourite adjective is ‘Naaais’) and Davlekbek Davlidov (DD, our own personal Borat), traipsed up to the Mosque and introduced ourselves to the Waquim (Head of the village). He cordially invited us for muddy green tea, stale bread and cheesy balls, that were quite possibly shaped under a rather fat mans armpits. DD talked the tajik talk and organised the workshops, whilst at opportune moments the lanky Swiss guy and the token bemused Brit nodded like obedient donkey’s and placed our hand on our opposite nipple as a mark of respect to Waquim. (For the record this was not each other’s despite the name of the organisation).

Eight villages later, the bowls of discontentment literally rumbling from salty cheesy balls, and a variety of reconstituted dairy products of varying degrees of sourness, the battered Toyota pulled up at the only guesthouse in the district. The business minded owner was on vacation in Dushanbe and swallowed the key for security. Thankfully, one of Waquims accepted our invitation to stay with him as honoured guests, and prepared a series of fatty meaty soups, and ploth (aka grizzle in pastry). Apart from fertilising his garden, the night literally passed through us and we bid a fond farewell at the first call to prayer Another four villages, another four hospitality meals and another four hours travelling, we chugged back to Dushanbe in a battered state, and able to roll our own salty cheesy balls.

Too Good: The hospitality in the villagers, those who have the least, give the most.

Too Bad: Some of the villages will be flooded in the next six years by Central Asia’s biggest hydro scheme. The inhabitants will be re-housed 200km away!

‘Arse Shalom dar Tajikiwickistan’

The language is a doddle, honest! a mixture of Russian shapes and Farsi scrip with a few extra throaty growls. Is this the last bastion of a secret Welsh empire?

Regards to all, and immense apologies to those I did not catch up with before leaving, in fact there are too many to mention from Cornwall to Suffolk, from Bedminster to Worcester…. And so on and so forth, the irony being I have oodles of tajik time to fill.

So taking on board Darren’s comments that my last futile effort at blogging was cumbersome and long winded, I will try to refrain from rambling and for Ed’s benefit metamorphose from a cantankerous old man to something more enlightening and enigmatic.

Dushanbe (Dooshambai) is actually really really pleasant, ageing tree line avenues, parks a plenty and fountains to meet all your watery needs. The warm/ hot weather, minimal traffic, especially as President Rahmon has the main drag closed for his motorcade at least twice a day and nearly permanently for the visiting Turkish premier, however it does mean that strolling and cycling around the abandoned eight-lane road is a utopia places like Bristol can but dream about.

With supermarkets, restaurants and an abundance of teahouses it’s easy forget you are in the world’s 144th poorest county. Herein lies the problem, a few (corrupt) have the money, the influence and the cultural status to become untouchable. I am sure within a few weeks I will hit the wall of ambivalence and join with the other hundreds of aid workers here in Dushanbe chipping away at the status quo.

So some key points:

Living in a luxurious mansion, balcony, courtyard with Tommy Terrance the Terrifying Tortoise and Jo the other VSO volunteer. (She is working with disabled kids that officially don’t exist).

It is extortionately expensive here, inflation is rocketing and the Somoni is plummeting against hard currencies, obviously I can no longer include the pound in that statement.

The snow capped mountains hang like curtains around the city, where the other 95% of the population live in worsening conditions.

I have mobile access (but no texting)….+992985165732 so pick up the blower or skype (4hrs ahead).

An open invite to all to share in the experience, it definitely would be an eye opener. There are VISA hurdles so let me know well in advance – BalticAir, Sleasyjet of the Rooskey Skies.