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

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‘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.